Citizens of scent

A few months after I arrived in Cairo, I finally went to a bazaar. I was still jaded from having to flee our home in Khartoum with my family one quiet Friday morning, carrying only a small suitcase and with no clear destination in mind. Clashes between the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) had just started a few weeks earlier. Khartoum was rocked by the sounds of fighter planes and live ammunition. What began as a failed RSF coup attempt turned into a full-blown war. What started as a confrontation between the two forces in southern Khartoum, Sudan’s capital, spread to other states, engulfing the entire country in violence.

Khartoum, a cosmopolitan and chaotic city where the White and Blue Niles converge, was the epicenter of Sudan’s war during the first few months. Supermarket food stockpiles dried up, RSF militiamen occupied homes in central and northern Khartoum, and the fighting grew closer to home. Like at least eight million other people from Khartoum, we left home and found ourselves displaced within the city of Wad Medani, located two hours away, for a few weeks before deciding to make the journey to Cairo. 

Sudan borders Egypt to the north. Before reaching Wadi Halfa, a small border city with a prewar population of 15,000, we stopped in Kassala and Atbara. In May 2023, all the hotel rooms in Wadi Halfa were occupied, and many homes were housing several families. Mosques and schools were converted into temporary accommodations, and some families slept on beds in the streets. Young professionals who left home with few belongings started over in Wadi Halfa’s markets. Young men opened small stalls selling sweets, iced coffee, and sandwiches, hoping to cover their living expenses and earn money for the journey to Cairo.

Our journey to Cairo took about four days. We took two buses, a minivan, a boat, a train, and a taxi from the train station to a friend’s apartment. I was exhausted, traumatized, and completely helpless. I was also overwhelmed by the fact that we had survived while many did not. It took me weeks before I managed to leave the apartment. I tried to hold on to my remote job to support my family. I also explained the situation to my four-and-a-half-year-old, who was upset that we left her favorite toy, a doll named Nona, behind. I spent every minute I had keeping Sudan in the news by writing and doing interviews.

I entered Cairo with an expired passport that I had renewed in Wadi Halfa. My valid passport was stuck in an embassy, and I didn’t get it back until a few weeks later, when the RSF raided the embassy and a young man collected passports and got in touch with us on social media. I knew that entering Cairo was dangerous because I wouldn’t be able to leave without a new passport, and the country was in upheaval.

It was a time of despair, but I was not alone. All of my friends and colleagues who ended up in Cairo became depressed as we mourned Sudan, our old familiar lives and boring routines, and struggled to rebuild our new lives in an unfamiliar city. Our basic, furnished apartment had no family photos on the walls or heirloom cookware because we had to leave everything behind. We all found ourselves trying to find opportunities in a competitive and hostile city. Many were living off savings or support from family members in the diaspora.

A few days after we arrived in Egypt, we got word that members of the RSF had entered our home and stolen my car and other belongings. Shortly after that, they moved into our house. As we travelled from city to city, I remember my daughter asking me, “Are we homeless?” but I couldn’t answer her. My refugee status felt even more precarious, and I truly felt homeless. Although I had a valid passport, I had no home to return to.

By the end of 2023, we had become part of an uncomfortable statistic. Since April of that year, at least 1.2 million Sudanese people had arrived in Cairo. During the initial months, Sudanese refugees kept a low profile while addressing their legal status and registering with the immigration office. Obtaining documentation and registering companies to start operating took months, but once that was done, we began to see the community occupy spaces more comfortably. 

The Soul of Sudan bazaar began on a cold night in Cairo. It was organized by Trends Vanity, a popular fashion online shop that hosted fashion-inspired bazaars in Khartoum. Their last bazaar opened two days before the war broke out, and many women and small business owners had left their stock there overnight. When the war broke out on a Saturday morning, they were unable to retrieve it. These bazaars empower women in Sudan. Small business owners who usually market their products solely online can share them with a larger audience. Women who bake goods or make handmade cultural products and accessories also get to showcase their talents. The bazaars also provide an opportunity to network with like-minded businesses and find clients who might not otherwise discover your business due to gaps in social media marketing based on social class and educational background. Wealthier women are better able to use social media effectively and access prestigious women-only Facebook groups.

Soul of Sudan opened in a public park in Cairo. A few months had passed since the war ended, yet my tendency to burst into tears when I saw someone from Sudan remained. Upon entering, I saw food trucks selling Sudanese delicacies, such as mangoes seasoned with lemon, chilli, a spoonful of peanut butter, and baobab powder —a snack that makes your mouth water just thinking about it. There were also Sudanese juices, such as hibiscus and agashi, as well as chicken sandwiches seasoned with mildly spicy peanut butter powder, and Sudanese falafel made from ground and spiced chickpeas. There were fashion brands offering imported and local styles, including customized toub, the most common women’s dress, and modest wear. Big and bold accessories preferred by Sudanese women sat close to booths selling perfume and bakhoor (incense). In Sudan, perfume and bakhoor making is sacred, and select families have passed down recipes for generations. The bakhoor-making process is extensive, and the final product comes in the form of sticks or shaped balls. It is made from different kinds of wood, such as sandalwood infused with perfume oil, dufra, or thoroughly cleaned, roasted seashell lids. It also contains musk and many other perfectly selected products sourced from a variety of places.

The bazaar is a collaborative process. Hanan Fawzi owns an online business that makes high-quality, gold-plated accessories. She submitted an application to participate in the bazaar and, once it was accepted, paid a fee. This fee is used to book the venue, market the bazaar, and provide a booth for vendors. Business owners can spend additional money to design or enhance their booth, but a basic one is provided.

Fawzi had arrived in Cairo a few months earlier with her daughter and two grandchildren. A longtime widow, she reinvented herself as a business owner. She started by making cosmetics and perfumes, and then transitioned to gold-plated accessories. The bazaars were her gateway to the market. Through them, she found long-term clients, including those outside of Egypt. Before the bazaar, Fawzi and her daughter worked long nights together designing, manufacturing, and packaging products. They arrived at the bazaar in an Uber with dozens of boxes, ready to sell their products—and sell them they did. They sold the most at the bazaar, which allowed them to pay rent and school fees and live a stable, albeit temporary, life in Cairo.

The bazaar is an opportunity not only to sell products but also to empower women, preserve culture, and foster solidarity. Many of the women sitting at booths displaying their creations were the sole breadwinners in their households. Employment is extremely rare for foreigners, especially Sudanese refugees in Cairo. These women became a lifeline for their families in Egypt and their extended families in Sudan. The bazaar is a place for cultural preservation. You can find products that only Sudanese women make, such as perfumes, which are an example of indigenous knowledge that needs to be preserved and passed down to younger generations. In times of war, people begin to think about preservation in a more structured way, with clear steps on what to do. While purchasing bakhour and perfume from Manal Al-Baltaji, a renowned perfumier, she told me that she used to have a supply chain in Omdurman for Dilka, a perfumed scrub that removes dead skin and adds moisture. Due to the war, however, she had to establish a new supply chain.

She said that she found women in Al-Dowaim, a city in the White Nile State, who could source dilka for her. At that time, dilka was difficult to find in Egypt because the know-how was unavailable. Traditionally, dilka is smoked in a special pot over a smoke pit for many hours. A few months later, war spread to Sennar State, cutting off White Nile State from the rest of Sudan. However, dilka made its way to Cairo through women who managed to establish a new supply chain between Sudan and Egypt. These women also invested in those with the necessary expertise.

The bazaars were also a place for solidarity as women come there with all their vulnerabilities; the single mothers, those who have lost everything in the war and are struggling to buy food, the refugees that were smuggled into the country and have no legal status and came to the bazaar to make connections and an income even though leaving the house was a great risk. The bazaar was a place where they could exist and wear a Sudanese toub without feeling like strangers or being out of place. It gave us a sense of belonging. While women didn’t find their agency through the bazaars, they did build their sense of agency through the different empowerment tools it provided. Even in our darkest moments, when we were navigating a new reality as refugee women and feeling helpless, we never lost our sense of agency. However, we felt that it was compromised by our loss of assets, social networks, and our homes in Sudan. Building agency for women requires building a support network and a livelihood over which they have control, and that they can fund or that requires their labor and ideas. The bazaar was a great platform for building both individual and collective agency. It gave independent business owners a chance to market their products, network, and boost their confidence as they reimagined their work in different places. They didn’t have to start from zero because they had the skills and reputation to market their products.