The evening before 2 February 2014, we closed the club without noticing anything unusual. The trouble began the next morning. The police turned up at our house with guns, they told us that they had found a dead man’s body in the yard of the club and accused us of killing him. They had taken the body into their Jeep, and they showed it to us. His arms and legs had been mutilated, but we could see his face. We swore that we did not know the man. The police did not want to believe us, and we were both arrested in front of our family. They brought us to prison where they tortured us for months to try to get us to confess, but we were innocent. Three times a day, the guards would take us to be interrogated, and if we denied our guilt, they tortured us with electric shocks. Until the end, we swore that we were innocent.

There was no investigation. People from the club were asked to testify at my brother’s trial, but we were alone when we closed the club. The victim’s family had a lawyer. The family swore that if we were released, they would kill us themselves. My brother may have had enemies, but I was not aware of them. In any case, there is no justice in Sudan.

Moussa was found guilty and shot on 2nd June. Executions are public in Sudan, and I will never forget that day.

At my trial, two days later, I was in such shock that I was unable to speak or stand up. I was sentenced to death, and then taken to hospital because I was in such poor health. When I was returned to prison, I was told that I would do forced labour while awaiting execution.

I was incarcerated at En Nahud prison. En Nahud is a city in the desert, west of Kordofan. The prison is massive, with more than a thousand inmates. My cell held 20 people.

** Some cells held up to 50. With nowhere to relieve ourselves, we slept with insects and excrement.**

The smell was nauseating. We worked non-stop from 6 to 18 hours daily. At the first sign of fatigue, the guards would whip us. We were not allowed even one second of rest. When I arrived, construction was being done on a water distribution network outside the prison. Prisoners dug trenches and moved very heavy pipes. One day, my father, who saw my suffering, told me that if I managed to escape he would help me hide and that we would find a solution together.

A few weeks later, I was working at the construction site. It was around 17.00 and the guards were engaged in conversation with each other. They were not looking in my direction. So, I dropped my tools and began to run as fast as I could.
After running approximately 50 metres, one of the guards noticed that I had fled and began to chase me. I kept running until I reached a village. There, I came upon a small forest and climbed one of the trees. I stayed there late into the night. When I could no longer see any of the guards, I climbed down from the tree. It was dark. I walked until morning without knowing where I was going. I ended up arriving at a road and hitched a ride. The driver asked where I was coming from and I told him I was from Am Rubesha and that I was lost.

He did not ask about my clothes, but I think that he recognized the outfit worn by prisoners at En Nahud.

When he stopped to take a break, I jumped from the car and fled again. I did not want to risk being returned to prison.

I knew that I had to leave Kordofan as soon as possible. I walked a long time until I reached the outskirts of the city of Rubesh. On the way, I met an old farmer who told me that I should avoid big cities. Despite this advice, I decided to go to Rubesh, but I did not have enough money to take a bus and I was still barefoot and in my prison outfit.

In Rubesh, I managed to climb into the backseat of a car. After approximately three hours, the car stopped in a village in Darfur. The drivers discovered me in the car and told me to get out because I did not have any money. In the village, the locals advised me to go to the city of Milit and find a way to travel on to Chad.
I hitchhiked until I arrived in Milit.

It had been five days since my escape. I met an old man, the Shiekh ¹ of Milit. He asked me why I was barefoot and how I could stand the heat.

I told him that I had lost my shoes running behind a car. He bought me a beautiful pair of sneakers and told me how to get to Tina in Chad. In my country, people help those in trouble. There is also solidarity with those who are persecuted by the government. Seeing I was tired, the Sheikh offered to take me to his home so that I could rest. I was able to call my father who advised me to stay close to the border so that we could find each other.

The next day I left for Tina, then travelled on to Basha. When I called my father, we agreed to meet in Milit. He gave me money for my journey and we said goodbye. It was only then that I realised that I would not return to Sudan and that I would not see my family again.

Without any guarantee that he will not be returned to Sudan, where death eternally awaits him, Hafiz is fighting to stay alive and remain in France.

In addition to publishing his book, Le voyage d’Hafiz El Soudani – dessin sans papier (“The Journey of Hafiz El Soudani – dessins sans papiers”)¹, Hafiz Adem is participating in the exhibition “EVASION-L’art sans liberté” au MIAM de Sète (France).

This is discussed in the section Get Involved.

Translated by Amy King¶

Edited by Selin Safi¶