Égypte/Monde Arabe, 14 | 2016, « Le Soudan, Cinq Ans Après L’Indépendance Du Soudan Du Sud » [En Ligne], Mis En Ligne Le 21 Octobre 2018, Consulté Le 06 Novembre 2020

Égypte/Monde arabe

14 | 2016 Le Soudan, cinq ans après l’indépendance du Soudan du Sud

Alice Franck et Elena Vezzadini (dir.)

Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ema/3560 DOI : 10.4000/ema.3560 ISSN : 2090-7273

Éditeur CEDEJ - Centre d’études et de documentation économiques juridiques et sociales

Édition imprimée Date de publication : 21 octobre 2016 ISBN : 2-905838-88-4 ISSN : 1110-5097

Référence électronique Alice Franck et Elena Vezzadini (dir.), Égypte/Monde arabe, 14 | 2016, « Le Soudan, cinq ans après l’indépendance du Soudan du Sud » [En ligne], mis en ligne le 21 octobre 2018, consulté le 06 novembre 2020. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/ema/3560 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/ema. 3560

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 6 novembre 2020.

Le Soudan du Sud a accédé officiellement à l’indépendance le 9 juillet 2011, à l’issue d’un processus de paix acté en janvier 2005 et conformément au résultat du référendum national de janvier 2011. Cet événement historique qui devait clore une page de l’histoire conflictuelle entre les régions et communautés soudanaises du Nord et du Sud a constitué un réel défi en termes d’adaptation, de résilience et d’innovation pour l’ensemble de la société. Dans ce contexte inédit de naissance d’un nouveau territoire national, et de remodelage des configurations spatiales et politiques existantes, le Soudan du Sud a été très logiquement au centre des attentions – qu’il s’agisse des acteurs politiques, des chercheurs ou des bailleurs humanitaires. Pourtant, le Nord a été aussi profondément affecté par cette rupture. Le propos de ce numéro est d’éclairer certaines de ses transformations. South Sudan officially gained independence on the 9th July 2011. This was the outcome of the peace agreement signed in January 2005 and in accordance with the national referendum of January 2011. This historic event, which should have put an end on the historical conflict between the Northern and Southern regions and communities, constituted a real challenge in term of adaptation, resilience and innovation for the whole of the society. In this unprecedented context of the birth of a new national territory, and the remodelling of existing spatial and political configurations, South Sudan has logically been at the centre of attention – whether this be from political actors, researchers or humanitarian donors. However, the North has been profoundly affected by this rupture as well. The intention of this issue is to shed light on some of these transformations.

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SOMMAIRE

Introduction Alice Franck et Elena Vezzadini

The South Sudan House in Amarat: South Sudanese enclaves in Khartoum Katarzyna Grabska et Peter Miller

The citizenship dilemma of Southern Sudanese communities in the post-secession era in Khartoum Mohamed A. G. Bakhit

Être, devenir et ne plus être janûbi : parcours de l’identité « sudiste » entre le CPA et l’après 2011 dans un quartier populaire de la ville de Khartoum (Deim) Barbara Casciarri

Le Grand Khartoum sans Sudistes ? Recompositions post-CPA dans le quartier populaire de Mussalass (Omdurman) Alice Franck

Conflict with Others at a Bleeding Frontier: The Case of Tagoi in the Northeastern Nuba Mountains – Sudan Osman Mohamed Osman Ali

Thriving on chaos: the war in Darfur and the transformation of the authoritarian coalition Anne-Laure Mahé

Hakamat and Peacebuilding 2004-2012 Nadine Rea Intisar Adam

Dismantling Processes in the Sudanese Public Health Services Sector The Case of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre Hind Mahmoud Youssef Hussein et Alice Koumurian

Mover and Shaker: Grace Mary Crowfoot, Intimate Conversations, and Sudanese History Heather J. Sharkey

Love at the Time of Independence The Debates on Romantic Love in the Sudanese Left-Wing Press of the 1950s Elena Vezzadini

Revues de lecture

David E. Mills, Dividing the Nile. Egypt’s Economic Nationalists in the Sudan, 1918-56 Cairo, New York: American University of Cairo Press, 2014 Elena Vezzadini

Barbara Casciarri, Munzoul Assal and François Ireton, Multidimensional Change in Sudan (1989-2011): Reshaping livelihoods, conflicts and identities Berghahn Oxford; 2015 Idriss El Hassan

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Varia

Damiette, une ville prospère d’Égypte au péril de la mondialisation Ruine des activités productives traditionnelles et déstructuration sociale sur fond de modernisation technologique, de logiques globales et de retrait de l’État Marc Lavergne

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Introduction

Alice Franck et Elena Vezzadini

Nous souhaitons remercier les nombreuses personnes qui ont participé à la relecture des articles de ce numéro : Katarzyna Grabska, Mahassin Youssif, Azza Ahmed Abdel Aziz, Einas Ahmed, Jérôme Tubiana, Abdel Ghaffar, Philippe Gout, Luisa Arango, Guillaume Sauloup, Laure Crombé, Raphaëlle Guibert, Heather Sharkey, Eric Denis, François Ireton, Nathalie Coste, Elena Vezzadini, Alice Franck.

1 Le Soudan du Sud a accédé officiellement à l’indépendance le 9 juillet 2011, à l’issue d’un processus de paix acté en janvier 2005 et conformément au résultat du référendum national de janvier 2011. Cet événement historique, qui devait clore une page de l’histoire conflictuelle entre les régions et communautés soudanaises du Nord et du Sud, a constitué un réel défi en termes d’adaptation, de résilience et d’innovation pour l’ensemble de la société. Dans ce contexte inédit de naissance d’un nouveau territoire national, et de remodelage des configurations spatiales et politiques existantes, le Soudan du Sud a été très logiquement au centre des attentions des acteurs politiques, des chercheurs ou encore des bailleurs humanitaires… Pourtant, le Nord a été aussi profondément affecté par cette séparation.

2 Le propos de ce numéro est d’éclairer certaines de ces transformations : la refonte des anciennes structures bureaucratiques et la création de nouvelles, ou encore la diminution drastique de la rente pétrolière dans les revenus de l’État et les stratégies pour trouver de nouvelles rentes, le repositionnement du pays à l’échelle régionale ou internationale, le départ de millions de Sud-Soudanais et leur « réapparition » en tant que nouvelle catégorie de réfugiés apatrides (Sud-Soudanais) sur le territoire, les changements des lois de la nationalité… Il s’agit de répercussions capitales tant au niveau politique, religieux, social ou encore administratif et économique, qui touchent aussi bien les liens sociaux et identitaires que l’organisation spatiale, ou encore la mémoire. Egypte Monde Arabe se propose de revenir cinq ans après l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud sur quelques-unes de ces évolutions, plus ou moins brutales ou linéaires, et qui toutes interpellent la recherche en sciences humaines et sociales1.

3 Ce numéro collectif, au-delà des différentes lectures scientifiques du Soudan après l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud qu’il offre, est également le résultat d’une aventure

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institutionnelle et humaine au CEDEJ-Khartoum et de ses liens avec le CEDEJ historique basé au Caire. C’est cette aventure que nous souhaitons souligner dans le premier temps de cette introduction. Dans un second temps, nous poserons les repères historiques nécessaires à la compréhension des transformations actuelles, et nous interrogerons l’homogénéisation du nouveau Soudan, pour finalement ouvrir une réflexion sur les reconfigurations catégorielles et identitaires qui apparaissent comme l’élément fédérateur aux dix articles de ce projet.

Le CEDEJ-K, un laboratoire de la recherche sur le Soudan contemporain

4 Sans entrer dans les détails historiques de l’établissement dans les années 1990 d’une antenne du CEDEJ à Khartoum et de son évolution, il s’agit de souligner le rôle assuré par cette modeste (par la taille de son budget) structure de recherche. Seul établissement étranger spécialisé sur la recherche en sciences sociales installé au Soudan, le CEDEJ-K draine, accueille et attire depuis plus de vingt ans les chercheurs et étudiants français mais également soudanais et étrangers désireux de travailler sur le Soudan contemporain. Cette inscription sur le temps long porte ses fruits tout d’abord en France où les études soudanaises gagnent en reconnaissance, notamment dans le domaine des recherches sur le Monde arabe2, et en attractivité puisque toute une nouvelle génération d’étudiants et de chercheurs d’horizons disciplinaires divers y réalise actuellement des travaux. Au Soudan également, le CEDEJ-K représente aujourd’hui un espace de travail, d’échanges scientifiques et de formation de mieux en mieux repéré dans le monde académique local, qu’ils s’agissent des enseignants, des chercheurs, ou des étudiants soudanais. C’est en premier lieu l’intensité, la convivialité et l’originalité des échanges entre chercheurs (qu’ils soient étudiants ou plus confirmés) au CEDEJ-K que ce numéro d’EMA traduit. Aux cotés des « anciens » du CEDEJ-K comme Barbara Casciarri, qui y fut en poste de 2006 à 2009 et travaille au Soudan depuis 1989, on trouve des collègues de l’Université de Khartoum tels que Osman Mohamed Osman, Idriss Hassan ou encore Mohamed Bakhit, des collègues d’horizons divers qui travaillent au et sur le Soudan de longue date (Katarzyna Grabska, Heather Sharkey, Alice Franck et Elena Vezzadini), ainsi que des étudiants européens (Anne-Laure Mahé, Nadine Adam, Peter Miller, Alice Koumurian) et soudanais (Hind Mahmoud). L’atmosphère qui règne au CEDEJ-K permet de décloisonner de nombreuses barrières académiques et autorise les défis. Deux articles du numéro ont ainsi été coécrits obligeant leurs auteurs à un décentrage disciplinaire et/ou d’objet de recherche.

5 Dans la perspective de nourrir le débat sur l’image et les représentations du Soudan post-sécession du Sud, et de manière plus pragmatique pour trouver une illustration à la couverture du numéro, un concours photo a été lancé. Dans la mesure où il a conduit à des questionnements en lien avec la partie plus académique du projet, il n’est pas inutile de faire ici la lumière sur les résultats de ce concours. Nous avons reçu un peu plus d’une dizaine de propositions, provenant dans l’ensemble de personnes gravitant autour du CEDEJ-K. Les clichés ont été pris par des photographes et des illustrateurs amateurs, mais pas uniquement puisque nous avons reçu un cliché de Claude Iverné dont le travail a été récompensé en 2015 par le célèbre prix HBC – Henri Cartier Bresson3.

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Manifestation pour le Nouveau Soudan à Port Soudan en janvier 2005 © Claude Iverné

6 Sa photo représente une manifestation pour le Nouveau Soudan à Port Soudan en janvier 2005, au moment de la signature de l’accord de paix entre le Nord et le Sud. On était alors dans une période d’espoir, d’élan de paix et de perspectives à venir. Il est intéressant de constater que le jury franco-soudanais, qui a pris très à cœur le thème du concours, a au contraire sélectionné en priorité les photos montrant une image du Soudan (du Nord) après 2011, une période marquée plutôt par un sentiment de déception généralisé. Le premier prix, en couverture du numéro, illustre justement cette atmosphère, après 25 ans de règne d’Omar El Bashir. Les deux photos arrivées ex- æquo en quatrième place ont été l’objet d’intenses débats au sein du jury franco- soudanais. Les membres soudanais du jury leur trouvaient une connotation péjorative et étaient réticents à récompenser des clichés qui pourraient donner une mauvaise image du Soudan, leur pays. Ils lui ont préféré le dessin (prix n° 2) montrant un homme blessé de n’avoir pas su réconcilier ses deux identités : nordiste et sudiste, arabe et africaine. Or, c’est notamment sur la construction et la déconstruction de ces catégories que ce numéro souhaite apporter un éclairage.

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Prix n° 2

Légende de l’auteure, Nussiba Albagir : « The image portrays shattered glass which leaves splinters that hurt all those in its path, especially those on the borderline of the two new states. Sudan was a single entity that split due to the racism Southerners suffered at the hands of Northerners. This was a bitter choice that will have consequences and that will lead to further breaks, like glass when it explodes. The right side of the image, with the Luo garment, represents the South. The jellabia and facial markings represent the Northerners. The facial expression on the southern side is sad because they were forced to take this difﬁcult decision. Are Northerners happy? Is this why it is a small smile? »

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Prix n° 4

Légende de l’auteure, Nadine Adam : « The Photo was taken in February 2016 on a roadhouse/petrol station close to Shendi. For me, it illustrates Sudan 5 years after separation as it is: a waiting room, the situation has deteriorated in multiple aspects, Sudan has lost the main proportion of its oil wealth and now there are donkeys instead of cars, waiting in front of gasoline pumps, because sometimes there is no petrol available. The economic boom of previous years has come to a halt and inflation is on the rise. »

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Titre et légende de l’auteur, Alice Franck : La carte du Soudan unifié a fini dans un placard à balais. « Il y a un an, cette carte du Soudan trônait fièrement derrière le bureau du fonctionnaire soudanais. La partie Sud du pays avait été délibérément peinte en noire par l’occupant du bureau "pour montrer son dégout face à la séparation". Un an plus tard, le bureau a lui aussi été scindé en deux parties et la carte a atterri dans la partie qui n’est aujourd’hui plus utilisée ».

Quelques repères sur l’histoire du Soudan, du début de la guerre civile à 2011

7 Le 9 juillet 2011, le Soudan du Sud est officiellement devenu un État indépendant. Cette séparation devait être l’issue d’un des plus longs et meurtriers conflits du continent africain. La mutinerie de Torit, Equatoria, en 1955, un an avant l’indépendance du Soudan, marque le commencement du conflit, avant que la rébellionne se propage et s’intensifie pour se transformer, dans les années 1960, en guerre civile. En 1972, un premier accord de paix a été signé à Addis Abebapar le régime de Jafaar Nimeiri, arrivé au pouvoir en 1969 par le biais d’un coup d’État. Son programme, proche de celui des Officiers libres égyptiens, est dans un premier temps soutenu par les forces de gauche. Dans ce contexte, l’accord de paix constitue son premier résultat et une victoire importante. Cependant, après un coup d’État manqué en 1971, organisé par les Communistes, Nimeiri cherche d’autres alliés. Vers la fin des années 1970, il s’associe plus étroitement avec un parti populaire islamiste, le Front National Islamique (al- Jabhah al-Islamiyah al-Qawmiyah), dirigé par Hassan Abdallah al-Turabi.

8 Le rapprochement du gouvernement avec le parti islamiste mène rapidement à la fin de la paix. En 1983, le gouvernement soudanais introduit les « lois de septembre », qui conduisent à l’islamisation du système légal du pays et mettent le feu aux poudres. Les désaccords entre le gouvernement du Nord et les forces politiques du Sud sont aussi de

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nature économique, en lien avec l’exploitation des vastes gisements de pétrole découverts dans plusieurs régions du Sud à partir de 1978. Une seconde phase de guerre civile éclate en 1983 et, dans le Sud, l’offensive est menée par le Sudan People Liberation Movement (SPLM) guidé par John Garang. Cette phase est plus intense et sanglante que la première. Elle s’étend à d’autres régions au-delà du Sud, notamment aux Monts Nouba, et ranime d’autres forces rebelles comme celles situées dans l’est du pays, dans le Nil Bleu ou encore au Nord. On considère que dans la période allant de 1983 à 2005, la guerre a provoqué directement ou indirectement plus de deux millions de morts, et chassé de chez eux quatre millions de personnes, dont 2,3 millions au Soudan du Nord, et en particulier à Khartoum. En 2006, on estimait la population de déplacés sud-soudanais installée à Khartoum à1,8 million4,même si la manière dont ces chiffres ont été calculés a été largement discutée5. Il est également nécessaire de rappeler que les mouvements de populations sud-soudanaises avaient déjà commencé lors de la première phase de la guerre civile. Les citoyens du Sud effectuaient des allers- retours entre le Nord et le Sud, et voyageaient au Nord chaque fois que la situation politique et sécuritaire, mais aussi les nécessités économiques et familiales, le requéraient. Avec la seconde phase de la guerre civile, le nombre de migrants au Nord a éclaté et les déplacements ont alors commencé à s’effectuer sans perspective de retour à court terme.

9 Le régime de Nimeiri est renversé en 1985, et lui succède une nouvelle phase de gouvernement démocratique, dans laquelle des efforts majeurs sont engagés dans la résolution du conflit. Alors que la signature d’un accord de paix semble proche, survient un nouveau coup d’État militaire, suscité par une partie de l’armée soutenue par Turabi et le NIF (National Islamic Front) qui porte au pouvoir Omar El Bashir. Les purges sont violentes, et le nouveau régime écarte et remplace plus de 78.000 personnes dans l’administration et l’armée. Parallèlement, le gouvernement de Bashir lance une nouvelle offensive militaire vers le Sud, qui portera le nom de ‘jihad’. Malgré des avancées initiales, la situation stagne rapidement.

10 Vers le début des années 2000, et surtout après la résolution de conflits internes importants dans les rangs du SPLM, le gouvernement soudanais et les leaders du Sud cherchent à trouver une nouvelle entente. Pas à pas, et sous la pression internationale, se construisent les fondations de l’accord de paix de 2005. L’ouverture d’un deuxième foyer de guerre civile au Darfour en 2003 après des années de guerre de basse intensité qui suivent une sécheresse particulièrement intense dans les années 1980, et en lien avec l’avancée des négociations entre Nord et Sud, n’empêchera pas la signature en janvier 2005 du CPA (Comprehensive Peace Agreement)6.Cet accord prévoit une période de transition, durant laquelle le gouvernement du Nord et le SPLM s’engagent à passer une sorte de ‘période d’essai’ de six ans, qui consiste à valoriser l’unité tout en créant les conditions et les institutions nécessaires à une division équitable des pouvoirs et des ressources entre Nord et Sud, à une autonomie administrative pour le Sud, et à l’amélioration des conditions de vie des Sud-Soudanais habitant au Nord7. L’accord prévoit aussi qu’à la fin de cette période d’essai, les Sud-Soudanais soient appelés à voter et à choisir soit l’unité du pays, soit la création d’un État indépendant. Le référendum d’autodétermination a lieu en janvier 2011 et 98.83 % des Sud-Soudanais enregistrés sur les listes votent pour l’indépendance. Derrière ce résultat écrasant se cache une plus grande complexité : seule une faible minorité des personnes originaires du Sud et résidentes au Nord s’enregistrent et votent au référendum (69 597 pour l’ensemble du Soudan du Nord) et, de plus, les résultats sont bien moins tranchés en

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faveur de l’Indépendance du Sud8. Dans la région de Khartoum par exemple, la séparation remporte 52,3 % des votes, mais avec seulement 9 258 votes valables sur une population considérablement plus nombreuse, même si l’on considère que les retours au Sud avaient d’ores et déjà commencé9.

Un Soudan plus « homogène » après l’Indépendance du Sud ?

11 Très souvent les médias et les acteurs locaux décrivent la guerre civile soudanaise comme une lutte entre les Arabes musulmans d’un côté, et les Africains qui habitent les zones marginalisées du Soudan de l’autre. Si les chercheurs tendent à nuancer cette dichotomie et à décrire le conflit comme la conséquence de décennies de politiques de marginalisation et d’exploitation par le centre/gouvernement sur ses périphéries, on retrouve aussi dans ces analyses l’utilisation d’une terminologie ethno-raciale.

12 Cette même vision simpliste du conflit a nourri l’idée que la séparation du Soudan du Sud réglerait une fois pour toutes nombre de problèmes. Au Sud, l’indépendance a été vécue comme une victoire après des décennies de guerre, mais au Nord, le rapport aux sollicitations du Sud pour une plus grande autonomie ou pour l’indépendance a été plus ambivalent. Si, dans un premier temps, le gouvernement a renouvelé ses efforts de reconquête et d’islamisation du Sud, une autre position a fini par émerger. L’Indépendance du Sud, malgré tout, aurait pu être un avantage pour le gouvernement du Nord, malgré les prévisibles difficultés économiques causées par la perte de la rente pétrolière. La séparation pouvait permettre au gouvernement d’éliminer ses ennemis historiques - d’autant plus que la branche nord du SPLM était en train de réussir à fédérer l’opposition de l’ensemble des périphéries-, et de redorer sa réputation sur le plan international. En outre, la séparation pouvait apparaitre comme le moyen de gouverner une population à première vue plus homogène.

13 De manière emblématique, le jour de l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud, les citoyens de la République du Soudan recevaient du gouvernement un sms qui disait : « Nom de l’État : République du Soudan ; dimensions : 1 882 000 km2 ; nombre d’habitants : 33 419 625 ; pourcentage de musulmans : 96,7 % ; monnaie nationale : ghinée »10. De cette manière, l’État signifiait à ses citoyens que la reconfiguration territoriale entrainait aussi une reconfiguration de l’identité nationale : un pays plus petit, un moins grand nombre d’habitants, mais où l’écrasante majorité était musulmane. Dans la perspective d’un État islamique qui s’était notamment donné comme mission d’islamiser la société, la séparation pouvait en quelque sorte apparaître comme une réussite.

14 Les conflits, cependant, n’ont pas cessé. Loin de marquer le début d’une période de paix, les années post-indépendance du Soudan du Sud ont au contraire connu une multiplication des conflits, non seulement au Soudan du Sud, théâtre d’affrontements sanglants entre milices nuer et dinka (2013, 2016), mais aussi dans plusieurs régions du Nord : au Darfour où les affrontements se sont poursuivis, dans la région du Nil Bleu où une guérilla a éclaté, et dans les Monts Nouba où le conflit fait de nouveau rage. Le gouvernement a dans l’ensemble répondu par la force aux revendications et troubles dans les périphéries (bombardements, armement de milices armées, renforcement de certains corps armés etc.). Cela est allé de pair avec un durcissement de l’autoritarisme de l’État, dont témoignent les difficultés grandissantes des travailleurs humanitaires à opérer, et s’est traduit parla diffusion et la multiplication des services de sécurité – ce

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que décrit l’article d’Anne-Laure Mahé –. L’augmentation des mesures et des réponses répressives lors des protestations estudiantines de 2012, et du mouvement plus suivi de septembre 2013 contre la vie chère, pendant lesquels l’armée a tiré sur la foule de manifestants tuant des centaines de personnes, témoigne également de ce durcissement.

15 L’impression générale est donc celle d’un État fragilisé (re)devenu plus répressif qu’avant l’Indépendance du Sud, ce qui contraste avec les années d’ouverture et de reforme (2005-2011), dopées par la rente pétrolière. Les élections apparaissent également comme un indicateur du repli du régime : en 2010, Omar El Bashir avait été élu avec 68.2 % des votes, alors qu’aux dernières élections de 2016 il a obtenu 94,05 %, écrasant toute opposition. Le gouvernement arrive donc à se maintenir au pouvoir, sans pour autant contrôler ses territoires périphériques, et sans créer d’espace d’ouverture politique. Enfin, l’économie participe de ce mouvement régressif. L’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud a entrainé la perte de la majeure partie des revenus pétroliers, alors que les sanctions américaines se poursuivent, voire se renforcent11. L’effondrement continu de la monnaie soudanaise frappe l’ensemble de la population et particulièrement les fonctionnaires12. Les politiques de libéralisation économique engagées par ce régime dès le milieu des années 1990 ont, dans le contexte économique actuel, des répercutions dramatiques en termes d’accès aux services publics. L’article d’Hind Mahmoud et d’Alice Koumurian interroge les conséquences de ces réformes néolibérales dans le secteur particulier de la santé des femmes.

16 Si la séparation d’avec le Soudan du Sud a pu nourrir au Nord quelques espoirs dans la création d’un Etat plus « arabe » et plus « musulman », qu’en est-il réellement ? Le pays est-il véritablement devenu plus homogène ? En d’autres termes quelles sont les conséquences de la séparation dans la construction identitaire et catégorielle ?

Quelles catégories pour quelles reconfigurations ?

17 De nombreux articles de ce numéro abordent la question des constructions catégorielles à différentes échelles et sous différents angles. Avec Bolstanski et Thevenot, nous considérons ici les catégories comme le produit de « l’immense travail historique nécessaire pour unifier autour du même système de représentation des êtres disparates ». Pour ces auteurs, l’identification à une catégorie est aussi « le produit réifié de luttes » dans lesquelles « des groupes ont quelque chose à gagner ou à perdre qui n’est autre que leur propre existence en tant que groupes distincts et visibles comme tels »13. Ces auteurs soulignent que l’histoire des catégories est imbriquée dans l’histoire des luttes qui accompagnent souvent de profonds changements politiques, économiques et institutionnels. Enfin, une fois produites par l’État, par des institutions, ou encore par des acteurs, les catégories ne sont pas immuables, persistantes au-delà des changements historiques. Dans ce numéro spécial, les auteurs s’attèlent à travailler avec différents types de catégories – qui sont parfois enchevêtrées –, en montrant leur mode de fonctionnement, leur processus de construction, ou bien le type de conflits qu’elles génèrent ou qui les produisent.

18 Le premier type de catégories appréhendé par nos dix articles est la classique dichotomie Arabe/Africain, qui, comme nous l’avons vu, a été une modalité de compréhension fondamentale des luttes politiques du Soudan moderne. Ces deux catégories peuvent être entendues comme des catégories raciales dans la mesure où

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être arabe signale à la fois une appartenance fictive liée au ‘sang’ et à la descendance biologique et, sur le plan symbolique, une position hiérarchique dans la société, qui s’ancre dans l’histoire du pays et celle de l’expansion de l’Islam. D’autre part, être africain ne signale pas tant l’appartenance à une culture commune que l’absence des qualifications précédemment citées. Les groupes ‘africains’ de la République du Soudan, en majorité musulmans comme la plupart de la population, parlent des langues totalement hétérogènes (bien qu’ils soient tous plus ou moins arabophones), vivent dans des zones géographiquement éloignées les unes des autres, aux environnements différents, et pratiquent des formes de subsistance hétéroclites14.Ainsi, si on dépasse la construction symbolique des hiérarchies sociales et qu’on analyse l’histoire, l’organisation, le milieu et l’espace des groupes qui sont définis (et/ou se définissent) comme africains ou bien comme arabes, il est impossible de dresser la liste des attributs qui définiraient une fois pour toute l’appartenance à l’une ou l’autre de ces catégories.

19 En effet, les catégories Arabe/Africain jaillissent ou bien acquièrent un sens dans des contextes multiples, et notamment suite à des conflits. Dans le cas étudié ici par Osman Mohamed Osman, les acteurs se définissent comme Tagoi (et rarement comme Africains), mais ils définissent ceux contre lesquels ils luttent avant tout comme des « Arabes ». Dans ce cas précis, la spécificité ethnique de l’ennemi disparaît sous le terme générique ‘arabe’, qui n’indique pas tant - ou pas uniquement - une origine, que la perception d’une altérité ennemie qui se trouve en position de domination. Etant entendu que ce rapport de force déséquilibré est intimement lié à la relation qu’entretient le groupe dominant (ou vu comme tel) avec le pouvoir et donc l’Etat. Le gouvernement soudanais utilise depuis longtemps des proxys dans les divers conflits sur son territoire. Dans le cas développé par Osman, ces « Arabes » qui étaient jusqu’à hier des proches des Tagoide viennent alors la main armée du gouvernement. On retrouve ce même processus dans le conflit du Darfour (voir ici A-L. Mahé et N. Adam).

20 Les articles de Barbara Casciarri sur le quartier de Deim à Khartoum et celui de Mohamed Bakhit sur les « Sud-Soudanais »dans la capitale se situent dans la droite ligne des nombreux travaux qui témoignent de la porosité des frontières catégorielles et des changements entre identifications à des généalogies arabes et revendications d’‘africanité’15.Plusieurs articles dans ce numéro démontrent que ces catégories se transforment en accord avec les besoins de l’État, le système de pouvoir, les modifications dans les dispositifs territoriaux, administratifs, l’émergence de nouveaux discours au niveau national ou transnational. Les articles d’Osman Mohammed Osman et d’Anne-Laure Mahé explicitent ainsi certains des mécanismes à l’œuvre. Ils soulignent parallèlement que l’attribution/revendication de ces catégories n’a véritablement constitué un enjeu politique et social qu’à partir du moment où en faire partie ou non a conditionné à des degrés divers, un traitement particulier de la part de l’Etat et déterminé l’accès à des ressources. Ce mécanisme est d’autant plus efficace dès lors qu’il intervient dans des contextes de pénurie généralisée et dans des situations où la survie des individus et des groupes est en jeu16.

21 Enfin, une dernière catégorie centrale à plusieurs articles est celle de « Sudistes », janubeen en arabe, ou Soudanais du Sud. Il s’agit d’une catégorie à la fois inédite car liée à la naissance du nouvel Etat du Soudan du Sud en 2011, et ancienne car elle se greffe sur les catégories ethno-raciales déjà discutées. Les contributions d’Alice Franck, de Katarzyna Grabska et Peter Miller, de Barbara Casciarri et de Mohamed Bakhit s’attèlent à l’analyser à une échelle différente : celle de la ville, de ses quartiers, de ses

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camps de déplacés, de ses rues. Ces articles illustrent les conséquences de l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud sur la redéfinition de la citoyenneté du coté du Nord, mais aussi sur les assignations/revendications identitaires des populations originaires du Sud. Finalement, le caractère récent de la séparation permet aux chercheurs d’observer presque à chaud les transformations, la dislocation et la reformulation de cette catégorie aussi bien dans les politiques nationales ou urbaines, que dans les pratiques des populations.

22 Les différentes vagues de migration en provenance du Sud ont concerné des millions de personnes. La guerre ayant duré des décennies, toute une génération de Sudistes est née à Khartoum, et connaît le Sud que comme un imaginaire. Avec l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud et la promulgation des nouvelles lois de nationalité (voir Bakhit), ces personnes sont devenues du jour au lendemain légalement des étrangers, et leurs droits à des services comme l’instruction (comme les étudiants décrits par K. Grabska et P. Miller, qui sont obligés de payer des frais universitaires très élevés eu égard à leur statut d’étranger), ou au logement (voir les politiques immobilières décrites par A. Franck) ont disparu, ou été très largement affectés. Ainsi, cette œuvre de redéfinition a engendré toute une série de conséquences qui ont eu un impact direct sur les trajectoires de vie – sur la situation économique, professionnelle, sur la décision de partir, et de revenir, d’attendre, de se marier… – de ces individus qui ont perdu la nationalité soudanaise les touchant jusque dans leur intimité.

23 Cette évocation de l’intime offre une transition pour évoquer la dernière catégorie – d’un tout autre ordre – mise en lumière dans ce numéro spécial : les femmes. Elles sont au centre de l’article d’Elena Vezzadini qui se penche sur les relations amoureuses à la période de l’indépendance ; de celui de Heather Sharkey qui revient sur la trajectoire soudanaise méconnue d’une chercheuse anglaise dans les années 1920, et retrace ces rencontres et implications avec et pour les femmes soudanaises ; de l’article de Nadine Adam qui montre comment un groupe de femmes chanteuses darfouri va attirer l’attention humanitaire internationale dans le but de promouvoir la paix ; et enfin de l’article de Hind Mahmoud et Alice Koumurian qui interroge la disparition d’un centre spécialisé dans le traitement de la fistule au regard des politiques de privatisation du système de santé mais également au regard des groupes de femmes qui en sont victimes.

24 Pour conclure, ce travail collectif montre que loin d’être plus homogène après la séparation du Soudan du Sud, le Soudan n’en finit pas de se complexifier. Les anciennes catégories se reformulent, mutent, en intègrent de nouvelles et s’enchevêtrent dans les nouveaux contextes locaux et nationaux, qui renouvèlent les rapports de force à toutes les échelles.

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NOTES

1. Dans cette perspective, ce numéro fait suite au numéro spécial : Sharkey H., Vezzadini E. et Seri-Hersch I. “Rethinking Sudan Studies: a Post-2011 Manifesto”. Canadian Journal of African Studies/Revue canadienne des études africaines, 2015, vol. 49, no 1. 2. GIS. « Livre Blanc des études françaises sur le Moyen-Orient et les mondes musulmans », 2014, 105 p. URL : http://majlis-remomm.fr/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/ Livre_blanc_Orient_septembre2014.pdf 3. URL :http://www.henricartierbresson.org/laureats/claude-iverne/ 4. De Geoffroy A. “From Internal to International Displacement in Sudan”. CMRS’ meeting Migration and Refugee Movements in the Middle East and North Africa.The Forced Migration and Refugee Studies Program. Université américaine du Caire, 2007, p. 8-9. 5. Denis E. « Khartoum : ville refuge et métropole rentière ». Cahier du Gremamo, La ville arabe en mouvement, 2005, n° 18, pp. 87-127. Denis E. et Dupuy J. « La préparation et le passage du recensement du Soudan 2008 ». EchoGéo [En ligne], Sur le Vif, 2008, mis en ligne le 27 juin 2008. 6. Deret I. et Franck A. « Darfour : triste anniversaire ». EchoGéo [En ligne], Sur le Vif, mars-mai 2008, n°4, mis en ligne le 10 avril 2008 URL : http://echogeo.revues.org/document3543.html 7. Pour une analyse récente du processus et des indications bibliographiques complètes, voir : Rolandsen Ø. H. “A quick fix? A retrospective analysis of the Sudan Comprehensive Peace Agreement”. Review of African Political Economy, vol. 38, no 130, décembre 2011, pp. 551‑64. 8. URL :http://southernsudan2011.com/. Dans tout le Nord, le pourcentage pour l’unité a été de 42.35 %, et de 57.65 % pour l’indépendance. 9. International Organization of Migration.IDP Intentions Concerning Return to their Places of Origin Sample Survey Khartoum, North, East, Central Sudan and Nuba.2005. 134 p. 10. Un remerciement à ‘Ali Hussayn qui m’a montré ce sms le 10 juillet 2011 à Khartoum. 11. Chevrillon-Guibert R. “Gold boom in Sudan”. International Development Policy/Revue internationale de politique de développement, (to be published). 12. La monnaie soudanaise aurait perdu en 2015 42 % de sa parité réelle face aux grandes devises, et l’inflation annuelle est estimée à 12,6 % par le FMI. 13. Boltanski L. Les Cadres : La formation d'un groupe social. Paris : Éditions de Minuit, 1982, p. 54. 14. Les Fur, historiquement agriculteurs, pratiquent l’élevage ; les Zhaghawa, historiquement pastoralistes éleveurs de chameaux, sont aujourd’hui surtout connus pour leurs activités dans le commerce frontalier ; les Noubas (qui se composent de sous-groupes dont les langues sont si diverses et éloignées qu’elles sont mutuellement incompréhensibles) pratiquent des formes de subsistance mixte, entre agriculture et élevage, et migrent périodiquement des montagnes aux plaines (voir l’article d’Osman Mohamed Osman de ce numéro). La langue n’est pas plus un signe fiable d’appartenance : dans des villes comme Dilling dans les Monts Nouba, on reportait en 2006 un changement massif vers la langue arabe (voir Mugaddam A. R. H. “Language Status and Use in Dilling City, the Nuba Mountains.” Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 2006, vol. 27, n° 4, pp. 290–304). 15. La littérature est trop vaste pour être mentionnée ici exhaustivement ; mais voir, par exemple, deux excellents travaux sur la question de l’arabisation : Manger L. O. From the Mountains to the Plains: The Integration of the Lafofa Nuba Into Sudanese Society. Uppsala : Nordic Africa Institut, 1994 ; Ewald J. J. Soldiers, Traders, and Slaves: State Formation and Economic Transformation in the Greater Nile Valley, 1700-1885. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990 ; Salih M. A. M. “The Socio-Economic Effects of Migrants and Returnee Migrants in the Nuba Mountains”. Rural-Urban Migration and Identity Change. Case Studies from the Sudan. Bayreuther

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Geowissenschaftliche Arbeiten, 1988, vol. n° 11, pp. 79-94 ; James W. War and Survival in Sudan’s Frontier lands: Voices from the Blue Nile. Cambridge : Cambridge Univ. Press, 2007. 16. Comme ce fut le cas durant les grands épisodes de sécheresses et de famines des années 1980, qui ont d’ailleurs joué un rôle central dans le déclenchement du conflit au Darfour.

AUTEURS

ALICE FRANCK Associate professor of geography, Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne University, UMR PRODIG, I was during the last three years (2013-2016) the coordinator of the CEDEJ-Khartoum. After a PhD research on urban agriculture in Greater Khartoum (Sudan), my research looks at two different ways: urban landed dynamics and urban livestock production. Within the recent context of the Sudanese’s capital city’s urban development, analysing land property conflicts is one of the core points of my research.

ELENA VEZZADINI My principal research interest is the social and political history of colonial Sudan. My research and publications have focused on nationalism, labour, slavery, race relations, and archival studies. My PhD, which I completed in 2008, is on the social history of early nationalism in Sudan and the 1924 Revolution. I am currently a research fellow at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique based at the University of Paris 1-Panthéon Sorbonne. I am the author of Lost Nationalism: Revolution, Memory, and Anti-Colonial Resistance in Sudan, published by James Currey in 2015.

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The South Sudan House in Amarat: South Sudanese enclaves in Khartoum

Katarzyna Grabska and Peter Miller

1 In July 2011, South Sudan became an independent nation, and broke away from Sudan. This break-up was a violent experience for the people of the two nations. The dynamic changes that followed the separation of the two Sudans have affected the lives of people from the north and the south, as well as those who are considered to be ‘Jenubeen’ (Southern or South Sudanese2) in the north and those who are considered to be ‘Shageen’ (Northern) in South Sudan. With the political developments in the two and the introduction of new citizenship laws, Southerners have become foreigners in Sudan, while Northerners have lost their citizenship privileges in South Sudan3. The political changes have had a profound impact on social, political, and economic reconfigurations, as well as on identity claims in the two nations. Despite the widespread population movements that ensued – with those who are considered to be Southern Sudanese moving to South Sudan, and those who are considered to be ‘Northerners’ going to Sudan – and in the wake of the current civil conflict in South Sudan (which has been ongoing since 2013), increasing numbers of South Sudanese have either remained or become displaced in Sudan. These changes in the composition of the population, as well as the new political and economic arrangements between Sudan and South Sudan, have had a direct impact on the multidimensional transformations that have taken place in the Sudans in general, and in Khartoum in particular4.

2 In this article, we present our first reflections and impressions on two separate ethnographic fieldworks carried out between 2015 and 2016, and offer insights into a particular enclave of South Sudan in a Khartoum neighbourhood, Amarat. Our research is predominantly ethnographic, in that we followed different groups in several neighbourhoods in Khartoum in order to understand their everyday lives and practices and their identity politics. The notes we present below are based on in-depth interviews and life story interviews carried out with residents of Amarat and other

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South Sudanese currently residing in Khartoum. They are substantiated by our observation of and participation in everyday life in Amarat, as both of us resided there (for 3 months and 2½ years respectively) between 2014 and 2016. We are both anthropologists who have been working with the south and Southern Sudanese: Katarzyna Grabska has carried out researched among the Nuer population of South Sudan in Egypt, Kenya, and South Sudan (see Grabska 2014), while Peter Miller is currently finishing his Master’s 1,with a specific focus on the Amarat neighbourhood and the marriage practices and identity politics within it.

3 We first introduce Amarat, a wealthy, first-class neighbourhood in Khartoum, underscoring its heterogeneous character and juxtaposing it as a metaphor for ‘Sudan’. The heterogeneous nature of the neighbourhood is used as an analytical basis for addressing questions relating to the categorization and use of urban spaces. Next, we situate the South Sudanese population in Amarat, stressing certain particular impacts of the 2011 separation on their lives. We then move on to describe their living arrangements, using a specific example of a ‘South Sudanese house’ in Amarat, which we believe symbolises the heterogeneity not only of the neighbourhood, but also of a particular South Sudanese enclave within this residential quarter. The house also serves as a metaphor for the predicament of the current situation of the South Sudanese in Sudan, as well as the ongoing civil conflict in South Sudan. The discourses of the residents of the house form the basis for our second analytical axis, which is to address the issue of identity transformations among urban migrants.

Amarat: a “firstclass” neighbourhood of empty houses

Location of Amarat

4 Al-Amarat is a planned neighbourhood constructed in the 1960s on what was then the southern border of the colonial city of Khartoum5. Owing to the rapid, sprawling expansion of the city, Al-Amarat is now a central neighbourhood located to the west of

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Khartoum International Airport, bordered by two of the city’s highways, Africa Street and Mohammed Nageeb Street. Categorized as a “first class6” neighbourhood, Amarat was designed to accommodate a developing Sudanese upper class mainly composed of civil servants, and to symbolize a modern way of living in the newly-independent Sudanese capital with villas, gardens, paved roads, and shopping streets7. Although this population is still very much a presence in the neighbourhood today, its significance has been reduced due to the gradual commercialization of Amarat, with more and more residential buildings being turned into offices, company headquarters, and commercial businesses.

5 Having been categorized as a “first class” neighbourhood, Amarat tends to be left out of analyses of marginalized populations in Khartoum, such as the Southern Sudanese. In fact, the “first class” definition tends to suggest an economically and socially homogenous image of the neighbourhood as consisting of inhabitants with a privileged status, thereby camouflaging the diversity that exists within it. This official categorization of the city’s various neighbourhoods conceals the diversity of the local situation. Others have noted that this type of official classification and categorization represents an imagined and socially constructed identity of an urban space that in reality is far from homogenous8. Through our ethnographic observations in Amarat, we have discovered a socially heterogeneous quarter that when analysed in all its complexity can serve as a metaphor for post-separation Khartoum and Sudan.

6 Amarat was once known as the neighbourhood where the expatriate community concentrated, due to the number of embassies, international organizations, and think- tanks present within it, combined with the Sudanese State’s desire to ensure that foreign nationals live in first class areas. However, the presence of expatriates in Amarat has declined in past years, partly due to the expulsion of several aid organizations, religious groups, and individuals. The first wave of expulsions took place in 20099 as a manifestation of the Sudanese government’s response to Omar al-Bashir’s indictment by the International Criminal Court for war crimes and crimes against humanity in Darfur. Thirteen aid agencies working in Darfur, many of which had offices and/or personnel in Amarat, were the principal targets of this expulsion. The second wave came in 2012, after South Sudan’s independence; this one focused more on Catholic religious groups (who were considered to be sympathetic to and collaborating with the South Sudanese population), foreign individuals, and a smaller number of aid agencies10. It is also worth noting that during the period of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA), up until the period following the 2011 referendum on South Sudan’s independence, there was a mass influx of personnel working for international organizations into Khartoum, many of whom lived and/or worked in Amarat. After the independence of the South, and with Sudan’s more restrictive policies regulating the presence and work of international organizations, a number of UN agencies and international NGOS left the country, some moving to South Sudan. In addition to these two major exoduses, the country has been suffering from an economic crisis that has crippled the nation due to a loss in petrol revenues since South Sudan’s independence and the economic sanctions imposed on the country following Omar al-Bashir’s indictment by the International Criminal Court. These are some of the reasons that are consistently used to explain the number of empty houses and stalled construction sites in Amarat.

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7 The wealthy Sudanese residents of Amarat, those who are generally associated with the neighbourhood, typically own their villas, which have been constructed by their families since the 1960s. They consider themselves, and are considered by some others, as belonging to one of11the top strata of Sudanese society, and are therefore bearers of high levels of economic, cultural, and symbolic capital. Today’s residents tend to come from families who had considerable social standing at the time of Sudan’s independence, and often worked in previous governments as ministers or clerks, or for the State as doctors, engineers, and professors, among others. They are generally highly educated, with Master’s or PhD degrees, the majority having frequented universities overseas, and therefore find themselves in positions that ensure a relatively high income.

8 Among this seemingly homogenous population one notices an ethnic diversity that is symbolic of the multi-ethnic composition of Sudanas a whole and the melting pot of Khartoum in particular. This ‘ethnic diversity’ among this ‘elite’ class reflects a wider, and highly contested, issue in Sudan, however: the centralization and monopolization of power. Almost all Amarat’s wealthy residents come either from groups that originated in the northern and Central Nile Valley areas of the country or from migrant communities who established themselves economically through trade during colonial times. The former category tends to include populations who identify themselves as Arab and/or Nubian12, more specifically those who claim to be Jaaliyin, Shaigiya and Danagla; all these groups are synonymous with the monopolization of political, military, and trading power13. The latter category can be characterized as being made up of the dwindling Christian population, and consists of Copts from Egypt or Sudan, who make up the largest group, and Roman Catholic or Orthodox Christians from Greece and other Eastern Mediterranean countries, whose migration is associated with the nineteenth century expansion of the Ottoman Empire14.

9 These residents of Amarat express and maintain their domination through their symbolic capital15. Their enormous villas with their well-tended gardens are guarded behind three-metre walls, and their style isa far cry from the typical Sudanese home, the hosh, a single-story mud and dung construction. They customarily employ several domestic workers – cooks, cleaners, drivers, guards, and gardeners – and their capacity to do so is another way of affirming their symbolic status as a privileged class, and yet the residents of Amarat, which was once an exclusive neighbourhood, are becoming more and more economically diverse. Luxury cars mix with more economic vehicles, a testament to the current heterogeneity of Amarat’s residents; however, as the price of cars is high in Sudan (particularly the new models that can often be seen in Amarat), the mere fact of owning one implies a certain economic status. Cars are kept immaculately clean, suggesting that the cleanliness of one’s car might be a way of distinguishing oneself from the generally dusty environment of the street. Cleanliness is also associated with maintaining moral standing, being proper –adab – and respected16. The way of life of the wealthier Amarat residents, enclosed in their private spaces behind walls topped with barbed wire, and their habit of travelling everywhere by car leads us to another vital point for understanding Amarat: the dichotomy of the use of space.

10 This dichotomy reveals people’s symbolic status: those ‘of the street’ who live more in the ‘public space’, and those who can afford a ‘room of their own’, to paraphrase the words of Virginia Woolf, in private villas and behind walls. Their lives are much more

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in the public sphere, however, as they often represent the government and the international and business elites who actively participate in ‘public’ life. These residents are not often seen socializing in the street. Those who occupy the street –who work, socialize, and live in this public space –represent another fringe of the population: the marginalized. They also represent the peripheral regions of Sudan that have suffered from underdevelopment for years as the direct effect of the centralization of power and development17. They all share a history of more or less recent migration to Khartoum, often citing war, famine, and lack of opportunity as their reasons for coming to the capital. They arrive from South Sudan (some having returned during the period of peace, only to return when war broke out again), Darfur, South Kordofan, the Nuba mountains, and other border areas. There are also Ethiopian and Eritrean migrants, and refugees who arrive looking for luck, money, protection, and a better life in Sudan. They either work by providing services to the wealthy resident families or as labourers, or else they sell goods and provide services on the street to their peers and local residents for small profit. The two groups interact on a daily basis, and complement each other in their search for livelihoods and status. For example, those working on the street also offer services for the privileged classes of Amarat, such as washing cars, providing transport, and shining shoes. They also provide simple but necessary supplies such as cigarettes, street food, and phone cards18.

The South Sudanese in Khartoum

11 Khartoum has for a long time been one of the major destinations for displaced and migrant populations from South Sudan19. According to the recent UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) Rapid Assessment Report (2014), approximately 250,000 individuals of South Sudanese origin are estimated to have remained in Khartoum State following the secession of South Sudan in 2011. Of this population, 40,000 are estimated to be living in camp-like conditions in sites known as ‘open areas’, which were initially established as departure points in October 2010 following an announcement by the South Sudan Relief and Rehabilitation Commission (SSRRC) and the Commissioner for Voluntary and Humanitarian Work (CVHW) in Khartoum that individuals wishing to return to South Sudan should congregate at specific sites for an organized voluntary return.

12 Displaced South Sudanese have been returning to the South, with large numbers of them keeping up multiple residences in Khartoum and the South in order to minimize risks. Officially organized returns were initially implemented by UNHCR, International Organisation for Migration (IOM) and the Government of Sudan between October 2010 and the beginning of 2011, when returns ceased as resources were diverted to preparations for the referendum. A number of people subsequently remained stranded in these areas, which are devoid of infrastructure and working services. Since 2011, very few organized repatriations have taken place, and following the independence of South Sudan and the consequent changes in the legal status of individuals of South Sudanese origin in Sudan, more and more people have flocked to these sites.

13 Since the outbreak of the most recent civil conflict in South Sudan in December 2013, more than 522,000 refugees have fled their homes and scattered across four East African countries, including an estimated 150,000 in Sudan20. Since February 2015 alone there has been a dramatic increase of over 10,000 South Sudanese refugees in Sudan

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due to renewed fighting in Upper Nile state21. Newly arrived displaced persons have joined existing communities in both open and residential areas. Following the crisis in South Sudan, the President of Sudan declared that the South Sudanese in Sudan (including those fleeing the current conflict) would enjoy the same status as Sudanese citizens in the country, in line with the existing signed – but as yet not enforced – Cooperation Agreement of 27 September 2012. As part of this agreement, Sudan and South Sudan ratified a Framework Agreement on the status of nationals of the other State and related matters that establishes favorable principles for the treatment by one State of nationals of the other. In particular, it provides for the Four Freedoms Agreement, which is intended to grant freedom of residence, movement, and economic activity to nationals of each State, and the right of nationals of one State to acquire and dispose of property in the other.

14 The lives of the majority of South Sudanese have been marked by displacement and uncertainty22, and for those who live in Sudan this uncertainty has increased since South Sudan’s independence. No longer Sudanese citizens, they face many difficulties regarding access education and work, despite the Four Freedoms Agreement. These issues will be discussed in greater detail as a part of the discourses of the residents of the ‘South Sudanese house’.

The ‘South Sudanese house’ in Amarat

The South Sudanese in Amarat

15 Amarat would not seem to be an obvious place for the South Sudanese in Khartoum to live, and yet, against all odds, and contrary to the popular view of Amarat as a homogenous and privileged area, there are a number of South Sudanese residents in the neighbourhood. Their places of residence tend to be ‘hidden’ from the public eye in one way or another, but a long-term presence and knowledge of the area brings to light “what the eye refuses to see”23. Some live in abandoned, crumbling, and derelict villas, often cut off from the ethnographer’s eyes and the street by walls and fences. No longer used by those who were once privileged, but have suffered a sudden economic or political decline in their status, these villas have become a long-term residence for the displaced. The use of waste materials to board up holes in fences and walls alerts the inquisitive observer to the presence of inhabitants in houses that are otherwise perceived as ‘empty’. These ‘ghost’ houses, which have often been empty for years and lack facilities, have been taken over by South Sudanese and other marginalized communities, who try to keep their presence discreet for fear of being evicted. Others live on construction sites with the permission of the owner in return for guarding the construction materials against theft. These sites often have no walls and clothes and blankets are hung on washing lines instead to provide a level of privacy. Children play amongst the concrete rubble, and the conditions are dire, with no running water or toilets. The sites are furnished with what little the residents have: some stools, a bed or two, and for some a television, the satellite dish on the outside wall of the construction site alluding to a presence within them. Others live in makeshift tents hidden away down small back alleys behind high-rise constructions (between Street 13 & 15, for example), using waste materials to build their shelters. One close informant who worked as a guardian for a wealthy Amarat family was given accommodation by his

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employers: it was a wooden shack roughly 2x3 metres on the street in front of the house.

16 Yet there are also well-to-do, well-established South Sudanese residents who have long- running connections to Khartoum. Some have studied there, or worked in the formal sector before separation, and have strong political connections. While the living arrangements of the South Sudanese in Amarat may be diverse, however, they all share the same status as foreigners, agnabi, vis-à-vis the Sudanese state.

17 Having established an overview of the social composition of post-separation Amarat and the living conditions of South Sudanese in this quarter, we will now analyse one house in particular. We see the house as a metaphor for the various South Sudanese enclaves in Khartoum, and the changing history of the house over the years as a metaphor for the changed status – and experience – of South Sudanese in Sudan.

The house

18 The house is a two-story building on Street 37 in a prime location opposite the Comboni School, which caters to many South Sudanese students. These days, it resembles an abandoned villa, but it has a particular status due to its historical past as the Council of Southern States before 2011. It became the South Sudanese Embassy for a brief period after separation, but when the new Embassy of South Sudan was opened in Riyad, one of the Khartoum’s new upscale, prestigious neighbourhoods, the house lost its standing. The building remains the property of the South Sudanese government, but it is no longer used for official functions. South Sudanese chiefs who live in the camps on the outskirts of the city meet there occasionally, as they have no other place for their gatherings. Over time, it has become a run-down guesthouse, hosting people who cannot afford accommodation and are referred there by the South Sudanese Embassy. Referral seems to be a pivotal element in determining who can and cannot live in the house, and reflects a number of contemporary South Sudanese dilemmas.

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19 In the courtyard, there is a small garden where the residents of the house relax, eat, and meet visitors. On the left of the compound, there is a row of toilets and bathrooms, which are separated from the house. Some are locked. There seem to be separate toilets for women and men. The house has several rooms, and we were told that some are shared and others are for individual use. Residents also sleep outside on the balconies when it is too hot in the summer. In the dilapidated courtyard, against the walls of the house, there are old banners identifying the South Sudanese Consulate. Chinese cartons have replaced parts of the missing fence. The electricity meters are located on the outside wall of the house: we noticed that they are all set at zero.

20 Neighbours refer to the house as the “Dinka house”, and its status as such is significant, as it reflects the underlying ethnic divisions in the current conflict in the South. While there is a Nuer man working as a guard, no Nuer people live there, and the fact that most of the residents are referred by the Embassy, and that most of the Nuer people who come to Khartoum do not go through the Embassy,24 suggests that political divisions affect who has access to the house. While it has a specific status within the neighbourhood, it is fairly invisible to outsiders in the area. It is well integrated in terms of architectural style, and its dilapidated condition is similar to that of the neighbouring buildings. It remains, like the South Sudanese in the neighbourhood, invisible in a visible space.

21 During one of our joint visits to the house, we talked to a group of South Sudanese students who live there. Upon our arrival in the morning, we first met an elderly gentleman, who was most likely from the Dinka Twic group. He was sceptical, and refused to talk to us25. Finally, we met ‘Mr. R’26, who is ‘in charge’ of the house. He has been living there since 2011, and is therefore the longest-lasting resident of the house. He is in his fifties, and speaks fluent Arabic and some English, but he preferred to speak to us in English. This was also part of his identity performance and an element of how he positioned himself vis-à-vis others and us in the neighbourhood and the house. The co-author of this article, Peter, knows him, as he had befriended him in the neighbourhood.

The residents and their predicaments

22 The house is inhabited by diverse groups and individuals, all from South Sudan: there are older men, single mothers, and young university students, both male and female, and three families with children. At the time of our fieldwork, there were between twenty and thirty people living in the house. Below, we introduce some of the residents, those we spoke to and who shared their predicaments with us. We will present the views of these residents and the particular dilemmas they are faced with, both in the house and more generally in Khartoum.

23 ‘Mr. R’ is the ‘manager’ of the house. Peter first met him through his other local contacts in Amarat. He was introduced to Peter as ‘Mr. R’. He wears a shirt and watch, and his shoes are shined. Older men and men of social status in South Sudanese communities have their shoes shined frequently, in spite of the fact that they have little money to survive on. Having shined shoes could be interpreted as a sign of ‘status’ similar to the cleanliness of cars on the dusty roads of Khartoum. ‘Mr. R’ came to Khartoum in 2001 and formerly had an agricultural job of some kind. He has a wife and several children, and they all moved to Khartoum together. He told us that he was

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currently unemployed, and yet there must be some type of income that him and his family survive on. In accordance with the customary Dinka marriage obligations, Mr. R announced that he paid 100 cows for his wife in the South. The bride-wealth remains a powerful social obligation, and functions as a social insurance system in the South, where families honor cattle exchanges that constitute an important strategy for social bonding and livelihood. His brother worked for the government in the South before being “released” under unexplained circumstances, and his wife and children were with Mr. R in Khartoum, under his responsibility. Mr. R told us that the children do not go to school but later we learnt from the wife of his deceased brother that the children did, in fact, attend school. Mr. R is well-known in the area, and is sometimes referred to as ‘Sultan’, which could be a sign of his symbolic status, despite his economically impoverishment. It is most likely that he had some type of connection to the former Embassy in order to be able to move into the house.

24 The students: The four young female students came from Equatoria to study in Khartoum. The younger male students (aged between 25 and 30) are from Warrap, Jongolei, Northern Bahr Ghazal and Aweil. They speak good English, and have been in Khartoum for between one and two years. Some have government scholarships, while others get by on money from their parents. We were told that they did not have to pay rent, but had to buy their own food and cover other expenses (electricity and water).

25 George: George is 34 years old, and from Warrap. He first arrived in Khartoum in 1997 as his brother was here for education purposes. He had not even been there for a year when his father came to take him back to his village: “because parents do not want their children to stay away. They think they will behave badly”, he told us. This reflects the control parents exert over their children, and how they keep them close tocieng (which in Nuer/Dinka signifies home, village, and community).He returned in 2010, but was not accepted at university. He then returned again in 2014, and has been in Khartoum ever since. As he had no money, he finally obtained access to the house through someone he knew at the Embassy, and began to live there. He is studying first year chemistry at Nileein University, where some classes are held in Arabic and others in English. He told us that the students were struggling. When we arrived in the morning, he was the one who translated from Arabic and Dinka into English for us. He also put us in touch with Mr. R, who was in the area doing business. George is not married yet, although his eldest brother and sister are. The next oldest brother to him is not, meaning that that he does not yet feel any pressure to marry. He also explained why he is ‘late’ with his education: “Because of the problems in our country, we had to wait with our education, so I am a bit behind”, he said.

26 Deng: Deng, who is 27, arrived in 2014 from Aweil. He used to live in a village and is married with one child. He travelled to Khartoum alone to study. He told us that because of problems in the South he had had to stop his education. “There are too many uneducated people in the South, and not enough universities”, he explained. “We (students) had to spend two years doing nothing. We farmed a bit and helped our parents in the village”. He arrived in Khartoum by air, and was very surprised when he arrived there: “There were a lot of buildings, and it looked very different from the village”. But settling in was also difficult. He looked for a place to stay with a group of friends for some months, but they could not find anything, and he finally ended up in the house in Amarat. He is currently attending his first year of University, where he is studying geology and mining.

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27 James: James, who is from Bahr Al Ghazal, is 26 years old and not married. He is a student at an Arabic-speaking university, and is also studying geology and mining. “My main problem is that the course is in Arabic. When I came to Khartoum in 2015, I did not speak this language. We are learning fast now. This is a problem not knowing the language. You just sit therein the class and you understand nothing.”

28 Dut and Paulare two other students living in the house. They are first-year students, and have been residing in Khartoum for a year.

29 The students whom we met at the house did not know each other before they arrived at the house, but they have forged a small community through their shared residence and experience as foreign students in Khartoum. When they arrived, they had nowhere to stay, and they all ended up staying there. When asked about what they think about living in Khartoum, or more specifically in Amarat, they all respond in a similar fashion: “We didn’t choose to be here; we’re here to study. We had nowhere to live so we came here”, therefore showing a lack of any opinions about the particularity of the neighbourhood. This gives an impression of strangers coincidentally forming a community, with little experience of Khartoum outside the house.

30 Ayen: Ayen is a mother of three children. She has been in Khartoum for twelve years, since before independence. She wanted to return to the South and her luggage was even packed, but there was no transport. She finally arrived at the house two years ago, in 2014. She moved there because her aunt had told her about it. Her husband works occasionally, doing daily work, but he does not live with the family in the house.

Discussions in the house and among South Sudanese in Khartoum: being a foreigner and being Jenubeen

31 The discussions and predicaments of the residents of the South Sudanese house accentuate the particular transformations in the identities of South Sudanese residents in Khartoum that occurred after separation. Their identities as foreign migrants on the one hand, and as Jenubeen on the other, are constantly reconfigured and renegotiated in the context of the changing legal status of the South Sudanese in Sudan, the political context in South Sudan, and the social and political relations among the South Sudanese in Khartoum. On the one hand, the South Sudanese have become foreign migrants in Sudan since separation, and we will show below how this new legal status affects their living conditions and their access to education, work and health services in the city, while on the other, the South Sudanese house also reveals the dilemmas and conflicts hidden behind the homogenous Jenubeen identity, and the impact of changing social norms and practices as a result of migration.

From being a Sudanese to being a foreigner in Khartoum: living conditions, education, and work

Living conditions and choices: “No power to go anywhere else”

32 The group of displaced South Sudanese resident in the house reflects dilemmas that are related to the current predicament of the South Sudanese in Khartoum. Access to housing for displaced South Sudanese residents is a major problem. Owing to high rents, lack of access to previous housing (as most of those who had owned property

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before separation sold it before moving back to the South), and lack of income, many South Sudanese are destitute. Some reside in makeshift shelters in camp-like conditions in the ‘open areas’ on the outskirts of Khartoum. The house seems to offer an accommodation option for those who cannot afford to rent their own place but have vital connections to the South Sudanese embassy. When we asked how he enjoyed living in the house, Mr. R responded that he had no power to go anywhere else, and so he stayed, suggesting that he would leave if he could. He also told us that the residents had no problems with the police or the Sudanese government, as the official status of the building as South Sudanese government property protected them.

33 Despite being in a privileged position in comparison with other South Sudanese, some of the residents complained that the South Sudanese government was doing nothing to help with the upkeep of the house, which is covered with cracks. Any repair work or items that are needed depend on the inhabitants’ collecting money and carrying out the repairs themselves, as they did in 2014 when they renovated a small area of the house, but they lacked the money to finish the job. They have to pay the council themselves for services like rubbish collection.

Access to higher education

34 All the students in the house reported that because they were foreign nationals, the government required that they pay higher tuition fees, making education at all levels inaccessible for many. Furthermore, to be able to sit the Sudan Certificate (the national diploma that enables admission to university) the government requires foreign nationals to pay a higher fee in hard currency in order to obtain an index number. One student (of Nuer origin, and not a resident of the house) who is hoping to sit the Sudan Certificate this year explained to us that in 2015 the price of obtaining an index number was US$ 65, but it was raised to US$ 150for 2016. The obligation to pay in hard foreign currency is viewed by the Southerners as an extra barrier, particularly with the current economic crisis and the falling value of the Sudanese pound. Quite simply, this requirement makes obtaining an index number unaffordable for the majority of students, and therefore prevents them from having the opportunity to access university education. The positionality of the house’s residents is also in relation to other South Sudanese in Khartoum. Although they do not seem to be well-off, the students must be from a certain social-class or standing in order to be able to travel to Khartoum (especially by air) and study. Some have scholarships from the government that pay their fees, while others rely on their parents (who also must be in privileged positions in the South to be able to afford to pay their sons’ fees).This also illuminates the differentiated economic status of nazeheen – the displaced –as the South Sudanese are referred to by the Sudanese population.

Access to work: “There are no jobs for us in Khartoum”

35 “There are no jobs for us here in Khartoum”, said James. “You do just day jobs, small jobs, whatever you have.” Ayen looked concerned. She said that she could do any job – cleaning, selling tea, or whatever – butin reality there are few jobs, especially for women. She has no income and she can live in the house for free. The other woman who was living in the house, whose husband had passed away, does not work. She was shy and covered her face with her tob (a Sudanese cover) and refused to talk to us.

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36 All the inhabitants of the house commented that earning money in Khartoum was a problem. As there is no work for men, they have to ask their parents to sell their cows in the South and send them money. This is particularly difficult, given the current civil conflict and the economic deprivation in the South. They all share resources in the house, cooking together and dividing the little they have to survive among them.

37 These narratives exemplify the marginalized position of the South Sudanese in Khartoum. Before separation, a minority of Southerners, being citizens of Sudan, were able to take jobs in the formal sector and also had access, at least in theory, to health and education services. While the opportunities for work in the formal sector offered to Southerners were fairly limited even before separation, there were the international organizations, and the possibility of being employed by them existed. After separation, the international organizations terminated their formal employment contracts with the Southerners, who were replaced to a large extent by Sudanese citizens. Informally, however, some Southerners still benefit from their previous employment arrangements, and continue to work as guards, drivers, or office staff. The situation of the South Sudanese residents in Sudan changed after separation; as they are no longer citizens, they do not have the right to work, which confines them to the informal sector and increases their perceived insecurity in terms of accessing employment27. One young man reported that he had been a driver in the South, but that his driving licence was not recognized in the North, and he could not obtain a work permit, leaving him no choice but to find day-to-day informal work. In Amarat, one sees South Sudanese, many of them young boys, working as car-washers, daily labourers, tea-sellers, clothes- washers, street-sellers (cigarettes, sugar-cane, and peanuts), and guardians. Many, however, are unemployed and looking for casual work, and the majority have no stable incomes and live from hand to mouth, from day to day. The students in the house, for example, navigate their precariousness by sharing their resources. Solidarity and sharing are vital in their strategies for navigating their marginal status in Amarat. People thus survive on informality and the social capital that they are able to generate, either as previous residents in Khartoum or through links to powerful networks of the South Sudanese government or North Sudanese citizens. This informality allows them to navigate the institutionalized constraints imposed on the citizens of both nations after separation.

Being Jenubeen: a social and political identity

38 The South Sudanese house also plays a role in cultivating a South Sudanese identity and in the sharing of daily lives with people from the same nation state in the middle of a foreign city. Similarly, as in refugee camps, the house serves as a metaphor for the formation of fictive kinship connections in exile28. The students all told of meeting each other in Khartoum and forming their community through this house. They are mostly all around the same age (27), and are in Khartoum for the first time in their lives, suggesting that their lives have been less marked by migration. George is the exception, as he is the eldest (in his 30s) and has come and gone several times.

“We are Jenubeen”and social tensions among the South Sudanese in Khartoum

39 We asked: “How do you like Amarat? How do you like Khartoum? Is it different to live in Khartoum now as opposed to before separation?”, but no one really replied to the

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question directly. They all said“… it’s fine, like other places in Khartoum.” This response suggests that the residents of the house feel that they do not have control over their lives in terms of where they can live, and yet at the same time, the fact that they are not in war zones in South Sudan underlies their privileged status vis-à-vis those who stayed behind.

40 Ayen elaborated her response: “It is no different. It is the same. Maybe now it is a bit more respectable, because before people would abuse you on the street, and now they just do not pay any attention to you. Everywhere in Khartoum are the same; there is no difference with Amarat.”

41 Other men commented that it was now different, in the sense that they feel that they are South Sudanese. “Jenubeen”, Ayen said proudly, “I am Jenubeen”, and then she laughed. The sharing of a space with other South Sudanese in the house allows her and the others to reinforce their sense of being Jenubeen in their struggle with the Sudanese State.

42 Questions about identity raised suspicions among some of the respondents. One of the young students asked why we were interested in ‘tribes’ and ‘ethnic origin’. Apparently, he felt that we were trying to make the point that only certain groups were living in the house, who were supported by the Government in Juba. We explained that we were interested in discovering how people identified themselves, and how they talked about themselves. The issue of ‘tribes’ and identification attracted the interest of the others. Deng, one of the other students, explained: “Before, tribes were identified by the language they spoke. Now, everyone in South Sudan talks about tribes. But the educated people know that this creates problems. ”This comment is a pertinent one, as the Second Civil War in the South (1983-2005) and the current conflict there (since December 2013) have both been described as having been generated by the ‘educated’ elites (koor gaat duel gora)29. The comment from this student might signal that those in the house, the educated students, knew about the dangers of using ‘tribalism’ and ethnic divisions in generating conflicts, and thus wanted to distance themselves from the ‘others’, the ‘uneducated ones’ (or those who use that language), and redirect the blame for the current conflict in the South to the (Dinka dominated) government and the (Nuer dominated) rebels.

43 George commented: Before, when the war was going on, we were all one. Before the independence of South Sudan, we did not pay attention to tribes. But now, since independence, people focus on tribes. They talk about tribes because there are problems between tribes in the South. The conflict is because of this. But here in Khartoum, at the university, people do not talk about this. They came here with a mission to complete their studies.

44 Despite the ‘we are one’ discourse, access to the house exemplifies the current situation of, and social tensions between, the South Sudanese in Khartoum in general. Mr. R seems to be the guardian to the house: “If you want to come and live in the house, you need to ask Mr. R’s permission. And then after a while you also need to agree with these other people (the Embassy)”. While Mr. R’s status is difficult to decipher, he is obviously the gatekeeper of access to the house, giving him a somewhat privileged position, despite his apparent desire to leave if possible.

45 There was one more resident of the house who stood out as seemingly having a different status. We were told by other local residents that the old man in front of the

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‘Dinka House’ was a Nuer, and that the rest of the residents of the house did not really like him. He had been a soldier, but works as a guard at the house, employed by the South Sudanese embassy, and sleeps outside. One informant warned against hanging around him too much if we wanted to maintain good relations with the others. We were also told that our access to the residents of the house had to be approved by Mr. R. This vignette gives an insight to the conflicts within the house as well as the politics of accessing the residents. The only Nuer associated with the house does not benefit from the same status inside the house as the others, sleeping outside and living on the margins. The practices and discourses in the house reveal the differentiated power position of the residents.

46 The ‘we are one’ discourse permeates both the discussions of South Sudanese displaced in Khartoum with reference to their previous status in Sudan, when ‘Sudan was one’, and the description of Southern Sudan as having been ‘one’ before separation. This type of discourse tends to hide the underlying tensions, inequalities, and conflicts that lurked under the surface of ‘we were one’ both in Sudan and in the South before separation. The history of the conflicts between north and south and the marginalization of southern citizens goes far back in time, and is exemplified by the first (1956-1972) and second (1983-2005) civil wars between them. The marginalization the southern groups experienced from the north tended to unite them, and yet conflicts among the various groups were also bubbling under the surface , and they came to a head in 1991 with a split in the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM). It was the Second Civil War (1983-2005), the discovery of oil in the Western Upper Nile region and the desire of the Khartoum government to control it, and the subsequent nine years of inter- and intra-ethnic fighting (1991-2000) between the Nuer (and Dinka) that devastated the southern communities and resulted in a collapse of local social and livelihood systems. The impact of the inter- and intra-ethnic violence, which was a result of the John Garang-Riek Machar split in 1991, marked a turning point in Nuer- Dinka relations and concepts of ethnicity and (gender) identity. The ethnicized violence crossed borders, and in 1996, fighting took place between Dinka and Nuer in the Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya as well as in Khartoum30.

47 The use of the “we are all one as ‘Jenubeen’” and “we have no problems with these (Nuer or Dinka) people” discourse reveals the insecure, marginalized status of the South Sudanese in Khartoum as foreigners. As one of the Nuer informants commented: Here in Khartoum, we are no longer citizens. We are under the government of another state, of Sudan. We cannot fight among ourselves because this would endanger our stay here. We are guests in this country (in Sudan). This is why when we see Dinka gathering on the street, we, the Nuer, we do not fight them. We just avoid them by crossing the street to the other side.

48 Thus, ‘we are one’ is used strategically to avoid further marginalization of the South Sudanese in Khartoum, while also acknowledging the changed position of Southerners within Sudan. But how would they position themselves in discussions and relations among themselves in the house? Or in South Sudan? What type of identities would then be evoked and mobilized to determine ‘who we are’, and how would ‘we are one’ then be understood?

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Changes in social relations as a result of migration:

“Marriage has been postponed”

49 Deng is the only one of the students in the house who is married. Bringing up the topic of marriage incites a great deal of chat, jokes, and laughter among the residents. The price of a bride is a central theme. With the current situation in the south, and their marginalized and impoverished situation in the north, young men are unable to marry officially. The bride price for Dinka people is usually very high, with the family of the groom having to pay some 100 to 150 cows to the family of the bride. While the cow- based bride price has been changing over the years with the increasing urbanization of South Sudan, changing economies and livelihood strategies, and the movement of young people to urban areas in the North, cows still constitute the main guarantee of a marriage. Although part of the bride price can be paid in money, the meaning of cows for the Dinka (and for the Nuer) people remains central to securing social bonds. In Khartoum, away from their families and networks, and with the lack of access to cattle and often to money, young men have had to put their marriage plans on hold. Cows have also become very costly, with the most expensive ones costing around US$ 150 (3000 Sudanese Pounds). In Khartoum, people pay in money, but in the villages they still need to pay with cows and goats. Even in Juba, marriages are changing.

50 The “no cattle, no money, no marriage” discourse seems to reflect a certain delay in men’s accessing full adulthood. In Dinka custom, boys fully become men when they marry; this is when they acquire the status of respectable men, and later fathers31. The limited access to marriage because of the economic situation and the conflict in the south has put marriages on hold, or ‘on credit’. As one of the Nuer chiefs in Khartoum explained, “people are still getting married, but only by an agreement. The cows will be paid later at home, when we go back.”

Emerging reflections and conclusions

51 The ethnography we have presented here suggests two different sets of reflections. One relates to the use of space, and in particular the status of Amarat as a neighbourhood in the wider Khartoum. While it is a wealthy neighbourhood, its residents exemplify the diversity of nationalities, social status, and classes among the inhabitants of Khartoum. Our deeper investigation of the seemingly homogenous ‘wealthy’ composition of Amarat uncovers its heterogeneous composition, with some people struggling to survive, although not as much as in other neighbourhoods. The residents of the house also demonstrate the inequalities in the experiences of South Sudanese in Khartoum. They live rent-free, with access to running water and toilets, in a ‘villa lifestyle’, whereas other compatriots live in camps or rakobas in the industrial areas of the city.

52 The second set of reflections concerns the effects of the separation of South Sudan and the ongoing civil conflict in South Sudan on the displaced South Sudanese in Khartoum. The civil conflict has generated both new and old displacements to Sudan, and yet experiences in Khartoum are now fundamentally different due to the changed status of South Sudanese communities vis-à-vis the Sudan state. The changes in the identities of Jenubeen in Khartoum are twofold. One relates to institutional changes at a national level, with Southerners being deprived of their status of locals and becoming foreigners

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in Khartoum. This has a direct effect on their migratory trajectories and experiences. Southern Sudanese used to travel to Khartoum for an education, but after separation, and as foreigners, the cost of education has become very high for them, thereby blocking access for many, as they are now foreign nationals and are required to pay in hard currency. As this fieldwork reveals, however, some South Sudanese students continue to be able to carry on their studies, which demonstrates the diversity of the predicaments and migratory goals of the South Sudanese population in Khartoum. In addition, the lives of the people in the house also show the impossibility of accessing formal work and the very limited opportunities for informal employment, and hence, an increase in the insecurity of their livelihood.

53 The second change is that the ‘we are one: we are Jenubeen’ discourse exposes the hidden social tensions and transformations in identity politics among South Sudanese. The issues revolving around access to the house reveal social conflicts that affect the South Sudanese in the South as well as in Khartoum. While the process for gaining access to the house is hard to clarify, there appears to be an over-representation of Dinka with possible links to the South Sudanese government living there. While the adults may be out of work, they find ways to survive, with their privileged access to free accommodation. The students must also come from privileged background if they are able to afford university fees in Khartoum (which can be as expensive as US$ 3,000 per semester), and must have connections in order to be accommodated in the house. This emphasizes the social inequalities that exist among the South Sudanese in Khartoum, with many not being able to access even basic education. The composition of the house and the relations within it also exemplify the inter-group conflicts that underlie the civil crisis in the south.

54 Lastly, the lives of the young residents in the house also reflect the effects of the ongoing civil war in South Sudan. Faced with protracted uncertainties32, the displaced South Sudanese in Khartoum are forced to postpone their lives and transitions. With restricted and late access to education, as well as limited opportunities to marry, and thus gain access full adulthood, the conflict brings disruptions to their life projects. At the same time, displacement offers some a chance to continue their education and escape social pressures to marry, thus contributing towards transforming certain social relations33.

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FABOS, A. 2006, Brothers’ or Other?Propriety and Gender for Muslim Arab Sudanese in Egypt.Berghahn Books: Oxford, New York.

GILLETTE, C. 2014, L’assainissement à Khartoum, un problème qui ne se pose pas ? Enjeux et perspectives autour de la gestion des eaux usées et vannes dans la capitale soudanaise, Master’s Thesis, France.

GRABSKA, K. 2014, Gender, Home and Identity: Nuer repatriation to Southern Sudan, James Currey.

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HORST, C., GRABSKA, K. 2015, “Flight and Exile: Uncertainty in the context of conflict-induced displacement”, in Social Analysis, vol. 59(1).

JAMES, W. 2011, “Religious Practice and Belief”, p. 43-53, in, RYLE, WILLIS, BALDO, JOK (eds.), The Sudan Handbook, The Rift Valley Institute.

JOK, M. J., HUTCHINSON, S. E. 1999, “Sudan’s prolonged Second Civil War and the militarization of Nuer and Dinka ethnic identities”, in African Studies Review, v.42, p. 125-145.

KIBREAB, G. 1996, “‘Eritrean Women Refugees in Khartoum, Sudan 1970-1990”, Journal of Refugee Studies, vol. 8.

LAVERGNE, M. 1999, “De la cuvette du Haut-Nil aux faubourgs de Khartoum : lesdéplacés du Sud- Soudan entre traumatisme et recomposition identitaires”, in

LASSAILLY, MARCHAL ET (dir.), Déplacés et réfugiés, la mobilité sous la contrainte, Editions de l’IRD, Paris, pp. 109-136.

OCHA, 2015, Statistics of displacement trends among South Sudanese. Available at: https:// docs.unocha.org/sites/dms/SouthSudan/2014%20South%20Sudan/ HRP%20summary_FINAL_rev%2002122014.pdf

MANBY, B. 2012, The Right to a Nationality and the Secession of South Sudan: A Commentary on the Impact of the New Laws, London: Open Society Initiative for Eastern Africa.

PANTULIANO, S., ASSAL, M., ELNAIEM, B., MCELHINNEY, H., SCHWAB, M., ELZEIN, Y., MOTASIM MAHMOUD ALI, H., 2011, City Limits: urbanization and vulnerability in Sudan. Khartoum case study, Humanitarian Policy Group. Available at: https://www.odi.org/sites/odi.org.uk/files/odi-assets/ publications-opinion-files/6520.pdf

REPUBLIC OF SOUTH SUDAN, 2011, Nationality Regulations 2011 (South Sudan), 29 December. Available at: http:// www.refworld.org/pdfid/4ffab4582.pdf.

REPUBLIC OF SOUTH SUDAN, 2011, Laws of South Sudan, Nationality Act 2011. Available at http://www.refworld.org/docid/4e94318f2.html.

REPUBLIC OF THE SUDAN, 1974, Sudanese Nationality Act 1957 (Last amended 1974). Available at: http://www.refworld. org/docid/3ae6b56718.html.

RYLE, J. 2011, “Peoples and Cultures of Two Sudans”, in, RYLE, WILLIS, BLADO, JOK (eds), The Sudan Handbook, The Rift Valley Institute, p. 31-42.

SAULOUP, G., 2011, Bâtir et vivre la ville : Les ouvriers des chantiers de construction à Khartoum, Master’s Thesis, France.

SCHULTZ, U., 2014, “There It Will Be Better…”: Southern Sudanese in Khartoum Imagining a New “Home” away from “Home” , Identities, vol. 21, no. 3, 2014, p. 306.

Sudan Tribune, 2012 “Khartoum Urges its citizens in South Sudan to Regularise Stay”, 26 February. Available at: http://www.sudantribune.com/spip.php?article41732.

UNHCR, 2014,Rapid Needs Assessment of South Sudanese in Khartoum, UNHCR: Khartoum.

VEZZADINI, E. 2014,“Créer des étrangers :lois de la citoyenneté de 2011 aux Soudans et désirs d’État pour une nationalité ethnique”, Politique Africaine, no. 135, pp. 177-195.

WIN, H., 2009 “Sudan Arrest Warrant: Aid Organizations Kicked Out Of Country” in Huffington Post, 4 April. Available at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/04/sudan-arrest-warrant- prof_n_171768.html

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NOTES

1. Babiker 2015. 2. We use the term ‘Southern Sudanese’ to denote those groups hailing from the south of Sudan before the emergence of independent South Sudan in 2011. It is a term used to denote those coming from, or identified as affiliated with, South Sudan. It should be noted that the Arabic translation, Jenubeen, is the same for the two politically different terms. This is also significant in that it offers an interesting insight into identity politics and practice in the two Sudans. 3. Babiker 2015. 4. See Casciarri et al. 2015. 5. Alawad Sikainga, 1996. 6. Residential land classification in Khartoum began in 1906 with three classes: first; second; and third. This classification envisaged regrouping populations by income. In 1924, ‘Native Lodging Areas’, which were designed to accommodate temporary urban workers, were added. In 1947, the Towns and Land Scheme Act was introduced. It reinforced the division of housing into the above three classes, and added the criteria of plot size, building materials and duration of lease. The first class encompasses the most wealthy population group, which is able to afford the largest plots and the most modern construction materials. Plot size diminishes and building materials become more basic as the classification becomes lower. The current classification system comprises five classes (Elhoweris 2006; Sauloup 2011). 7. Denis, 2006. 8. See Gillette 2014; Sauloup 2011. 9. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/04/sudan-arrest-warrant-prof_n_171768.html (consulted on 21/03/16). 10. http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-18296430 (consulted on 21/03/16). 11. It is important to underline the fact that Amarat is home to one of the Sudanese elites, who cohabit in the neighbourhood with an international elite. There are many others, for example the religious elite (who tend to live in Omdurman), the less wealthy intellectual elite, the elite connected to the government and civil service, etc. See Babiker Mahmoud, 1984. 12. The use of ‘ethnic’ identities is, of course, problematic from an anthropological point of view as it is linked to concrete racial origins instituted during the colonial time in Sudan. 13. Ryle, 2011, p. 35. 14. James, 2011, p. 47. 15. ‘Symbolic capital’ refers to the concept coined by Pierre Bourdieu in his famous work, La distinction. It means the resources available to an individual that grant them honour and prestige through recognition by others. In our specific case, the villas, walls, luxury cars, etc., are all means by which certain Amarat residents can affirm their superior symbolic status vis-à-vis others (Bourdieu, 1979). 16. Fabos, 2008. 17. City Limits, 2011. 18. See Sauloup 2011 and other literature on street vendors in Khartoum. 19. Assal 2004, 2006, 2008; Abusharaff, 2009; Bureau, 2011; De Geoffroy, 2009; Lavergne, 1999; Shultz, 2010; Aziz, 2013. 20. OCHA, 2015. 21. OCHA, 2015. 22. Horst and Grabska, 2015; Grabska, 2014. 23. Kibreab, 1996. 24. See field notes Grabska 2016; on the general long-standing animosity between the Dinka and Nuer people, see Hutchinson 1996; Grabska 2014; Johnson 2004.

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25. His disapproval of our presence was later confirmed by another incident. On his last day in Amarat, Peter wanted to say goodbye to the students. When he arrived, the man was standing outside the house. He told Peter that no students were around and that he could not go in. When Peter sat around the corner to have a coffee, he heard the students talking in the garden and even saw them through the holes in the wall. 26. All names have been changed. All interviews cited in the article were conducted by the authors between November 2015 and January 2016. 27. Babiker, 2015; Vezzadini, 2014. 28. Grabska, 2014. 29. Jok and Hutchinson 1999; Grabska, 2014. 30. Grabska, 2014; Jok and Hutchinson, 1999. 31. Deng, 1972. 32. Horst and Grabska, 2015. 33. Grabska 2014, 2015.

ABSTRACTS

This article presents our first reflections and impressions on two separate ethnographic fieldworks carried out between 2015 and 2016, and offers insights into a particular enclave of South Sudan in a Khartoum neighbourhood, Amarat. It discusses the wider issues that have emerged as a result of the separation of the two Sudans. In July 2011, South Sudan became an independent nation, and broke away from Northern Sudan. The break-up was a violent experience for the people of the two nations, and the dynamic changes that followed the separation of the two Sudans have affected the lives of people from the north and the south, as well as those who are considered to be ‘Jenubeen’ (Southern or South Sudanese) in the north and those who are considered to be ‘Shageen’ (Northern) in the south. With the political developments in the two nations and the introduction of new citizenship laws, Southerners have become foreigners in Sudan, while Northerners have lost their citizenship privileges in South Sudan1. These political changes have had a profound impact on social, political, and economic reconfigurations, as well as on identity claims in the two nations.

INDEX

Keywords: Khartoum, Sudan, South Sudan, separation, identity

AUTHORS

KATARZYNA GRABSKA Katarzyna Grabska, PhD is a social anthropologist. She is a senior research fellow at the Global Migrations Centre of the Graduate Institute of International and Development Studies (IHEID) in Geneva and an affiliate of CEDEJ Khartoum. She researches issues of transformations of social and gender relations, in particular in the context of war, displacement and return among South

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Sudanese in Egypt, Kenya, South Sudan, and Sudan. She has published widely on these topics, including her monograph entitled Gender, Identity and Home: Nuer Repatriation to South Sudan, which was awarded the Armoury Talbot Prize for the best contribution to African anthropology in 2014. Her most recent research focuses on adolescent girls’ migration from Ethiopia and Eritrea to Sudan.

PETER MILLER Peter Miller is a Master’s anthropology student at the University of Paris VIII Vincennes – Saint- Denis. His current research project focuses on marriage strategies and identity practices in Khartoum, part of a wider project directed by the CEDEJ Khartoum.

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The citizenship dilemma of Southern Sudanese communities in the post-secession era in Khartoum

Mohamed A. G. Bakhit

After six decades of struggle for independence and two civil wars, South Sudan recently became Africa’s newest state and the 193rd member of the United Nations. In practice, however, for the Southern Sudanese residents of Sudan, the question of whether an individual becomes a citizen of the new country or remains a citizen of the Republic of Sudan has been an intricate socio-political question, a complex legal issue, and a practical matter of rights, documents, relocation, and personal attachments. “Between 1983 and 1991, close to 3 million people were estimated to have been displaced from the South. By mid 1991, some 425,000 of them had taken refuge in Uganda and Ethiopia. The remainder flocked to southern cities, such as Juba and Malakal, and an estimated 2.3 million southerners took refuge in the North, of whom 1.8 million settled in Greater Khartoum” (de Geoffroy 2007: 6-7). The favoured destination clearly shifted towards Khartoum during this period as the dimensions of displacement mushroomed. When the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) was signed a decade later (2005), ending the civil war in Sudan and paving the way for the independence of South Sudan, the majority of internally displaced Southern Sudanese were still resident in Khartoum’s shantytowns1.

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The data gathered from my second PhD fieldwork2 in Al-Baraka shantytown in Khartoum - where South Sudanese people form the second largest ethnic group - suggest that the decision taken by thousands of South Sudanese shantytown settlers both before and after the referendum (January 2011) and South Sudan’s official independence of (July 2011) to return to South Sudan was informed by numerous factors, which include: • sentiments of Southern Sudanese nationality: many informants told me very proudly: ‘we are Southern Sudanese people; we no longer belong to Sudan’. • the negative life experiences of Southern people in the North because they found themselves at the bottom of the urban social hierarchy, and due to racism. Many Southern people expressed the feeling that they are treated as ‘second class citizens in Khartoum’. • post-referendum pressure from the government of Sudan, which dismissed Southern Sudanese employees from their formal jobs in the public and private sectors, treated them as foreigners, and put pressure on the government of South Sudan in the political negotiations over secession. In a previous work,3 I argued that the decision to return to South Sudan was predominantly informed by the lifestyles and life experiences of Southerners in the shantytowns of Khartoum. First-generation residents were more likely to decide to return first, and forced migrants also tended to return to the South as soon as possible, as happened when many people returned to their rural home areas immediately after the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement in 2005. Many economic migrants preferred to return to urban areas of South Sudan to utilize their work experiences in formal jobs. Second-generation young people and educated people generally returned to Juba, the capital of South Sudan. As a part of the process of secession of the Republic of South Sudan from the Republic of Sudan in 2011, people of South Sudanese origin who had been resident in the Republic of Sudan for decades were stripped of their Sudanese citizenship and normal livelihoods,4 irrespective of their connections with either state, and regardless of their

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views on which State they wished to belong to. These people now face the dilemma of lacking any recognized legal status in Sudan, and live with the constant risk of being arrested and charged with violating immigration laws, with the threat of expulsion to South Sudan (Sanderson 2014: 74, UNHCR 2010: 13). It is very possible that some of those people who are considered by the Sudanese government to be South Sudanese citizens might in the end find themselves without recognized citizenship of either state, essentially leaving them stateless (Manby 2012: 4). Many are currently living in a state of anxiety, as they have lost their formal or informal jobs in the public and private sectors and are facing challenges to the maintenance of their rights to their homes and other property (the Sudanese Constitution only grants the right of property ownership to Sudanese nationals). In some instances, children have been refused entry to schools or treatment at clinics unless they pay higher fees, like other foreigners in Khartoum5 (Interview with Andrea in Khartoum, 10/12/2015).

What is citizenship?

There is a general consensus among most political theorists that citizenship is both a status acquired through being a member of a collectivity (usually the State), and a system of rights and obligations built upon ideas of equality, justice, and solidarity (Keller 2014: 19). While the first part of this definition focuses on the legal and institutional aspects of membership6, which is a dominant theme in most citizenship studies, the second is always complex and heavily contested, due to the fact that there are differing views as to the nature of the rights and obligations of citizenship and to what extent this system might achieve equality and justice. My focus in this paper will be on the social and cultural aspects of this concept of citizenship, which is closely tied to the questions of “collectivity”, “community” and “membership”; this is precisely what makes it important to link the concept of citizenship with concepts of identity and nationality. At the same time, however, we need to keep the distinction between the concepts of identity and citizenship in mind. While identity may be shared by people from several different states, citizenship always refers to people who belong to a single modern state. Although the distinction between ideas of citizenship and nationality is not always a clear one, in many studies and in normative usage nationality can be used to refer to a legal relationship between an individual and a State (Abdulbari 2011: 158), which makes the concept of nationality virtually synonymous with that of citizenship.7 Following Miller (Miller 2002: 3), there are three schools of thought in Western literature on the concept of citizenship that developed within the institution of modern States in Western Europe during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. • Liberal-Individualism: this school stresses the autonomy of the individual citizen. Members of a State have a duty to respect the rights of others without any further obligations to society other than those established on this contractual basis. The contract based upon the rights of the individual with the state is primarily to pay taxes and defend it. The liberal tradition maintains that citizens share a belief in common rules that govern how they live together in a society without having a shared belief in a substantive common good. The idea of the common good is considered to be opposed to the pluralism of liberal democracy. “It is therefore important to acknowledge the specificity of modern democracy and the central

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role played in it by pluralism. By this I mean the recognition of individual freedom, that freedom which John Stuart Mill defends in his essay "On Liberty" and which he defines as the possibility for every individual to pursue happiness as he sees fit, to set his own goals and to attempt to achieve them in his own way” (Mouffe 1992: 29). • Civic-Republican: this school of thought derives from the French Revolution, during which the notion of fraternity and the shared experience of participation in a united political community gained popularity. Thus, a reliance on common values through patriotism and loyalty and an association through shared experiences of local community are crucial for civil citizenship. This means that the notion of common good lies at the heart of this concept of citizenship. In civic citizenship, individuals are considered as citizens only insofar as they are members of a community, and what makes individuals citizens is a shared commitment to a common good. • Social Rights of Citizenship: this school of thought was developed by the British sociologist Thomas H. Marshall (1893–1982) (Grest 2000: 4), who identified the three elements of citizenship as civil, political, and social rights. His central point was that citizens are all equal, and that social rights embody a whole range of concepts, from the right to a modicum of economic welfare and security to the right to share a social heritage and live the life of a civilized human being, according to the prevailing standards in the society. The importance of Marshall’s contribution lies in its powerful influence on the formation of the Welfare State in Britain, where the idea of social citizenship helped recognize the injustices of the capitalist system at the time. In summary, modern western concepts of citizenship are historically constructed from a set of rights and duties related to work and public service (such as the military or judicial services). This model of citizenship as a social right has been closely associated with Thomas Marshall’s legacy, although “Marshallian citizenship has been subject to extensive criticism over the last two decades and the social model of citizenship has been expanded and deepened by approaches that emphasize the flexibility of social membership, the limitations of citizenship merely as rights, and by perspectives that emphasize identity and difference” (Turner 1997: 5). The situation is very different in Africa: with the absence of a modern and democratic civic culture, many aspects of the rights and obligations set forth in constitutions and state laws are only on paper, and are not usually translated into rights in practice (Grest 2000: 4). Many countries, including the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), Liberia, Malawi, Sierra Leone, and Uganda, still maintain an explicitly racial or ethnic basis for citizenship (Manby 2011:11).8 In most other African countries today, however, as in the legal systems of most other modern states, the blood tie, or “jus sanguinis”, principle has lost its ethnic basis: citizenship is generally granted to those who are born to a parent who is a citizen, including one who has acquired citizenship by naturalization and may not be of the same ethnicity as the dominant group (Abdulbari 2011: 160-161), or those who are born from mixed ethnicities. The Sudanese Constitutions of 1998 and 2005 follow this more moderate position, as noted by Marko, who states: “up until the secession of South Sudan in 2011, citizenship followed the logic of ‘jus sanguinis’, without directly excluding ethnic groups from the imagined political body of Sudan” (Marko 2015: 4). Numerous previous experiences of an arbitrary stripping of nationality have made the international community aware of the seriousness of the problem and have promoted efforts to address this situation of statelessness, as with the recent Eritrea-Ethiopia

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experience, when thousands were expelled from Ethiopia to Eritrea and vice versa (Abdulbari 2011: 172).

Legal citizenship versus ‘community’ citizenship for the Southern Sudanese in Khartoum

While in practice the current challenge for citizenship of Sudan and South Sudan is the presence of thousands of Southern Sudanese in Sudan with no legal citizenship status, I argue here that there is a need to differentiate between two types of citizenship for Southern Sudanese people in Khartoum (legal citizenship, and ‘community’ citizenship). The main feature of the literature on the citizenship of South Sudanese people in Sudan is its focus on their legal and formal status as non-citizens;9 however, very little attention has been paid to the social and cultural aspects of this new legal status, and how Southern Sudanese people deal with it in their daily struggles. From a theoretical standpoint, the differentiation between legal citizenship and ‘community’ citizenship can be traced back to the influential work of Mamdani (Mamdani 1996), who argues that colonialism in Africa created two categories of people – citizens and subjects or, as they are sometimes referred to, citizens and natives. While natives were bound to their rural ‘ethnic groups’ and spoke the language of tradition and custom, citizens were usually those living in urban areas and ruled by rights, duties, and privileges. Mamdani claims that these particular historical and political formulations came to define the way citizenship was perceived in post-colonial Africa: on the one hand, African central states are governed by civil law and formal institutions – the domain of the national elites – while on the other, the local state or native authorities enforce laws based on custom. The former is the realm of the rights and duties associated with legal citizenship, while the latter is the realm of culture and custom. Therefore, Mamdani and Comaroff argue, natives are engaged by the state as subjects, and as such are not entitled to the rights and benefits of citizenship,10 which means that “life as national citizen and life as ethnic subject are as likely to run up against one another – often in contradictory ways – thus making political personhood a fractured, fractal experience” (Comaroff 2010). If one adopts this approach, it appears that there has been little change in the relationship between the African state and its citizens since the time of colonization, as Mamdani has emphasised. I would argue that this dual type of citizenship (legal citizenship and ‘community’ citizenship) has allowed considerable numbers of people to be excluded from legal citizenship and to survive and sustain their social and economic life through ‘community’ citizenship. Whether this ‘community’ citizenship status is able to substitute – or even perhaps complement – legal citizenship, and more importantly, the ways in which the community of Southern Sudanese in Sudan have been able to construct and negotiate this ‘community’ citizenship, will be the focus of the remainder of this paper.

Legal citizenship

Legal citizenship is the legal status of being a member of a state according to international and national legal procedures and as evidenced by state institutions,

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which grants certain rights and obligations, largely involving state institutions. Of course, many Southern Sudanese living in Khartoum currently lack this type of citizenship. The estimated numbers of Southern Sudanese affected by this form of statelessness range between 500,000 and 700,000, a figure that includes those who are currently estimated to be affected as well as those who are ‘obviously’11 South Sudanese according to the normative interpretation (Manby 2012: 4). If the most recent amendments to the Sudan Nationality Act (2011) were to be applied on a comprehensive scale, they would lead to a loss of Sudanese nationality for a very significant number of people, including those with weak links to South Sudan, who have usually developed close links to the Republic of Sudan. The Sudanese nationality law ignores the distinction between ethnic origin and the rights granted by the State. Accordingly, the law lays emphasis on ancestry (jus sanguinis), while citizenship by naturalisation is popularly considered to be an inferior status.12 Sudan and South Sudan still use ethnic belonging as a primary basis for citizenship claims, although they are both among the most multicultural and ethnically diverse countries in Africa. Having a Sudanese or South Sudanese national birth certificate is generally considered to be insufficient proof of ethnic or territorial belonging. It is also harder for members of ethnic groups and minorities living near national borders to obtain nationality certificates or other identity documents, especially if they maintain links with neighbouring countries. According to the Sudanese Nationality Law of 1957, which was amended in 1974 and 1994, nationality is based on descent, with the possibility of naturalization. Under this law, it will now be extremely difficult for Southern Sudanese people to gain citizenship of Sudan (Sikainga 2011: 17).13 In South Sudan, on the other hand, according to Section 8 of the 2011 Nationality Act, South Sudanese nationality by birth can be based on five separate grounds14. The Act states that South Sudanese citizenship can be automatically obtained by eligible individuals regardless of their current residence (Scherr 2012: 101). “The combined effect of both laws is to ‘renationalize’ individuals with ethnic and familial affinities with South Sudan to South Sudanese nationality. It is not uncommon to denationalize someone following his or her voluntary acquisition or retention of a foreign nationality. However, it is very unusual to denationalize someone following his or her involuntary acquisition of a foreign nationality” (Sanderson 2014: 74-75). It is widely acknowledged that there is a lack of proper population registration systems in both South Sudan and Sudan, including with regard to birth certificates, identity papers, and marriage certificates. This makes it difficult to provide proof that a parent, grandparent or great-grandparent was born or lived in South Sudan, which is one of the conditions for acquisition of nationality of the new state of South Sudan (Manby 2012: 4).

‘Community’ citizenship

‘Community’ citizenship refers to all kinds of protections and services that individuals may acquire by being a recognized member of a local community. This type of citizenship does not necessarily bear any relationship to a person’s legal citizenship, in the sense that if individuals have acquired ‘community’ citizenship status, it might entitle them to satisfy all their rights and requirements without the need for legal

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citizenship. In my view, many members of the South Sudanese community in Khartoum have acquired community citizenship by living in Khartoum (mainly in peripheral shantytowns) for many decades before the secession of South Sudan. Since the civil war broke out in the South in mid-1983, it has displaced about 4 million people from South Sudan, of whom 1.5 million have ended up in the capital (Nilsson 2000: 9). When these populations reached Khartoum, they found that the situation was no less difficult than it had been in their home areas, other than their physical security: at the time of mass displacement, the capital was in deep economic recession: less than 30 per cent of industrial capacity was being used – industrial labour being the main source of jobs for rural migrants – and inflation and declining real wages were affecting the remainder of the city’s population. Long queues to obtain bread and food riots were both frequent, coinciding with the inability of the municipalities and local government councils to provide basic services due to budget cuts (Akoy 1994: 13-14). Not all the residents of the shantytowns were IDPs affected by conflicts and famines in the Western and Southern regions of Sudan. Others had settled in the city earlier, starting in the 1960s. In a joint survey conducted by a group of NGOs in 2003 covering all major shantytowns in Khartoum, it was found that “the major ethnic groups are Dinka and Nuba (representing 25.4% and 20.6% of the households respectively).15 Arab ethnic groups (including Misiri) make up 14% of the IDP households and Fur 13.1%. Other significant groups include: Shilluk – 4.1%; Bari – 4%; Firtit – 3.2%; Nuer – 2.3%; and Funj – 2%” (CARE et al 2003: 14). These figures indicate the diverse ethnic backgrounds of shantytown residents, and it represented a huge challenge for these disparate ethnic groups to live together in a new urban environment. This urban environment required many resources and newly-acquired knowledge of the displaced Southern people, who had to change the way in which they built their homes and planned their streets, and also needed to learn how to deal with paperwork and bureaucratic procedures. Furthermore, they had to work collectively to provide their areas with basic services, besides learning different ways to protect ownership of their new suburban homes. The residents of the Southern Sudanese shantytowns were also forced to deal with the challenges of adapting to new livelihoods: many had been farmers, pastoralists, or a combination of the two in their areas of origin. The only way they could survive in Khartoum was to learn how to be workers in government institutions, or in small factories as unskilled labourers. Alternatively, they could choose to become part of the informal economy and work as small traders. The informal economy is the only economic arena in which the capacity for recruitment is unlimited, despite the risks of financial stress and the restricted opportunities for advancement, but for many, there are often no other options. Southern Sudanese people frequently switch between informal activities, with careers that are often dependent upon trial and error. When a new, profitable business opportunity opens up, large numbers of people will switch to it, thereby swamping the market and reducing profits. Recent estimates of the size of the informal economy in Khartoum have put the figure at 45% of the working population (Pantuliano 2011: 15). According to the ethnic hierarchy that prevails in the northern parts of Sudan, people from Southern Sudan and the Nuba Mountains, and to a lesser extent those from Darfur, are considered by Northern Sudanese people to enjoy the lowest status, due to their different cultural features, such as religious or ethnic backgrounds. This is because the majority of people from these regions consider themselves as having

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African ethnic origins, while the majority of the population of North Sudan consider themselves as having Arab origins. Ja’aliyiin, Shaygiyya, and Danagla, the main ethnic groups in the Nile Valley (North Sudan), have dominated the Sudanese State since the pre-colonial period, particularly since the introduction of Islam and Arabism to Sudan in the sixteenth century, accompanied by a bitter legacy of slavery. Historically, after the rise of the Funj Sultanate (1504-1820) and the Fur Kingdom16 and the spread of Islam and the Arabic language in Northern Sudan, the slave-raiding frontier moved further south. The adoption of an Arab/Islamic identity by some Northern Sudanese groups became a major criterion for differentiating themselves from the non-Muslim groups of the South and other areas of Sudan. The construction of any particular identity involves the development of specific perceptions regarding others, and so the Arabized Northern Sudanese – who were fewer in number, but more powerful – adopted stigmatizing ethnic labels to refer to non-Muslim groups in the South. As such, the slave-raiding frontier was defined and maintained in ideological, ethnic, and geographical terms: the inhabitants of Dar Fertit, the Nuba Mountains and the Upper Blue Nile became easy targets for slave traders from Northern Muslim groups (Sikainga 1996: 8). This inferior position was maintained and extended to the shantytown settlers, and was consolidated by other urban factors (such as their high rate of illiteracy and poverty and their rural origins). This historical and social background means that relations between shantytown dwellers and the rest of the city’s population have always tended to be based upon a majority-minority hegemony, which has created a stereotypical image of shantytown residents as the most vulnerable and stigmatized segment of the population. Whenever Southern shantytown dwellers cross the invisible boundaries into other parts of Khartoum, they encounter significant barriers of enforced behavioural patterns, stigma, and social values that remind them of their positions on the city’s ladder, and which both persuade and force them to adhere to their rural traditions and their ‘Southern Identity’.17 One way to overcome these internal divides has been for the residents to broaden their definitions of themselves and incorporate new ethnic groups under the umbrella of larger ethnic groups from their area of origin. This has meant that ethnicity in the shantytowns of Khartoum has come to have different meanings and implications from the way it is understood in their rural home areas. If we look at all the large ethnic groups in the Khartoum shantytowns (including the Fur, ‘Southerners’, Nuba and Kalmba18), we see that none of them directly resemble their counterpart identities in their homelands; ‘Khartoum’ identities are sometimes non-existent in these home areas, having been invented to satisfy the urban needs of the local population (Bakhit 2015: 29).

The pros and cons of ‘community’ citizenship

Questions still remain to be answered on the extent to which this ‘community’ citizenship is giving people what they need, and how far it can protect them. Apparently, ‘community’ citizenship status for Southern Sudanese people in Khartoum is operating as a substitute for their lack of legal citizenship. On the one hand, the South Sudanese in Khartoum are not legal citizens, but nor do they have clear refugee status, which places them in a very ambiguous situation not only for senior politicians

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but also for the low-level officials with whom Southern people usually interact in government institutions. On the other hand, however, the Southern Sudanese who have returned to Khartoum from South Sudan or have stayed all along are benefiting from their long experience and the social networks they have been able to build in Khartoum while they have been living in the city.19 Through their knowledge of the city’s geography, culture, and economic opportunities, therefore, it is not especially hard for Southern Sudanese people to navigate their lives, albeit with rather more difficulty than was the case before the independence of South Sudan. They have now largely lost ownership of their homes,20 and have lost their jobs in public and private institutions, although they still have the ability to work in the informal economy, as is especially the case with women who work as domestic workers in neighbouring areas. All of this suggests a reliance on the part of the Southern Sudanese on a new type of status that does not belong to any formal set of legal definitions (such as citizen, refugee, or IDP), but has been appropriated and established through their lengthy social and economic experience in Khartoum. This ‘community’ citizenship status therefore differs in terms of its dynamics and evolution, in that it is negotiated, constructed, and communicated on a daily basis through the interactions among different, but related, groups (returnees from South Sudan, South Sudanese who stayed in Khartoum, old neighbours in shantytowns, old friends from Sudan, and old work colleagues). ‘Community’ citizenship status therefore gives Southern Sudanese people fewer rights than they had when they were citizens of Sudan, but has still enabled the Southern Sudanese in Khartoum to live and survive with at least the minimum standards of Khartoum’s shantytowns, and more importantly has provided the Southern Sudanese people with the security and protection from violence they lack in South Sudan at the current time.

Conclusion

This article has sought to look at the processes of citizenship changes for a group of South Sudanese people who have remained residents of Khartoum, as “the production of concepts of membership, their legalisation and, currently, their so-called flexibilisation and renegotiation have been the paramount themes in recent analyses of the changing nature of citizenship. Its ‘flexibilisation’ relates to both membership practices and the legal regimes differentiating the allocation of rights (and duties) according to criteria other than those of territoriality, such as economic profit or ‘blood’” (Julia, 2011,311). The paper has employed the concept of ‘community’ citizenship as an alternative to the conventional concept of legal citizenship, which usually dominates the literature on the South Sudan secession of 2011. Given the recent political crisis that has devastated the newly-established country of South Sudan (December 2013, July 2016), the impact of the current conflict on the perceptions and expressions of South Sudanese national identity and the settlement preferences of the Southern Sudanese, the relations between the neighbouring countries, and the decision taken by Southern Sudanese in Khartoum as to whether to stay or return are all important issues that will require further investigation. This has become all the more necessary in the light of the Cooperation Agreement of 27 September 2012 between Sudan and South Sudan, as a part of which Sudan and South

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Sudan have ratified a Framework Agreement that includes, inter alia, the Four Freedoms Agreement, which is intended to grant nationals of each State freedom of residence, movement, and economic activity, and the right to acquire and dispose of property in the territory of the other State.

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NOTES

1. See map no. 1

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2. For my fieldwork, I rented two houses in different quarters of Al Baraka (No. 2, and No. 4), each for six months (April-September 2010, and October 2011-March 2012 respectively), and sought to follow the daily lives, activities, and events of various groups and individuals living in those areas. 3. This argument was made in a paper entitled: ‘Life Construction in Al-Baraka Shantytown: the decision to return back to South Sudan’, presented at the Conference of the African Studies Association in Germany (VAD) - Bayreuth University, June 11-14 2014, Bayreuth, Germany. 4. In August 2011, the Sudanese government approved an amendment to the Sudan Nationality Act 1994 according to which any individual who acquires South Sudanese nationality de jure or de facto automatically loses his or her Sudanese nationality, while the South Sudan Nationality Act 2011 attributes South Sudanese nationality to individuals with one parent, grandparent or great- grandparent who was born in South Sudan, to individuals belonging to one of the “indigenous ethnic communities of South Sudan”, and to those who (or whose parents or grandparents) have been habitual residents of South Sudan since 1956, the date of Sudanese independence (Manby 2012 : 2-3). 5. The city of Khartoum is also home to large numbers of migrants and refugees from neighbouring countries such as Ethiopia and Eritrea. 6. The focus here is on how they are becoming members, how they can acquire this membership, and what kinds of duties and rights might be generated in legal and institutional terms. 7. A rather significant theoretical discussion is under way on the relations between the concepts of nationality, identity, citizenship, and state. See, for example: Eriksen, Thomas Hylland. 1993. Ethnicity and Nationalism: Anthropological Perspectives. London: Pluto Press; Dorman, Sara, Daniel Hammett and Paul Nugent (eds). 2007. Making Nations, Creating Strangers: State and Citizenship in Africa. Leiden: Brill; Brubaker, Rogers. 2008. “Ethnicity, Race, and Nationalism” Ann. Rev. Sociol. 35: 21–42; and Miller, David. 2002. Citizenship and National Identity. Cambridge: Polity Press. 8. National laws generally distinguish types of citizenship, with different rules for those acquiring citizenship by birth and those obtaining citizenship by a process of naturalisation. Citizenship by birth can be defined by the place of birth (jus soli) or by ancestry (jus sanguinis). Countries that follow a jus sanguinis policy grant citizenship based on ancestry or ethnicity, while countries that apply the jus soli grant citizenship to anyone born in the territory of the state (Assal 2011: 3). 9. For example, Bronwen Manby has written three books on citizenship law in Africa and Sudan: Citizenship Law in Africa: A Comparative Study, (Open Society Foundations, 2nd Edition, 2010); Struggles for Citizenship in Africa (Zed Books, 2009); and The Right to a Nationality and the Secession of South Sudan: A Commentary on the New Laws (Open Society Initiative for Eastern Africa 2012). See also Assal, Munzoul A. M. 2011. Nationality and Citizenship Questions in Sudan after the Southern Sudan Referendum Vote. Sudan Report 1. Chr. Michelsen Institute. For a mainly legal and constitutional perspective, see Abdulbari, Nasredeen. 2011. “Citizenship Rules in Sudan and Post- Secession Problems.” Journal of African Law, 55 (2): 157-180. 10. Perhaps it is inevitable that a dual approach such as this will be complicated, as it has been shown in many studies that sharp differentiations such as rural/urban, traditional/modern, custom/law are rarely useful for explaining complex hybrid African realities. 11. ‘Obviously’ in terms of their direct belonging to South Sudan territory, which is also used in the South Sudan Nationality Act 2011, which attributes South Sudanese nationality to individuals with one parent, grandparent or great-grandparent born in South Sudan, to individuals belonging to one of the “indigenous ethnic communities of South Sudan”, and to those who (or whose parents or grandparents) have been habitual residents of South Sudan since 1956, the date of Sudanese independence. 12. A senior Sudanese immigration officer has stated that “nationality by birth gives more rights than nationality by naturalization” (Assal 2011: 3).

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13. See the amended Sudanese Nationality Act 1994 and the South Sudanese Nationality Act 2011 in the footnote on page 2. 14. Article 8 of the new South Sudanese Nationality Act (SSNA), which was adopted in June 2011 just before the secession of South Sudan, provides that: (1) A person born before or after this Act has entered into force shall be considered a South Sudanese National by birth if such person meets any of the following requirements — (a) any parents, grandparents or great-grandparents of such a person, on the male or female line, were born in South Sudan; or (b) such person belongs to one of the indigenous ethnic communities of South Sudan. (2) A person shall be considered a South Sudanese National by birth, if at the time of the coming into force of this Act — (a) he or she has been domiciled in South Sudan since 1.1.1956; or (b) if any of his or her parents or grandparents have been domiciled in South Sudan since 1.1.1956. (3) A person born after the commencement of this Act shall be a South Sudanese National by birth if his or her father or mother was a South Sudanese National by birth or naturalization at the time of the birth of such a person. (4) A person who is or was first found in South Sudan as a deserted infant of unknown Parents shall, until the contrary is proved, be deemed to be a South Sudanese National by birth (Manby 2012: 25). 15. The group included CARE, IOM (the International Organization for Migration) and the UNDP (the United Nations Development Programme). Their aim was to conduct a socio-economic/ demographic survey of IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) in different areas of Khartoum. The sample population consisted of 1,800 households. 16. Both kingdoms were ruled by non-Arab ethnic groups but adopted an Arabic\Islamic ideology as the basis for their authority. 17. An in-depth analysis has been carried out on the construction of identity and different lifestyles of the shantytown population in Khartoum, including the Southern Sudanese, according to which there are three basic lifestyle groups in the shantytowns: the first generation, educated people, and the second generation. These lifestyle groups have formed as a direct result of the specific variables that created the shantytown settlement. The social groups are based upon certain ways of life pursued by their members. For further details, see Bakhit, Mohamed (2015). Identity and Lifestyles Construction in Multi-Ethnic Shantytowns: A Case Study of Al-Baraka Community in Khartoum, Sudan. LIT Verlag: Berlin. 18. Kalmba includes several ethnic groups from Western Sudan; other ethnic groups describe them as people who have migrated from Chad to Sudan. 19. Multiple interviews with Southern Sudanese who live in the Al-Baraka area, Khartoum, May- June 2016. 20. Southern Sudanese people acquired ownership of their homes as a part of the planning and legalization of what had previously been squatter settlements during 1980s and 1990s. For further details, see Bakhit, Mohamed (2013). “From illegal squatter settlement towards legal shantytowns: negotiations of power and responsibilities in Khartoum shantytowns”. In BIGSAS Working Papers 4/2013. pp. 7-21. Also available online on https://epub.uni-bayreuth.de/113/1/ BIGSASworks_4_05oct2013.pdf

ABSTRACTS

The aim of this paper is to investigate the processes of citizenship changes for South Sudanese citizens who were previously formally considered to be Sudanese citizens and have remained residents of Khartoum’s shantytowns since South Sudan gained independence in 2011.

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The paper argues that there are currently two types of citizenship for the Southern Sudanese communities in Khartoum – legal citizenship and ‘community’ citizenship – and that this has allowed considerable numbers of people who do not enjoy legal citizenship to survive and support their social lives through community citizenship. ‘Community citizenship’ status differs from legal citizenship in terms of its dynamics and evolution, by which it is negotiated, constructed, and communicated through the interactions of Southern Sudanese people on a daily basis. To what extent does this community citizenship give these people what they need, and to what degree can it protect them? These are the questions this paper will attempt to answer.

INDEX

Keywords: South Sudan, Sudan, citizenship, forced migration, identity

AUTHOR

MOHAMED A. G. BAKHIT Mohamed A. G. Bakhit has a PhD in Anthropology from the University of Bayreuth, Germany. The title of his 2015 thesis is: “Identity and Lifestyles Construction in Multi-Ethnic Shantytowns: A Case Study of Al-Baraka Community in Khartoum, Sudan”. He has been a lecturer in the Department of Sociology and Social Anthropology at the University of Khartoum, Sudan since 2010. His main research interests are identity change, urbanization, minority groups, and citizenship.

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Être, devenir et ne plus être janûbi : parcours de l’identité « sudiste » entre le CPA et l’après 2011 dans un quartier populaire de la ville de Khartoum (Deim)

Barbara Casciarri

1 L’affirmation du caractère historiquement et socialement conditionné de l’ethnicité n’a rien d’inédit à l’heure actuelle quels que soient le pays ou le contexte particulier d’observation des phénomènes de cet ordre. La fluidité et la nature relationnelle des identifications ethniques, l’osmose qui caractérise leurs frontières, le rejet de toute approche essentialiste, sont désormais des acquis pour les sciences sociales depuis l’œuvre pionnière de F. Barth (1969), dont l’analyse constructiviste « messianique » a passé le test du temps (Hummel 2014 : 47) et, en dépit des critiques, a fixé une grille de lecture qui demeure incontournable pour la compréhension de ces dynamiques. L’approche inaugurée par Barth a également le mérite d’avoir déplacé le regard des contenus de l’ethnie à ses frontières : c’est justement en observant ces espaces mouvants de la délimitation entre « nous » et les « autres » que l’on peut saisir le jeu complexe des négociations par leurs ancrages dans des relations sociales entre individus et groupes, ainsi que les enjeux sous-jacents aux combinaisons particulières de l’auto- et hétéro-identification. Toutefois, si la force de cette approche anti- essentialiste de l’ethnicité réside dans son caractère durable et élusif à la fois (Hummel 2014 : 57), il apparaît nécessaire d’en alimenter la valeur par l’illustration de cas d’étude variés qui seuls peuvent permettre de décrypter les agencements contextuels des mécanismes de production des ethnicités (Haaland 2014).

2 Dans cet article nous appliquons l’approche constructiviste de l’ethnicité à un corpus de données recueilli entre 2008 et 2015 parmi les habitants d’un quartier central de Khartoum, Deim. Si à l’origine les entretiens ne visaient pas spécifiquement l’étude de l’ethnicité1, leur analyse apparaît intéressante à l’heure actuelle, le recueil s’étant fait à

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cheval entre les périodes du CPA (Comprehensive Peace Agreement) et de l’indépendance du Soudan du Sud. Plus précisément, nous nous focalisons sur les catégorisations de janûbi (sudiste) et shimâli (nordiste) 2 telles qu’elles sont exprimées et vécues par les habitants de Deim. Nous souhaitons par-là contribuer au débat plus large sur la complexité des discours et des pratiques autour de l’ethnicité dans un pays qui, par son histoire, constitue un laboratoire idéal de cette problématique. De plus, il s’agit de décrypter, derrière ces identifications, la valeur politique renforcée du dualisme sudiste/nordiste lorsque l’on situe l’analyse dans le cadre des reconfigurations identitaires que la séparation du Soudan du Sud a pu apporter.

Dyûm Ash-Shargiya : genèse du quartier et pluralité des identifications par les habitants

3 Un bref historique de la genèse du quartier s’avère indispensable à la mise en perspective de nos données d’enquête. La création de Deim3 est liée à l’œuvre de planification urbaine de la capitale mise en place par les Britanniques dans la dernière phase de la colonisation (Arango 2009). Dans son étude sur la formation de la première classe ouvrière coloniale au Soudan, l’historien A. Sikainga (1996) focalise son attention sur ces agglomérations, dans divers espaces de la future capitale, où des individus provenant de plusieurs régions du pays, voire d’autres pays africains, s’étaient concentrés entre les périodes de la Turkiyya (1821-1884) et de la Mahdiyya (1884-1898). Cette dernière est d’ailleurs une époque cruciale dans la formation du quartier en ce qui concerne la présence importante d’anciens esclaves (surtout militaires) qui, affranchis après la chute du Mahdi, se trouvent coupés des lieux et groupes d’origine, prêts à fournir une main d’œuvre salariée pour la nouvelle division du travail impulsée par la colonisation. Avec l’avancée du processus d’urbanisation de la Khartoum coloniale, pendant lequel se précisent les « identités » des trois villes (Dubois 1991), les Old Deims continuent d’attirer des populations d’origines multiples jusqu’au moment où les Britanniques en décident le déplacement, sous des impératifs visant à la fois à consacrer les zones centrales de la ville à l’habitat des classes moyennes en formation, et à résoudre les problèmes d’ordre social liés à la précarité de ces quartiers, en affichant l’objectif d’améliorer les conditions de vie des déplacés. Ce déplacement planifié est mis en place entre 1949 et 1952 : en ce qui concerne le quartier de l’enquête, ce sont surtout les anciens habitants des actuels Khartoum 2 et 3 qui sont relogés dans les Dyûm Ash-Shargiya4, correspondant à ce qu’on appelle encore « Deim ».

4 Ces lignes générales de l’histoire de la formation de Deim permettent de noter des éléments cruciaux dans l’analyse des questions d’ethnicité : d’une part, la multiplicité des affiliations ethniques et tribales des habitants ; d’autre part, la connotation précaire et populaire du quartier. Certaines remarques s’imposent toutefois pour mieux en saisir la configuration actuelle. En premier lieu, dans le passage des Old Deims aux New Deims, il ne s’agit pas d’une reproduction à l’identique : les anciens habitants qui ne pouvaient pas affronter les coûts (quoique réduits) des nouveaux lotissements en furent exclus et, malgré la tendance à reproduire les anciennes proximités (liées aux affinités ethno-tribales), la redistribution spatiale des habitants fut variée. En deuxième lieu, la population qui forma le noyau le plus important de Deim, en dépit de son origine première, ne pourrait pas être étiquetée simplement de « marginale » : l’inclusion dans une classe ouvrière naissante (et la politisation conséquente) se coupla

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avec l’insertion professionnelle dans de nombreux métiers de service civil liés à la présence de l’administration coloniale. Finalement, le profil du quartier sera remodelé par l’impact d’une intégration continue de « nouveaux habitants », allant des migrants ou réfugiés (principalement Ethiopiens) jusqu’aux nouvelles classes moyennes en phase récente de « gentrification », lorsque le développement de la ville et de ses infrastructures change progressivement la connotation de Deim, allant d’ancienne périphérie à centre de Khartoum.

Parcours urbains entre multi-ethnicité et dépassement de l’ethnicité à Deim

5 La nécessité de sortir d’une vision primordialiste de l’affiliation ethnique a fait son chemin à partir des approches constructivistes des années 1960, mais les chercheurs ont dû aussi rapidement abandonner l’idée que la force de cette identification s’effacerait simplement sous « …la triple action de l’urbanisation, de l’industrialisation et de la bureaucratisation » (Poutignat & Streiff-Feinard 1995 : 31). S’appuyant sur l’observation de contextes urbains en Europe et aux Etats-Unis, de même qu’en Afrique ou en Asie, l’anthropologie a ainsi fait depuis longtemps de l’« ethnicité urbaine » (Cohen 1974) un nouveau champ d’analyse pertinent. Dans ce cadre, il est intéressant d’étudier les arènes de négociation où se confrontent le recours, par les urbains, à des identifications ethniques originaires, et leur désir de les indiquer comme dépassées par des nouvelles identifications plus inclusives. Mais du moment que « la ville » ne constitue pas une notion et un espace homogène, et que ses frontières « …ne sont ni plus vraies ni moins construites que celles de l’ethnicité » (Agier 1996), il revient à l’anthropologue d’illustrer les agencements pratiques du référent ethnique en contexte urbain. Nous essayons de retracer la place que les habitants de Deim enquêtés reconnaissent aux identifications ethno-tribales, ainsi qu’aux connotations d’une identification supra-ethnique propre au quartier comme préalable à l’analyse des catégorisations de shimâli et janûbi.

6 Si en l’espace d’environ un demi-siècle, celui de la création du quartier de Deim, ses habitants ont pu se forger une identité relativement forte et partagée, reconnue également de l’extérieur, les appartenances ethno-tribales sont loin d’y être oubliées. Tout en revendiquant leur catégorisation en tant que « Dayâma »5, dans la presque totalité des récits, les interlocuteurs font aussi référence à une identité qui puise ses racines dans d’autres espaces que celui de la ville, et dans des ascendances couvrant une vaste gamme de groupes du pays. Le terme le plus fréquemment utilisé en arabe vernaculaire pour indiquer ces origines « d’ailleurs » est celui de gabîla6, et le paramètre pour indiquer son inscription la parenté consanguine, plus habituellement par filiation patrilinéaire. Etre identifié par rapport à un groupe de filiation, en terme d’ethnicité, n’est pas perçu comme étant en contradiction avec la revendication de son « urbanité », ni avec celle d’un sentiment d’appartenance nationale, comme soudanais, ou locale, comme dayâmi. La variation se situe plutôt à deux niveaux de manifestation de cette ethnicité. D’une part, il s’agit de la temporalité de l’arrivée des ascendants du territoire d’origine au quartier ou à Khartoum : pour certains, le déplacement s’est fait à la génération des grands-parents (les parents étant déjà nés dans la capitale, dans les Old Deims ou ailleurs) ; pour d’autres, il s’est fait à la génération des parents (eux-mêmes première génération née à Khartoum) ; et finalement, une partie des interlocuteurs est

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née dans les lieux d’origine du groupe ethno-tribal d’appartenance7. D’autre part, il s’agit de la présence d’une « mixité » ethno-tribale visible dans les mariages – et dans la diversification des origines des lignes paternelles et maternelles. De fait, quoique le principe patrilinéaire prime pour les groupes enquêtés, les locuteurs tiennent à rappeler la diversité d’origine des deux côtés, une attitude qui est d’ailleurs éloignée du discours identitaire en contexte rural où l’homogénéité d’ascendance paternelle et maternelle est souvent mise en avant comme preuve de « pureté ». Dans notre échantillon, nous avons recensé plus d’une trentaine de groupes ethno-tribaux8, ce qui conforte l’expression récurrente que « à Deim, il y a tout le Soudan, toutes les tribus sont là » (kullu qabîla fi), portée par les locuteurs avec une sorte de fierté de leur faculté de garder la conscience de leurs origines, tout en faisant de cette pluralité ethnique un élément de richesse et de spécificité du quartier, différente à la fois de la multi- ethnicité rurale des zones des transition (comme les Monts Nouba) et de celle des zones de marginalité tels les camps habités par les IDPs.

7 En même temps que la reconnaissance par les habitants de Deim de leurs affiliations ethno-tribales variées, ces derniers reviennent sur la présence d’une identité forte en tant que Dayâma – entité parfois assimilée à la gabîla - et connotent cette communauté récréée avec un ensemble de caractéristiques qui se retrouvent avec cohérence au-delà de la diversité des locuteurs. Un premier élément consiste en la présence d’un mode de vie partagé, un sens du commun, qu’on pourrait définir comme une manière d’habiter la ville qui fait la particularité du quartier : la commensalité inter-domestique, l’échange non-marchand de biens et de services9, le libre accès aux maisons du voisinage, le contrôle social conjoint sur les enfants de sa rue, la gestion autonome des conflits et de la micro-criminalité10. Un deuxième élément peut être défini par le binôme d’une culture de l’ouverture couplée à l’ouverture à la culture : quant à la première, il s’agit de la revendication d’être tourné vers « les étrangers »11, d’en accepter la diversité culturelle comme nulle part ailleurs dans le pays, et d’être touché par la curiosité plus que par la peur vis-à-vis de l’altérité. Quant à la seconde, il s’agit de la valorisation de l’éducation, les habitants de Deim faisant noter que depuis l’existence du quartier, en dépit de leurs origines modestes et des difficultés financières, ils se sont investis dans la scolarisation et continuent d’instruire leurs enfants jusqu’à l’université. Le troisième élément touche plus particulièrement à une caractérisation de classe, historiquement documentée par la genèse du quartier, avec sa première working-class d’époque coloniale (Sikainga 1996) : à ce sujet – qui n’est pas sans liaison avec une politisation forte du quartier, ancien bastion du Parti Communiste Soudanais – deux termes reviennent souvent, caractérisant Deim comme « populaire » (sha’abî) et ses habitants comme « ouvriers, travailleurs » (‘ummâl). Le quatrième marqueur identitaire récurrent concerne l’inscription en terme d’Etat-nation : parmi les enquêtés, beaucoup insistent sur le fait d’être principalement des Soudanais – une valeur forte dans un pays où le nation building et la conscience nationale demeurent inaccomplis (Manger 2012) – ou du moins de l’être « devenus » par l’histoire de la migration et de l’installation urbaine de leurs parents et grands-parents, de même qu’ils revendiquent avoir été les premiers Khartoumois (nâs medîna, galb al-Khartoum). Cette revendication d’urbanité se fait sciemment en même temps que celle des origines ethniques rurales, preuve d’une conception dynamique et non dichotomique des représentations identitaires. Finalement, un dernier élément complète l’ensemble des paramètres d’une identité locale, dépassant les affiliations particulières, en tant que Dayâma : la centralité attribuée au déplacement forcé ayant eu lieu à l’époque coloniale, qui est considéré un

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événement fondateur. Vécu par les grands-parents, les parents, en première personne ou simplement réapproprié par ceux qui sont arrivés par la suite, celui-ci devient un monument commun, capable d’ancrer dans la mémoire la conscience du rapport de domination à l’origine de la création de Deim (et, à son tour, du déplacement et du détachement de groupes et territoires d’origine), et la connotation comme classe dominée - mais non marginale et souvent insoumise - de ceux qui ont continué à peupler le quartier.

8 C’est là surtout que l’on peut déceler le catalyseur de l’indifférenciation ethno-tribale historiquement construite et la véritable « origine commune » dépassant les liens biologiques et parentaux. Le label de « Awlâd Ad-Deim » (littéralement « les enfants de Deim »), porté souvent avec fierté, est à ce sujet intéressant : paraphrasant l’idiome parental qui caractérise la définition des groupes ethno-tribaux au Soudan, on y remplace le nom d’un ancêtre présumé par le nom du quartier, un glissement de l’anthroponyme au toponyme qui révèle toute sa saillance lorsqu’on connaît la signification dense de se dire être un produit historique de ce quartier. Sans sous- estimer l’existence de nuances dans cette inscription sous un label identitaire commun12, et tout en considérant l’héritage des stigmatisations de l’époque coloniale qui voudraient voir dans « l’oubli » des origines ethniques la simple portée d’une mixité raciale due à l’origine servile (Vezzadini 2015)13, les représentations identitaires de nos locuteurs convergent dans la construction d’un profil aux identités multiples et plurielles dont le catalyseur serait l’acquisition d’une identité supra-ethnique comme « Dayâma ».

Reconfigurations et repolitisations de la dichotomie janûbi/shimâli

Des fausses ‘identités régionales’ : Sudistes et Nordistes à Deim

9 Les catégories de janûbi et shimâli, au Soudan comme ailleurs, ont un statut de fausses ‘identités régionales’ : leur origine vient d’une définition géographique prétendument neutre, des termes indiquant les points cardinaux du sud et du nord en arabe standard, ce qui nous conforte dans leur traduction en tant que « sudiste » et « nordiste ». Néanmoins, l’histoire du pays a imprégné ces deux étiquettes d’autres connotations qui disent d’emblée la prégnance politique conflictuelle et l’ethnicisation hiérarchisante de l’altérité de ses populations. Ainsi, le passé esclavagiste et les guerres civiles qui ont sévi dans le Sud pendant plus d’un demi-siècle font que le terme janûbi évoque aussi un statut général de dominé et de marginalisé (Deng 1995 : 409 ; Woodward 2014), qui accompagne le sous-entendu d’une ethnicité plurielle14 mais distinguée des groupes dominants du pays15. De manière spéculaire, le terme shimâli évoque un statut de groupe dominant, relié à une identité arabo-musulmane dont l’hégémonie s’est affirmée progressivement au Soudan en l’espace de cinq siècles et qui s’impose brutalement depuis l’accès au pouvoir du régime islamiste en 198916. S’il est ainsi évident que janûbi et shimâli connotent bien plus qu’un habitant du Sud ou du Nord Soudan, que les valeurs de l’ethnicité se cachent derrière la fiction géographique des catégories et que leur signification condense des rapports de pouvoir, notre objectif est d’analyser les manières par lesquelles ces catégories sont véhiculées, vécues et transformées à Deim dans la période concernée par cette étude.

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10 Avant de ce faire, nous voudrions apporter deux exemples de notre ethnographie qui illustrent cette mobilité contextuelle de l’attribution d’une identité sudiste ou nordiste. Le premier concerne les groupes Nouba du Kordofan du Sud, dont la présence est assez significative à Deim, et qui, pendant nos entretiens, ont parfois été assimilés aux janubîn. Dans les discussions qui ont suivi cet équivoque (il ne s’agissait pas de véritable méconnaissance), les locuteurs affirmaient qu’il s’agissait en tout cas de gens « proches » (garîb), en précisant que cette proximité n’était pas ethno-tribale (la diversité entre groupes Nouba et du Sud étant connue) mais celle d’un parcours marqué par la guerre, l’exil, la répression. Certains allaient jusqu’à évoquer la fréquence de mariages entre groupes Nouba et du Sud pour conforter l’inclusion des Nouba dans la catégorie de « sudistes »17. Le deuxième exemple concerne un homme d’origine Ja’aliyyn (archétype du shimâli), commerçant au marché de Deim et habitant du quartier, qui se définit comme janûbi, en motivant ce choix identitaire par le fait qu’il ait grandi et vécu très longtemps au Sud (à Juba) et qu’il se soit marié avec une femme d’un groupe du Sud ; revenu à Khartoum en 2012, il continue de se revendiquer comme sudiste, et ne cache pas ses positions politiques anti-régime et de gauche, qui accompagnent son mépris de toute identification avec un groupe (les nordistes Ja’aliyyn) qu’il définit d’anciens esclavagistes et d’exploiteurs contemporains. Il ne s’agit que de deux exemples parmi d’autres de ce glissement des frontières de la distinction ethnicisée entre nordistes et sudistes qui, dans le cas de Deim, font écho à une gestion de la multi-ethnicité dynamique sous-entendant une lecture en termes de classe, telle que nous l’avons illustré plus haut.

La fierté de se dire janûbi et la minimisation de l’être shimâli

11 Dans les entretiens conduits avec les habitants de Deim lors de la première phase de recueil des données (2008-2011), le cadre commun d’enquête prenait la forme du récit de vie parallèle au discours sur l’histoire du quartier. Si cela menait les interlocuteurs à mettre au cœur de leur discours la question de l’identification en tant qu’habitants de Deim, très facilement et de manière spontanée chaque locuteur tenait à préciser, à un moment ou à un autre, son identité ethno-tribale spécifique, sans gêne apparente vis-à- vis d’une possible contradiction avec la revendication simultanée de son urbanité et de sa « soudanité ». Dans ces discussions, profitant de la naïveté accordée à l’enquêteur étranger, lorsque le locuteur mentionnait son appartenance à un groupe connu du Soudan du Sud, il nous arrivait de demander explicitement s’il se disait janûbi. Dans la plupart des cas, on nous répondait sans hésitation – nous dirions même avec un air de réprobation pour l’évidence perçue – « Bien sûr que je suis sudiste ! La gabîla X n’est- elle pas du Sud ? ». En cette même période, le questionnement analogue mené auprès d’interlocuteurs issus des groupes du Nord, conduisait moins souvent à l’affirmation en ton revendicatif d’une identité en tant que shimâli. Le discours revenait plus rapidement sur la gabîla d’appartenance, puis sur l’affirmation que, de toute manière, bien que chaque famille soit au courant de l’origine première de ses voisins, la distinction entre janûbi et shimâli n’était plus si importante dans un cadre où tout le monde se considérait désormais comme « Dayâma », comme soudanais ancré dans son quartier de la capitale.

12 Un regard rétrospectif porté sur les mêmes questions dans la période d’après la séparation du Sud, et basé sur la deuxième phase de recueil des données (2011-2015), permet de revenir sur la lecture de ces discours et des attitudes des interlocuteurs par

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rapport aux identifications relatives au binôme nordiste/sudiste. De fait, il apparaît nécessaire de les contextualiser dans la période particulière du CPA. Dans l’euphorie de cette phase (qui commença néanmoins à décliner entre 2009 et 2010), où l’on espérait encore voir se concrétiser le « Nouveau Soudan », la plupart des habitants de Deim issus de groupes originaires du Sud semblait respirer un air de liberté et de paix retrouvé, qui les encourageait à revendiquer de manière plus ostentatoire leur identification en tant que janûbi, et à considérer cette étiquette comme émancipée du lourd poids de la phase de guerre civile18. A la même époque, l’attitude inversée vis-à-vis de l’auto- identification comme shimâli, apparaît comme cohérente dans les réajustements du binôme. Le label « nordiste » n’étant pas le simple marqueur d’une identité géographique et régionale, la portée historique de son association avec les élites arabo- musulmanes dominantes (considérées comme responsables des décennies de guerre ainsi que des problèmes économiques du pays) rendait préférable pour le shimâli de ne pas mettre en avant cette identification, à la faveur d’un accent mis sur la communauté de sentiments avec les autres Dayâma (sudistes et non). Cela s’accordait finalement bien avec l’esprit d’une multi-ethnicité imprégnée d’une identité de classe caractérisant le quartier depuis sa genèse.

Les déchirures multiples de l’après 2005 et 2011

13 Mais si la première phase du CPA, analysée par le prisme du quartier, peut apparaître comme un moment particulièrement favorable au renforcement d’un processus graduel de construction d’une nouvelle « citoyenneté inclusive » visant à effacer la pertinence de la dichotomie nordiste/sudiste, après en avoir reconnu le caractère historique et politique (Idris 2012), des déchirures ont persisté, et cela même avant celle symboliquement plus saillante de 2011. A ce propos, il semble significatif d’évoquer certains témoignages recueillis à Deim entre 2008 et 2010, au sujet des émeutes déclenchées en juillet 2005 suite à la mort de John Garang, leader du SPLM, peu après sa nomination comme vice-président après les accords de paix. A cette occasion, la capitale a été secouée par des émeutes longues et violentes, que la presse n’a pas hésité à qualifier de raciales, s’appuyant sur les dichotomies stéréotypées d’un affrontement entre arabes et noirs, musulmans et chrétiens, nordistes et sudistes.19 Rentrés dans un rapport de confiance plus étroit, certains de nos voisins sudistes de Deim nous ont fait part de récits touchants sur leur vécu de ce moment particulier. Il en ressort que ce qui les marqua le plus, ne fut pas tant le caractère violent des émeutes (qui touchèrent notamment les maisons de Deim proches de l’axe routier principal, Zalat Sahafa). Les « sudistes » de Deim se dirent surtout frappés par le fait que les émeutiers, qu’ils considéraient dans ce contexte dramatique comme leurs ‘alliés naturels’ en tant que sudistes et dont ils partageaient le deuil et la rage pour le décès du leader, n’hésitèrent pas à les attaquer avec la même violence qui caractérisa leur affrontement avec les « nordistes » - en ce cadre discursif, plutôt définis par les locuteurs en tant que « Arabes »20. Les témoins de cet épisode nous rapportèrent avec étonnement et traumatisme le fait que ces « frères » janûbin les accusaient d’avoir trahi leurs origines, d’être devenus « comme les Arabes », dont ils avaient d’ailleurs depuis longtemps intégré la langue, la religion et le mode de vie. Ainsi, dans le moment précis où les habitants de Deim originaires du Sud revendiquaient avec plus de fierté leur identité en tant que janûbi, les autres janûbin leur refusaient cette identité commune. Une lecture en termes de conflit de classe, opposant une classe ouvrière originaire du

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Sud et urbanisée depuis des décennies à Deim, au lumpen-proletariat des camps d’IDPs relégués dans la périphérie de la capitale, pourrait mieux expliquer ces dynamiques (révélant ainsi la non-homogénéité de la catégorie de janûbi, en dehors de son opposition binaire avec celle de shimâli). Mais il reste que les émeutes de 2005 ont figé les premières marques d’une déchirure des janûbin de Deim, ainsi que le piège d’un retour de la polarisation nordistes/sudistes au sein d’un quartier qui s’efforçait de la dépasser au nom d’une identité plus inclusive et partiellement dé-ethnicisée.

14 Le deuxième moment significatif de déchirure et d’incertitude identitaire est bien évidemment la séparation du Soudan du Sud. Néanmoins, nous voudrions souligner que cette rupture ne fut pas immédiatement perçue (vécue et verbalisée) en tant que telle par les acteurs sociaux, les effets de la séparation s’inscrivant sur une plus longue durée. En continuant nos entretiens après 2011 (parfois en réinterrogeant les mêmes interlocuteurs), nous avons inséré plus explicitement des questions sur les mutations à Deim d’après la séparation du Sud21. Nous nous sommes trouvés face à un discours général qui ne manquait pas de nous étonner. De fait, janûbin et shimâlin de Deim étaient assez d’accord sur le fait que finalement, au niveau local, il n’y avait pas eu de changements remarquables. Quant au niveau national, si certains problèmes étaient visibles de tous (reprise du conflit militaire, problèmes de nationalité, accords introuvables entre les deux pays), ils s’accordaient pour dire que le « vrai » problème qui les touchait était celui d’une crise économique croissante et d’une précarisation dramatique de leurs conditions de vie. Nous fûmes également assez surpris d’entendre, à plusieurs reprises, l’affirmation qu’il n’y avait jamais eu beaucoup de janûbin à Deim et que, par conséquent, on ne sentait pas si fortement leur « manque ». Et cela par la voix des nordistes comme des sudistes, les mêmes qui, quelques années auparavant, revendiquaient haut et fort leur identité de janûbi. Encore une fois, le discours sur les identités nordiste et sudiste apparaît fortement conditionné par la conjoncture politique plus large et ses frontières se montraient à nouveau poreuses et contingentes.

Portraits de Dayâma entre Sud et Nord, entre l’avant et l’après 2011

15 Nous proposons ici cinq portraits synthétiques de sudistes de Deim qui nous semblent illustrer la multiplicité des profils et positionnements par rapport au binôme identitaire au cœur de notre article. C’est en poussant dans la profondeur des histoires de vie, personnelles et familiales, que l’anthropologue peut atteindre sinon une vérité définitive et homogène, du moins des fragments contextualisés de réalités vécues mettant en jeu la complexité des parcours, discours et pratiques des janûbin de Deim. Loin de se prétendre représentatifs de la situation des sudistes du quartier, ils en constituent néanmoins des représentations (Olivier de Sardan 1995) pouvant enrichir le matériel empirique sur lequel appuyer les hypothèses de l’approche constructiviste de l’ethnicité et de ses frontières. Plus en particulier, ils sollicitent la réflexion sur les reconfigurations multiples du pays après la séparation du Sud. • M.I.A.22, (né 1974), fils d’un habitant de Deim qui a vécu enfant le déplacement à la création du quartier, a obtenu un diplôme universitaire et a continué de vivre dans la maison paternelle jusqu’à son mariage. Arabophone et musulman, il a été parmi les premiers interlocuteurs à insister sur la particularité du quartier et à revendiquer la coexistence de ses identités multiples en tant que dayâmi, soudanais, urbain. En 2009, il assume aussi avec fierté le fait d’être janûbi, qu’il précise par son origine Shilluk, le reliant à une culture plus

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large comme « black people » qui évoque des affinités d’ordre international23. Lors d’un deuxième entretien, en 2014, en revenant sur les questions d’appartenance, il rappelle juste en passant ses grands-parents Shilluk – en insistant sur le fait qu’aucune liaison n’a été gardée avec le lieu d’origine par sa famille – mais n’évoque plus spontanément son identité de janûbi. Lorsque nous lui rappelons l’entretien précédent, le ton de sa voix baisse, et il nous confie : « Après 2011, je ne veux plus, je ne peux plus dire que je suis janûbi. Bien sûr, je le resterai toujours dans mon cœur, mais aujourd’hui c’est devenu difficile pour nous de s’appeler ainsi ». • I.B., (né 1942), père de M.I.A., habite la maison qui fut assignée à son père lors du déplacement des Old Deims. Ancien imprimeur, il fait partie d’une génération très politisée, qui revendiquait principalement le caractère populaire et ouvrier de Deim et une identité de classe comme harmonisatrice d’une multi-ethnicité assumée. Dans des entretiens de 2009 et 2010, c’est surtout le récit de cette genèse d’un quartier prolétaire qui prime dans son discours, et l’origine sudiste comme Shilluk est affichée moins comme héritage culturel qu’en tant qu’emblème de la capacité d’une urbanité populaire à atteindre la difficile construction d’une identité nationale soudanaise. L’entretien réalisé en 2015 reste marqué par une clef de lecture politique, mais le positionnement des catégories utilisées s’adapte à la conjoncture. D’abord, dans l’effort de préciser les origines familiales, l’accent est mis sur deux « grands-mères » dites arabes, mariées aux ancêtres Shilluk (côté paternel) et Dinka (côté maternel), suivi par l’affirmation qu’au Soudan « personne peut se dire véritablement arabe ». Puis, le détachement de longue date avec le Sud est mis en avant, précisant que son père était déjà né à Khartoum « avant 1956 » (démarcation établie par la définition des votants au Référendum). La catégorie de janûbin de Khartoum est à ce moment attribuée plutôt aux enfants de la guerre civile ou aux IDPs des camps, qu’il tient à distinguer d’eux- mêmes (urbains et Khartoumois), disant d’eux qu’ils sont des « ruraux » (nâs al-rif) encore soumis aux déterminants de la gabaliya (terme pour « tribalisme »). • K.M., (née 1960), est née à Deim et y réside encore avec son mari et ses enfants, dans une des 4 maisons que frères et sœurs ont partagé après la mort des parents des 2 maisons originaires. En journée, elle vend de la nourriture à l’entrée des bureaux d’une administration. En soirée, elle effectue le même travail avec ses sœurs face à sa maison. Dans les premiers entretiens (2008-2009), tout en insistant sur leur identité de « Dayâma », elle parle longuement de ses origines Kresh, étant d’ailleurs très active dans une association de femmes de ce groupe ethno-tribal, et revendique l’origine sudiste de sa famille. Le père de K.M., qui a vécu le déplacement des Old Deims, est déjà adulte lorsqu’il arrive à Khartoum dans les années 1930-40, ce qui explique la présence de liens forts avec une partie de la famille qui a continué de vivre dans le lieu d’origine, Hufar Al-Nuhas. Le sentiment fort d’être janûbi de K.M., partagé par ses frères et sœurs de même que par ses enfants, a été mis à mal lors des émeutes de 2005 et le refus de reconnaissance par les autres sudistes. Dans les entretiens de 2014 et 2015, à cette déchirure symbolique s’ajoute une autre plus réelle : les enfants d’une des sœurs qui, mariée avec un cadre du SPLA, est retournée vivre dans le Sud déjà en phase de guerre, sont obligés après 2011 d’obtenir des visas pour leur rendre visite. K.M. déplore cette rupture au sein des familles sudistes produite par la séparation, et vit difficilement un sentiment voilé de distinction que ses parents désormais « officiellement » Sud-Soudanais leur renvoient, car en choisissant de rester au Nord, ils ne partagent plus les mêmes difficultés de l’être janûbi. • B.A., (né 1966), électricien, est né et a grandi à Deim de père Dinka et de mère éthiopienne, arabophone et musulman. Pendant sa jeunesse, il a été confronté à des problèmes d’acceptation de la part de la communauté de son père, qui est chrétien. Dans un entretien

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de 2009, il est parmi ceux qui insistent le plus sur la catégorie des « Awlad Ad-Deim », le fait d’avoir grandi ensemble dans le quartier permettant selon lui de dépasser les clivages ethno- tribaux. A cette époque, non seulement il revendique avec force son identité de janûbi (plus que celle de Dinka), mais tiens aussi un discours militant optimiste sur l’issue de la période du CPA qui consacrerait un « Nouveau Soudan » dont Deim pourrait être l’archétype précurseur. Plus tard, en 2015, le discours de B. se teint d’amertume. Déçu par l’issue de la séparation, il retourne au Sud après 2011, mais en revient en 2013, en raison des conflits et des difficultés économiques. Depuis le retour, en plus des difficultés administratives pour son nouveau statut « d’étranger », il se dit assez déçu, trouvant que l’attitude des « nordistes », mais aussi parfois des habitants de Deim, n’est plus la même vis-à-vis des sudistes comme lui. Il en arrive même à reprocher la trahison de certains des anciens voisins, qui n’ont pas eu, selon lui, « le courage de se dire janûbin jusqu’au bout », et qu’il n’arrive plus comme avant à considérer comme ses proches sous l’étiquette unificatrice de Dayâma. • J.D., (né 1950), est couturier au Suk de Deim et habite dans le quartier. Appartenant à la gabîla Madi, il arrive jeune à Khartoum pendant la première guerre civile (1969) grâce à un oncle militaire. Bien que la plupart de sa famille soit restée au Sud ou ait décidé d’y rentrer après le Référendum, J.D. dit en 2013 n’avoir jamais songé au retour. Il revendique son identité de janûbi, il a gardé sa langue maternelle tout en étant arabophone, et n’est pas devenu musulman. Il continue cependant à se considérer comme faisant partie des Dayâma – auto-assignation confirmée par la fréquentation de son atelier comme espace de socialisation dense par les gens du quartier. Le portrait de Garang, dont il soutenait la vision unitariste d’un Soudan séculaire et progressiste, a continué à y être affiché sans crainte après 2011. Le contexte de vie et de travail à Deim l’a rapproché dans le passé à de nombreux militants du PCS et plus largement à un ensemble de personnes qui partagent surtout des affinités idéologiques et de statut socio-économique. Lors de sa mort en janvier 2015, une célébration a réuni un grand nombre de personnes de toutes origines ethno-tribales, confessions religieuses, statuts économiques et positions politiques, accompagnée de discours passionnés sur ce dayâmi emblématique quant à la propension des Dayâma vers le dépassement des distinctions ethno-tribales et de la dichotomie janûbi/shimâli, par l’imagination d’une identité de classe, soucieuse de reconnaître les diversités d’origine en niant leur nature de frontières génératrices de conflit et de hiérarchisation.

Contextualiser les groupes ethniques et leur frontières : le Soudan et Deim comme laboratoires

16 L’analyse des données de l’enquête sur le quartier de Deim que nous venons de présenter semble confirmer le noyau partagé par les théories sur l’ethnicité, tel qu’il s’est affirmé dans les sciences sociales depuis l’œuvre de déconstruction des approches essentialistes lancée par F. Barth il y a une cinquantaine d’années. Ses postulats de pluralité des identifications et de fluidité de leurs frontières s’appliquent à trois niveaux à la lecture du cas de Deim : la variété et l’hétérogénéité des paramètres définissant les catégories identitaires (groupe ethno-tribal, filiation, origine géographique, langue, religion, classe, « mode de vie »), la récurrence de l’inscription simultanée dans des identités multiples, et la possibilité des acteurs sociaux d’entrer dans et de sortir d’un même espace d’identification au cours de leur vie. Le corollaire de ce triple dynamisme identitaire – ce qui permet au constat général de plonger dans

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la spécificité des cas empiriques – porte à se focaliser sur deux champs, l’histoire et le politique, comme clefs incontournables d’interprétation des modalités de constitution de ces complexes identitaires, produit de la relation dialectique entre processus de longue et moyenne durée, et configurations des rapports de pouvoir. Dans le cas de Deim, c’est dans la convergence, d’une part, d’histoires personnelles et familiales, de la genèse du quartier et de la capitale, et de l’histoire globale du pays, et, d’autre part, de phénomènes politiques associés à l’esclavage, la colonisation, l’urbanisation, la formation de classes, la guerre, connotés par leur dimension conflictuelle et créatrice de hiérarchies, que la production mouvante d’un sens matériel et symbolique de l’identification des acteurs sociaux peut être saisie dans sa complexité.

17 Néanmoins, le recours aux cas d’étude particuliers, ancrages empiriques dont l’approche anti-essentialiste a besoin de se nourrir, met en exergue les ambiguïtés persistantes du discours des chercheurs sur l’ethnicité et, plus largement, sur les identités. Ainsi, faudrait-il déjà se demander si, au niveau cognitif, les chercheurs occidentaux n’auraient pas pêché par ethnocentrisme en évitant de questionner leur « catégorie de ‘catégorie’« (Dahl 1996) qu’ils donnent pour homogène et nettement limitée indépendamment des contextes historiques et culturels, et en négligeant de reconnaître que la notion d’ethnie demeure vague et mal distinguée d’autres catégories pratiques qui s’y rapprochent (tribu, clan, nation) (Poutignant & Streiff-Fenard 1995). Ce constat s’applique aussi au Soudan, où l’analyse des concepts d’identité, d’ethnicité et de nationalisme menée par les anthropologues est dite avoir accru la confusion plus qu’apporté les clarifications nécessaires (Manger 2012) aux enjeux complexes qui se nouaient, souvent sous des formes dramatiques, autour de ces catégories. Parfois, ces mêmes chercheurs, dont les travaux visaient à déconstruire l’instrumentalisation des ethnicités des populations soudanaises en dévoilant leur portée politique, n’ont pas réussi à échapper aux pièges essentialistes, comme en témoignent les zones d’ambiguïté dans leur usage des notions d’ « arabisation », d’« islamisation » (Delmet 1991), de « soudanisation » ou de « mode de vie arabe et musulman » (Doornbos 1988), avec leur sous-entendu de l’existence de cultures autochtones, originales et authentiques, ainsi réifiées en contradiction avec le postulat d’une vision non primordialiste de l’identité. En même temps, les chercheurs marxistes qui ont produit des travaux remarquables pour intégrer une approche d’économie politique – couplée avec une réflexion sur la possible transformation radicale du pays – capable de dépasser le réductionnisme des lectures en termes ethno-tribaux ou religieux des clivages et des inégalités qui marquent son histoire, ont souvent centré leur analyse du processus de formation et de polarisation de classes sur les aspects plus proprement économiques (O’Neill & O’Brian 1988), en négligeant l’étude des phénomènes parallèles de construction identitaire (notamment en contexte urbain), ou en les prenant en considération pour les seules classes dominantes (Hale 1988). Le cas de Deim, focalisé sur la reconfiguration constante et multiforme des affiliations liées à la dichotomie janûbi/shimâli, et cela dans la contingence de la période cruciale entre le CPA et la séparation du Sud, invite à repenser les trajectoires de la production difficile d’une identité qui, grâce à une matrice de classe partagée, a voulu se croire capable à la fois de garder la conscience d’origines ethno-tribales variées et d’envisager l’accomplissement de l’identification dans un esprit d’unité nationale émancipatrice, que les élites dominantes du pays n’ont pas su atteindre sur plus de cinquante ans d’indépendance. Si les événements de 2011 laissent penser avec amertume que la tentative de cette élaboration identitaire a échoué, la responsabilité en est sans doute

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portée plus par ces élites que par les Dayâma, qui continueront probablement à bricoler de manière créative leurs identités plurielles en essayant de les adapter aux conjonctures politiques, sans renoncer à les imprégner de leur désir de construction d’une société plus juste et libérée des conflits meurtriers.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Agier, M. 1996. “Les savoirs urbains de l’anthropologie”, Enquête, 4 : 35-58.

Amselle, J-L. & M’Bokolo, E. 1985. Au coeur de l’ethnie. Ethnies, tribalisme et Etat en Afrique, Paris, La Découverte.

Arango, L. 2009. L’eau derrière le tuyau : de l’homogénéité apparente, la diversification effective et le partage dans le changement, Mémoire de Master, Université Paris 8.

Arango, L. 2015. “Local Management of Urbanized Water: Exchanges among Neighbours, Household Actions and Identity in Deim (Khartoum)”, in Casciarri, B., M. Assal, F. Ireton (eds). Multidimensional Change in Sudan 1989-2011. Reshaping Livelihoods, Conflicts and Identities, New York, Berghahn Books: 108-124.

Barth, F. (ed.). 1969. Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organisation of Culture Difference, Bergen: Universitetsforlaget.

Casciarri, B. 2009. “Hommes, troupeaux et capitaux : le phénomène tribal au Soudan à l’heure de la globalisation”, Etudes Rurales, 184 : 47-64.

Casciarri, B. 2015. “De l’altérité et de l’invisibilité des groups pastoraux au Soudan. Repenser les études soudanaises en partant de leurs marges mobiles », Canadian Journal of African Studies, 49, 1 : 147-174.

Cohen, A. (ed.) 1974. Urban Ethnicity, Tavistock Publications, Londres.

Dahl, G. 1996. “Sources of Life and Identity”, in Baxter, P.T.W, Ultin, J. & Triulzi, A. (eds), Being and Becoming Oromo. Historical and Anthropological Inquiries, Uppsala, Nordiska Afrika Institutet: 162-177.

Delmet, C. 1991. “Société dominante et cultures locales : violence et integration au Dar Funj”, in Bleuchot, H., Delmet, C., Hopwood, D. (eds), Sudan. History, Identity, Ideology, Oxford, Ithaca Press: 121-142.

Deng, F. 1995. War of visions. Conflict of Identities in the Sudan, Washington, The Brookings Institution.

Doornbos, P. 1988. “On Becoming Sudanese”, in Barnett, T. & Abdelkarim, A. (eds), Sudan. State, Capital and Transformation, London, Croom Helm : 99-120.

Dubois, C. 1991. “Morphologies de Khartoum : conflits d’identités (1820-début de XXe siècle)”, in Bleuchot, H., Delmet, C., Hopwood, D. (eds), Sudan. History, Identity, Ideology, Oxford, Ithaca Press: 13-32.

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Haaland, G. 2014. « Event Focused Fieldwork and Comparative Methodology: Exploring Ethnic Boundaries and Cultural Variation », in Loshini, N. (ed.), An Ethnography of Global Landscapes and Corridors, Intech open editions, pp. 23-56.

Hale, S. 1988. “Elite Nubians of Greater Khartoum: A Study of Changing Ethnic Alignments”, in O’Neill, N. & O’Brien, J. (eds), Economy and Class in Sudan, Aldershot, Gower Publishing: 277-290.

Hummel, E. 2014. “Standing the test of time. Barth and Ethnicity”, Coolabah, 13: 46-60.

Hutchinson, S.E. 1996. Nuer Dilemmas. Coping with Money, War and the State, Berkeley, University of California Press.

Idris, A. 2012. “Rethinking Identity, Citizenship and Violence in Sudan”, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 44: 324-326.

Kindersley, N. 2015. “Identifying South Sudanese: Registration for the January 2011 Referendum and Defining a New Nationality”, in Calkins, S., Ille, E., Rottenburg, R. (eds). Emerging Orders in Sudan, Bamenda, Langaa Publishing:79-93.

Manger, L. 2012. “Anthropological Reflections on the Break-up of Sudan”, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 44: 327-329.

Olivier de Sardan, J-P. 1995. « La politique du terrain. Sur la production des données en anthropologie », Enquête, 1 : 71-109.

O’Neill, N. & O’Brien, J. (eds), 1988. Economy and Class in Sudan, Gower Publishing, Aldershot.

Poutignant, P. & Streiff-Fenart, J. 1995. Théories de l’ethnicité, Paris, PUF.

Seri-Hersch, I. 2015. “Que sont les ‘études soudanaises’ après l’éclatement du cadre national soudanais ? Repenser les rapports entre bouleversements politiques et pratiques académiques”, Canadian Journal of African Studies, 49, 1 : 19-37.

Sikainga, A.A. 1996. Slaves into Workers. Emancipation and Labor in Colonial Sudan, Austin, University of Texas Press.

Vezzadini, E. 2015. “Setting the scene of the crime: the colonial archive, history, and racialization of the 1924 revolution in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan”, Canadian Journal of African Studies, 49, 1: 67-93.

Woodward, P. 2014. “Sudan after the South Secession: Issues of Idendity”, in Sorbo, G.M. & Ahmed, A.M. (eds), Sudan divided. Continuing conflict in a contested state, New York, Palgrave Macmillan: 89-102.

NOTES

1. Lors d’une permanence prolongée au Soudan (2006-2009), nous avons commencé un recueil de récits de vie avec le but de dresser l’histoire sociale de Deim (où nous habitions). Nous avons continué ce travail jusqu’en 2015, le corpus actuel consistant en 111 entretiens et de nombreuses notes sur la vie quotidienne dans le quartier. 2. Bien que l’étiquette de janûbi (aussi bien que celle de shimâli) englobe une pluralité d’identifications ethniques, l’ambiguïté persistante de la définition d’ethnie (Poutignat & Streiff- Fenart 1995) nous porte à traiter les deux catégories sous la rubrique de l’ethnicité, par l’analogie existante avec les termes plus généraux de l’auto- et hétéro-assignation ethnique. 3. Si l’étymologie du mot en arabe présente des zones d’ombre, nous constatons la concordance dans les usages codifiés par deux acteurs : d’une part, les pouvoirs publics qui depuis la colonisation identifient les deims avec des quartiers indigènes (native) pauvres, spatialement et

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socialement marginaux (acception reprise par la plupart des chercheurs) ; d’autre part, les acteurs locaux qui, faisant recours au verbe dayam (arabe classique), associent le terme à l’idée de « camp, habitat temporaire ». Notons que dans d’autres villes soudanaises ainsi que dans d’autres zones des « Trois Villes », certains quartiers portent l’appellation Deim, qui évoque toujours une connotation précaire et populaire, sans pour cela partager le même historique de constitution du Deim dont nous parlons ici. 4. Dans la dénomination et l’organisation administrative de l’époque, Dyûm Ash-Shargiya (Eastern Deims) fait écho au limitrophe Dyûm Al-Gharbiya (Western Deims). Néanmoins, l’analogie n’est pas parfaite car, à la différence des premiers, les secondes ne furent qu’en partie le fruit du déplacement d’anciens quartiers précaires, étant donné qu’ils englobèrent des villages ruraux (comme Al-Gôz ou Hilla-Jedîda) dont l’histoire et la composition sociale étaient différents. Pour cela, encore aujourd’hui, le terme Deim indique par antonomase les seuls Dyûm Ash-Shargiya. 5. Le terme Dayâma, pluriel de dayâmi, suit le mode de formation des noms collectifs des groupes tribaux en arabe soudanais ; traduisible comme « ceux de Deim », « habitants de Deim », il englobe plus qu’une connotation topographique, évoquant le partage d’une histoire et d’un mode de vie communs, comme le prouve le fait que des résidents récemment installés dans le quartier ou caractérisés par d’autres profils sociaux, ne sont pas automatiquement inclus dans cette catégorie. 6. En dépit du développement d’approches constructivistes, la littérature anthropologique sur l’identité demeure floue quant à la distinction entre « ethnicité » et « tribalisme » (Amselle & M’Bokolo 1985 :7) : le premier terme (malgré l’ambiguïté persistante autour de la définition d’ethnie) serait réhabilité comme notion pertinente d’analyse, tandis que le deuxième resterait frappé d’ostracisme. En réalité, en ce qui concerne le Soudan, tout en reconnaissant l’action de remodelage des identités par les politiques coloniales et post-coloniales (Casciarri 2009), il est possible de noter que les acteurs sociaux n’opèrent pas de distinction entre les deux, voire privilégient le terme gabîla (traduit par « tribu »), l’équivalent pour « ethnie » ( jinis) étant beaucoup moins utilisé. Si distinction il y a, elle serait dans le degré, l’ethnie étant présentée comme groupe de parenté large, et la tribu comme groupe plus réduit avec une connotation autant politique que culturelle (par exemple, quelqu’un de la gabîla Ja’aliyyn se reconnaissant dans le groupe ethnique arabe). Dans ce texte, nous utilisons « ethnicité » pour englober ces deux niveaux d’identification, et le terme « ethno-tribal » pour indiquer la relative indifférenciation de ces notions appliquées au contexte d’étude. Ainsi, pour reprendre les termes d’une historienne (Seri-Hersch 2015 : 30-31), dans notre contexte gabîla est une catégorie « de pratique » tandis qu’ethnie est plutôt une catégorie analytique. 7. Ces diverses temporalités d’arrivée à Khartoum ou à Deim sont en correspondance avec le degré de maintien de relations avec des membres du groupe ethno-tribal restés dans le lieu d’origine : dans le cas où le déplacement à Khartoum s’est effectué déjà par les grands-parents, ces relations sont plus facilement effacées. 8. Nous citons les appartenances évoquées par nos interlocuteurs en ordre purement alphabétique : Arakin, ‘Awamra, Baggara, Balanda, Batahin, Benda, Beni Amer, Berti, Danagla, Dinka, Fur, Ja’alyin, Hadendowa, Halanga, Hamar, Halfawin, Hausa, Hawazma, Ja’afra, Jamu’iya, Jawa’ma, Kresh, Madi, Mahass, Miri, Missiriya, Neimanj, Nuer, Rubatab, Shilluk, Shukryia, Sileihab, Ta’ama, Ta’isha, Tegali ‘Abbasia. Ces groupes sont parfois ultérieurement classés sous des catégories plus inclusives (Arabes, Nubiens, Nouba, etc.) et s’y ajoutent les groupes d’origine copte égyptienne, yéménite, éthiopienne, érythréenne et tchadienne. 9. Ce sens du commun et du partage est bien illustré par l’étude de L. Arango (2015) focalisé sur les réseaux d’échange en eau domestique dans le quartier de Deim. 10. A cela s’ajoute souvent l’affirmation que les Dayâma ont le « gout de la vie », la capacité de bien vivre et de s’amuser, en renversant en termes positifs l’image stigmatisant Deim comme lieu

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de tolérance d’attitudes interdites par la loi islamique (prostitution, liberté sexuelle, alcool, musique). 11. Certains interlocuteurs vantent cette capacité d’accepter les cultures différentes, sorte d’ouverture à l’international, comme le prouvent les mariages mixtes, en rangeant sous l’étiquette de khawaja des étrangers très différents : les Britanniques d’époque coloniale, les Ethiopiens et Erythréens, les migrants plus récents Africains de l’Ouest, Syriens, Pakistanais, Chinois… 12. De fait, la résidence dans l’espace du quartier n’est pas toujours suffisante pour être considérés « Awlâd Ad-Deim » ou « Dayâma » : bien que certains disent que même des new-comers, qui ne partagent pas l’histoire commune de déplacement ni la naissance dans le quartier, peuvent le devenir par l’intégration de cet esprit et mode de vie local, une différenciation est faite parfois entre les syâd al-hagg, ceux qui auraient bénéficié de l’assignation de lots par les Britanniques (et leurs enfants), et les mushtarin, ceux qui auraient plus tardivement acheté une maison à Deim. 13. Par son analyse historique des récits coloniaux sur la révolution de 1924, E. Vezzadini (2015 : 81) montre bien comment la question de la filiation, notamment le « manque » d’une ascendance pure en raison d’anciennes relations d’esclavage, a été mise en avant par l’élite politique de l’époque pour expliquer l’insurrection de ces Soudanais « dénationalisés » et « détribalisés », qui correspondent à la composition sociale de Deim, quartier qui revendique d’ailleurs encore aujourd’hui l’héritage historique de cette révolte. 14. Il faut noter que non seulement la catégorie janûbi ne tient pas compte de la variété des groupes ethno-tribaux du Sud, mais aussi que pour chacune de ces entités on est loin de l’idée d’une « identité ethnique unifiée » telle que l’anthropologie coloniale l’a transmise, comme S. Hutchinson le prouve pour les Nuer (1996 :29). 15. En confirmant le caractère relationnel des inscriptions identitaires, on constate que l’auto- définition en tant que « sudiste » s’est configurée davantage comme puissante affirmation politique en antithèse avec celle de « nordiste » pendant les décennies de guerre civile, en restant ambigüe et mal définie, en dehors de cette dichotomie, jusqu’aux démarches d’inscription sur les listes électorales pour le Referendum de 2011 (Kindersley 2015). 16. Le terme shimâli est employé aussi comme synonyme de « bourgeois », de manière analogue au faux ethnonyme jallâba. A ce sujet, le discours d’un ancien habitant de Deim sur le processus de gentrification dans le quartier apparaît significatif : « Qui sont ces nouveaux habitants ? Ce sont les gens qui ont de l’argent (nas fulûs), des Arabes, bref, des shimâlin ». 17. La dernière phase de notre travail de terrain dans le quartier de Deim a été consacrée à l’étude des stratégies de mariage dans le quartier, en coordination avec un travail mené par P. Miller à Amarat, dans le cadre d’un projet de recherche au titre : Métropolisation des espaces d’entre-deux (CEDEJ, UoK, Université Paris 8). 18. Il ne s’agissait pas uniquement d’un niveau discursif, la présence de janûbin dans le quartier étant véritablement plus visible à l’époque, et cela en dehors des anciens habitants d’origine sudiste : jeunes filles et garçons dans les nombreux rakûba vendant du thé et du café, travailleurs ou petits commerçants, hôtes dans les fêtes d’accueil des parents venus en visite après la fin des hostilités au Sud, invités aux fêtes de mariages encore tenues dans la rue. 19. Malgré son intérêt pour les dynamiques de construction identitaire et leur portée politique, cet épisode n’a pas reçu l’attention qu’il méritait par les chercheurs : nous n’avons connaissance que d’un texte non publié dont nous avons pu discuter avec l’auteur, anthropologue soudanais, qui met en avant la lecture en termes de conflit de classe des émeutes en refusant la banalisation d’une lecture en tant que conflit ethno-religieux (Idriss Al-Hassan, communication personnelle). 20. Sans s’attarder sur les ambiguïtés de la catégorisation en tant que « arabe » au Soudan (Casciarri 2015), il est possible de noter que les groupes arabo-musulmans des zones périphériques de la capitale et rurales limitrophes furent dans ce contexte habilement mobilisés

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par le gouvernement d’Omar Al-Bechir pour former des milices destinées à attaquer les émeutiers. 21. L’intégration de ces questions s’est faite de manière assez « naturelle » parce que les habitants savaient depuis 2008 qu’une partie de l’enquête concernait le changement de Deim depuis sa création, et les sujets « politiques » sur l’évolution du pays et son actualité ont toujours constitué un domaine privilégié de discussion (même informelle) entre les habitants et nous- mêmes. 22. Bien que nos interlocuteurs aient été toujours informés sur la nature et les objectifs du travail académique que nous visions par nos entretiens (ainsi que sur l’éventualité de futures publications), nous préférons ici les rendre anonymes, tout en fournissant au lecteur le cadre contextuel et le profil nécessaire pour restituer le sens du discours. 23. Le terme black est utilisé par l’interlocuteur lui-même, qui insère des mots en anglais dans un discours en arabe, vraisemblablement dans des cas – comme celui présent – où l’équivalent en arabe n’est pas univoque, mais également en raison de l’ouverture internationale de sa famille où, malgré l’origine modeste, divers membres de la fratrie ont eu des expériences de migration à l’étranger (Abu Dhabi, mais aussi Canada et Etats Unis).

RÉSUMÉS

The paper is an attempt to apply the constructive and anti-primordialist approach to the issues of ethnicity and identity - an approach introduced in anthropology as a fruitful interpretative framework since the seminal work of F. Barth (1969) - to the analysis of ethnographical data collected between 2008 and 2015 in a lower-class quarter of central Khartoum, Deim. More precisely, we focus on the labels of « Southerner » (janûbi) and « Northerner » (shimâli), and how they are conceived and performed by the inhabitants of this quarter. By embedding the identity categorizations of local inhabitants in the particular history of the quarter’s genesis, during the colonial period, and its further development, parallel to urbanization dynamics of the capital, we underline two of the main issues regarding ethnicity and other identity dynamics. First, the active process of the construction of an overarching identity as « Dayâma » taking into account the plurality of ethno-tribal cultural representations through the insistence of an underlying class dimension. Second, the shifting borders of the ambiguous dichotomy of “Southern”/”Northern” and its cultural contents, whose political value is enhanced within the wider context of identity reconfigurations after the benchmark of South Sudan’s separation in 2011.

INDEX

Keywords : Deim, Khartoum urbanization, colonization, multiethnicity, identity processing, class formation, popular neighborhoods

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AUTEUR

BARBARA CASCIARRI

Barbara Casciarri holds a PhD in Ethnology and Social Anthropology from the EHESS (Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales) in Paris, France. She did fieldwork focusing on economic and political anthropology issues among pastoral Arab-speaking groups of Sudan (1989-2016) and on the relationship between Berber-speaking pastoralists and Arab-speaking farmers in South- Eastern Morocco (2000-2006). She has been the coordinator of the CEDEJ (Centre d’Etudes et Documentation Economique et Juridique) in Khartoum between 2006 and 2009. Since 2004 she is Associate Professor at the Department of Sociology, University Paris 8 (France) and researcher at the LAVUE–UMR 7218.

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Le Grand Khartoum sans Sudistes ? Recompositions post-CPA dans le quartier populaire de Mussalass (Omdurman)

Alice Franck

NOTE DE L'AUTEUR

Le CPA (Comprehensive Peace agreement) désigne l’accord de paix qui a mis fin au conflit entre le Nord et le Sud Soudan, signé en 2005 par le SPLM, représentant les forces du Sud et le vice-président de la République duSoudan, Ali Osman Mohamed Taha, représentant le GoS (les autorités soudanaises au pouvoir). Cet accord a ouvert une période de transition de six ans, qui s’est soldée par le référendum d’autodétermination du Sud Soudan en janvier 2011, qui a lui-même abouti à la sécession du Soudan du Sud (9 juillet 2011).

1 Cet article propose d’analyser la réalité et l’impact des retours au Sud de résidents de l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum sur les plans foncier mais également social, à partir d’un travail de terrain sur les transactions immobilières qui affectent le quartier populaire de Mussalass, dans la proche périphérie d’Omdurman. Basée en premier lieu sur une enquête menée en août 2012 auprès d’une soixantaine de maisons du quartier, complétée par la suite par une seconde période de terrain en 20161, cet article souhaite partager les premiers résultats d’une recherche qui appréhende à une échelle fine les enjeux urbains (mixité Vs exclusion) des départs (et finalement des retours) de populations originaires du Sud Soudan dans les quartiers populaires de la capitale soudanaise.

2 La sécession du Soudan du Sud (9 juillet 2011) a reposé avec acuité la question de la place et du statut des populations originaires du Sud dans l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum, capitale de la République du Soudan. Les problématiques de négociation d’une place en ville, et d’accès au foncier des populations déplacées en provenance du Sud du Soudan, qui ont constitué à la fois une préoccupation centrale des populations concernées, des politiques (Banaga 1996) et des études urbaines portant sur la capitale soudanaise depuis le milieu des années 1980 (Lavergne 1999 ; De Geoffroy 2009 ; Pérouse

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de Montclos 2001 ; Jacobsen et al. 2001), ont été bouleversées par le(s) nouveau(x) contexte(s) national(aux). A l’heure de la signature de l’accord de paix en 2005, l’enjeu était de taille à l’échelle de la capitale puisque sur un peu plus de 5 millions d’habitants, les déplacés représentaient environ 2 millions de personnes parmi lesquelles les populations originaires du Sud comptaient pour environ 1 100 000 personnes (De Geoffroy 2009 :1932).

3 Si les déplacés à Khartoum ne sont pas uniquement originaires du Sud, les populations Sud-Soudanaises déplacées de force par la guerre3 ont incarné de manière emblématique la catégorie identifiée dans différentes instances internationales comme des IDP (Internally Displaced People). L’utilisation et l’instrumentalisation de cette catégorie par le pouvoir du Nord dans la mise en place d’une politique de planification urbaine sécuritaire a conduit à la marginalisation et à la relégation en périphérie des populations jugées moins assimilables que d’autres. Les acteurs de l’aide internationale ont également repris cette catégorie à des fins opératoires. Les populations originaires du Sud, elles-mêmes, ont plus ou moins intégré cette catégorie (Bureau 2011) les assignant à rester « Sudistes » (janubeen, en arabe) et donc à rester « déplacés » (naziheen, en arabe) à Khartoum alors même qu’une seconde génération, voire une troisième génération de Sudistes y voyait le jour4.

4 Or, depuis la signature des accords de paix de 2005, les populations originaires du Sud installées au Nord, et plus spécifiquement dans l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum, sont passées tour à tour du statut de IDP, à celui de potentiels returnees, pour être aujourd’hui dans une sorte d’impasse statutaire. Là encore, l’ensemble des acteurs – gouvernements (du Sud et du Nord), acteurs de l’aide, chercheurs, voire Sudistes installés à Khartoum – se sont entendus pour voir cette population installée au Nord sur le départ, et ce jusqu’au démarrage des conflits dans le Sud en 2013. Qu’en a-t-il été réellement ? Les populations originaires du Sud ont-elles toutes quitté Khartoum ? Ont- elles vendu leur(s) bien(s) immobilier(s), obtenu(s) le plus souvent après des années d’effort ? L(es)’ont-elles au contraire conservé(s) dans l’éventualité d’un retour avorté au Sud ? Quelles stratégies adoptent les familles originaires du sud qui sont restées ? Quelles sont les populations qui, bénéficiant du départ de « Sudistes », sont arrivées dans les quartiers populaires du Grand Khartoum ?

5 Répondre à ces premières interrogations, nous conduira, dans la droite ligne d’autres travaux en sciences sociales sur le Soudan (Ahmed Abdel Aziz 2013 ; Abusharaf 2009 ; De Geoffroy 2009 ; Assal 2006), à questionner les catégories d’analyse, trop générales et toujours plus hétérogènes qu’il n’y parait que sont les « Sudistes », les « déplacés » puis les « returnees ». Il y a là un réel défi pour le chercheur désireux de déconstruire ces catégories de ne pas tomber à son tour dans le piège de l’utilisation de catégories homogènes (anciennes comme nouvelles) nécessaires à son analyse. Ainsi, alors que l’hypothèse de ce travail est celle du bouleversement actuel et de la recomposition des anciennes catégories d’analyse sous l’effet de la séparation des deux Soudans, elle nous conduira pourtant à utiliser les termes ambigus de « sudistes », « déplacés », ainsi que d’autres désignations identitaires (communautés régionales, religieuses, et/ou ethniques) réelles ou fantasmées (telles que Arabes, Nordistes, Noubas5, …) mais qui correspondent à des désignations de soi et des Autres couramment utilisées dans la langue vernaculaire, et largement ancrées dans les pratiques quotidiennes du Grand Khartoum.

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6 Dans cette perspective, nous reviendrons dans un premier temps sur le choix du quartier de Mussalass de manière à saisir dans quelle mesure il peut illustrer les quartiers de « déplacés », et les quartiers « sudistes » de la capitale. L’observation et l’analyse des changements de propriétaires et de locataires intervenus dans le quartier entre 2005 et 2012 constitueront le deuxième temps de ce travail. L’enjeu sera d’expliciter les trajectoires et les stratégies foncières des familles sudistes du quartier et de montrer ce qu’elles révèlent en termes d’intégration/exclusion urbaine. Une troisième partie tentera de saisir les reconfigurations à l’œuvre dans les quartiers populaires de la capitale soudanaise onze ans après la signature de l’accord de paix, en portant une attention particulière aux changements intervenus depuis 2012, date du premier travail de terrain.

Mussalass, quartier populaire de la capitale soudanaise

7 Le choix de Mussalass comme terrain d’étude relève, comme dans bien des cas, d’une conjugaison de facteurs plus ou moins pensés en amont du travail de terrain. Il convient ici de dénouer ces différents éléments afin de caractériser ce quartier de la capitale soudanaise et de souligner pourquoi, dans le contexte d’une étude sur les départs des populations Sud-Soudanaises menée sous l’angle des transactions foncières, il s’avère être un espace pertinent.

Est-ce (était-ce ?) un espace « sudiste » de la capitale soudanaise ?

8 Le quartier de Mussalass a tout d’abord attiré mon attention en janvier 2011 – alors que se tenait le référendum d’autodétermination du Soudan du Sud – parce que les signes de l’organisation du retour des populations sudistes y étaient clairs. Comme ailleurs dans la capitale, de très nombreux ballots d’affaires en tout genre attendaient, dans les rues et sur la place principale du quartier, la venue de camions censés rapatrier hommes et bagages dans leurs régions d’origine. Si le plan de retour mis en place après la signature de l’accord de paix de 2005 par le gouvernement d’union nationale et appuyé par la communauté internationale a connu de nombreuses difficultés et retards (De Geoffroy, 2009 : 361-380), il affectait malgré tout, en 2011 fortement la vie du quartier de Mussalass où j’assistais au départ d’un bus en direction du Sud, de Malakal (capitale de l’Etat du Haut Nil) plus précisément6. En janvier 2011, le quartier accueillait également l’un des 36 centres de vote pour le référendum d’autodétermination du Sud de la ville d’Omdurman, ainsi qu’une église discrète7. Cette première prise de contact avec le quartier témoignait donc de l’importance des populations originaires du Sud, résidentes à Mussalass avant le CPA.

9 Cette forte présence supposée des populations originaires du Sud dans le quartier fut à maintes reprises confirmée par divers interlocuteurs lors de l’enquête menée en 2012 : « Mussalass était principalement un quartier de Sudistes (janubeen) »8, « avant, 80 % des parcelles appartenaient à des Sudistes »9... Ces déclarations sont cependant à prendre avec prudence, la question des populations sud-soudanaises résidentes à Khartoum alimentant depuis des années, mais peut-être plus encore lors de cette période inédite (transition et séparation des deux pays), de nombreux fantasmes de la part des autorités – urbaines notamment –, et des citadins. Ce « flou » autour de la

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problématique des retours au Sud fut d’ailleurs à l’origine de l’angle méthodologique adopté pour cette recherche, à savoir du choix d’interroger systématiquement l’ensemble des résidents d’une rue. En effet, si la moindre visibilité des Sudistes, notamment dans le centre-ville de la capitale pouvait, en août 2012, être observée10, les informations informelles glanées sur le sujet auprès des citadins étaient contradictoires, comme en témoigne la conversation avec Lana : « Oui, les Sudistes sont tous partis. Tous mes voisins sont partis […].Si tu étais allée pour le numéro national11, tu aurais eu l’impression que tous les Sudistes étaient restés. Hé ma fille, les Sudistes, ils étaient tous là. Ils ne sont pas partis. »12

10 Par ailleurs, peu d’études statistiques permettent de saisir l’ampleur du phénomène pour l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum. Les données quantitatives qui existent sont principalement celles des organisations internationales participant au plan de retour (UNHCR et IOM, principalement) et sont largement reprises par l’ensemble des acteurs travaillant au et sur le Soudan. Ainsi, le chiffre de 1,2 millions de retours entre 2005 et 2009 est largement diffusé (IOM, 2009), complété depuis par de nouvelles estimations statistiques notant l’accélération des retours depuis le référendum – 290 000 retours effectués entre octobre 2010 et avril 2011 (OCHA cité dans Bureau, 2011 : 145). Or, ces données ne concernent pas spécifiquement l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum mais bien l’ensemble des déplacements qui affectent les deux nouveaux voisins. Que signifient ces chiffres à l’échelle du Grand Khartoum, principal refuge des populations sudistes déplacées par le conflit ? Que nous apprennent-ils sur l’impact socio- économique du phénomène des retours au Sud à l’échelle d’un quartier, d’une rue… ?

11 Dans la perspective de travailler sur l’ampleur et l’impact du phénomène à une échelle fine, le quartier de Mussalass présentait plusieurs avantages d’ordre pratique. Il s’agit d’un quartier de petite taille, très clairement délimité, qui se prête bien à la mise en œuvre d’une enquête systématique. Quelques 505 parcelles13 bâties sont établies sur un espace triangulaire donnant son nom au quartier14, limité à l’ouest par un programme de lotissements destinés à des fonctionnaires de police et par un souk d’occasion, au nord par une route bitumée (marquant la limite avec l’immense quartier de Fitahab) et à l’est, ainsi qu’au sud, par une enceinte militaire. L’enquête réalisée, porte après porte, nous a amenée à appréhender 87 parcelles, soit l’intégralité des parcelles d’une rue sur une longueur de 4 blocs ainsi que 7 autres maisons localisées plus à l’intérieur du quartier. Au total, 61 foyers ont été interrogés. Les résultats obtenus à partir de cet échantillon de taille plus que réduite ne peuvent prétendre être généralisables à l’échelle de l’agglomération mais fournissent un état des lieux précis des changements intervenus à la suite de la sécession dans une rue d’un quartier singulier du Grand Khartoum.

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12 Sur les 61 familles interrogées en août 2012, un tiers étaient originaires du Soudan du Sud. Si l’on est loin des 80 % évoqués par certains habitants du quartier, la concentration des populations sudistes dans le quartier restait forte dès lors que l’on considère que l’enquête a eu lieu un an après l’indépendance officielle du Soudan du Sud. D’autant plus si l’on prend également en compte les 15 % de familles mixtes ou frontalières. Cette dernière catégorie, apparue lors de l’enquête, rassemble les familles issues d’un mariage mixte Nord/Sud et les familles s’étant d’elles-mêmes présentées comme n’appartenant ni au Nord, ni au Sud, originaires des zones frontalières et notamment de la zone contestée d’Abyei15. Ces « gens du milieu » (« nass min el nous », pour reprendre leur expression) se différencient du premier groupe de Sudistes en termes de possibilité et d’aspiration au retour et témoignent de la complexité des trajectoires migratoires et familiales, des liens avec l’espace refuge (ici l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum) et le(s) territoire(s) d’origine.

13 La forte concentration de populations sudistes est également remarquable au regard du statut du quartier. En effet, Mussalass n’est pas un ancien camp de déplacés mais un quartier squatté puis planifié. Or, la politique urbaine discriminatoire menée à partir des années 1980 et, a fortiori, à partir des années 1990, a conduit à une relégation en périphérie de l’ensemble des populations migrantes. Une différenciation a cependant été opérée entre des populations destinées a priori à s’intégrer plus facilement dans la « fabrique urbaine »16, plus largement orientées vers les Dar Es Salam17ou les quartiers planifiés de réinstallation – c’est notamment le cas des déplacés environnementaux de l’ouest18 –, et des populations, jugées moins assimilables – les déplacés du Sud – que les autorités ont plus volontiers « installées » dans des camps pensés au départ comme temporaires (Lavergne 1997 ; De Geoffroy 2009 ; Choplin 2006, Banaga 1996). Cette politique s’articule également avec le glissement de sens de la catégorie des déplacés (naziheen, en arabe) qui désigne à Khartoum les populations sudistes (janubeen), et non les populations déplacées par la force dans leur ensemble. Quoique que largement

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contrariée dans le temps par l’ampleur des déplacements forcés en provenance du Sud, la politique urbaine de cette période va se traduire par une plus forte concentration de populations sudistes dans les 4 camps officiels que compte la capitale à partir de 1991 (Mayo, Es Salam, Djebel Aulia, et Wad el Beshir) et, parallèlement, par une plus forte concentration des populations originaires de l’ouest du pays dans les Dar es Salam et les quartiers planifiés et de relocalisation. « D’après une étude menée en 1999, les migrants originaires du Sud (sans compter les Noubas) représentent 58 à 77 % de la population dans les camps, alors que dans les quartiers d’installation planifiés ou squattés, ils représentent 39 à 48 % » (Loveless, cité dans De Geoffroy 2009 : 101). La différence est avant tout foncière puisque jusqu’à ce que les camps fassent l’objet d’aménagement (au début des années 2000), l’installation considérée comme temporaire rendait impossible la régularisation sur place, le dépassement de l’assignation à être « déplacé » et l’accession à la propriété.

14 Mussalass, en accueillant une forte concentration de populations originaires du Sud, illustre donc comment cette politique urbaine discriminatoire consistant à cantonner les populations originaires du Sud dans des camps a été largement dépassée par l’ampleur des déplacements, et permet d’observer un quartier dans lequel les processus d’accession à la propriété sont engagés de longue date. En outre, sur le plan pratique, étudier un espace qui n’est pas « étiqueté sudiste » par les autorités facilite le travail de recherche en termes d’accès au terrain, le contrôle des populations résidentes et des allées-venues de populations étrangères (travailleurs humanitaires, chercheurs…) étant renforcé dans les camps19.

Un quartier de déplacés : de l’occupation illégale au quartier planifié (1985-2000)

15 Plus qu’un quartier « Sudiste » (et l’on aura compris qu’au sens strict, il n’en existe pas à Khartoum), Mussalass, comme bien d’autres quartiers périphériques de la capitale, est avant tout exemplaire de l’ensemble des apports migratoires – et donc des déplacements forcés –des décennies 1980 et 1990. Environ la moitié des familles de notre échantillon est arrivée dans le quartier durant cette période donnant corps à cette histoire migratoire violente dans la composition actuelle du quartier. Les populations présentes dans notre échantillon proviennent presqu’exclusivement de régions périphériques et/ou marginalisées par le pouvoir central (Fig.1). Aux populations Sud-Soudanaises, et aux familles mixtes et frontalières s’ajoutent les populations Noubas (39 % de notre échantillon) qui ont été parmi les plus touchées par le conflit Nord/Sud compte tenu de leur situation géographique et politique d’entre- deux et dont l’arrivée en masse à Khartoum a été concomitante à celle des Sudistes, voire antérieure en raison d’une plus grande proximité. Enfin, la catégorie « Autres » mérite d’être explicitée puisqu’il s’agit en fait très majoritairement de populations originaires de l’Ouest de Soudan et plus spécifiquement du Darfour. Comme nous l’avons précédemment mentionné, les communautés de l’ouest ont, dans les années 1980, migré dans des proportions importantes vers la capitale en raison de crises environnementales sahéliennes (De Waal 1989).

16 Mussalass révèle donc l’hétérogénéité que masque la catégorie internationale des IDP ainsi que le brassage de populations qui a (eu) lieu dans les quartiers périphériques de l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum. Les apports démographiques migratoires des

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années 1980 et 1990 ont profondément transformé la composition de la population de la capitale soudanaise, remettant en question l’hégémonie démographique des populations du Nord (expression qui désigne les populations de la vallée du Nil), les stratifications sociales (voire raciales) nationales héritées (Sharkey 2008) s’illustrant à l’échelle de la ville. Ainsi, dans la capitale soudanaise « l’appartenance régionale et ethnique est transposée dans la propriété du sol avec des gradients centre-périphérie très nets. L’origine et la date d’arrivée déterminent presque sans exception les positions dans la ville, les modalités d’insertion, comme la sécurité de l’établissement » (Denis 2005 :102). Certains auteurs vont même jusqu’à parler d’une « black belt » à Khartoum en référence au caractère « africain » des populations des quartiers périphériques, par opposition à un centre-ville plus nordiste, voire « Arabe » (Choplin 2006). Précisons cependant que les déplacements forcés ne se sont pas arrêtés à la fin des années 1990 ; en 2006, Assal estimait que 40 % de la population de Khartoum était constituée de déplacés (Assal 2006).

17 D’après les informations recueillies, la zone de Mussalass aurait commencé à être occupée illégalement vers le milieu des années 1980, avant d’être planifiée dans les années 1990, comme en témoigne ce chef de famille : « Je suis ici depuis qu’al Mussalass existe. Je suis l’une des premières maisons. Quand je me suis installé, il y avait trois maisons. C’était en 1985 ; je suis venu de Kadugli20 à cause de la guerre. Quand je suis arrivé, c’était une zone de squatt (ashouay). Les gens se sont installés là parce que ce n’était pas trop loin […] C’était une terre vide, une terre agricole. On n’a pas acheté la terre au gouvernement mais aux citoyens21. Ensuite on l’a faite enregistrer. »

18 Sur notre échantillon, deux tiers des familles sont arrivées entre 1980 et 1990, et sont parvenues avec la planification de la zone (qui, d’après les recoupements, semble être intervenue après 1992) à bénéficier d’une parcelle cédée (bail –milik hikr) par les « autorités des terres ». La planification du quartier s’inscrit pleinement dans la politique d’aménagement urbain du Grand Khartoum qui se caractérise à la fois par de violents déguerpissements et par l’allocation de parcelles (parfois sur place - comme dans le cas de Mussalass -, pour les plus chanceux) mais le plus souvent sur des espaces de plus en plus périphériques destinés à accueillir les déguerpis les plus vulnérables. « En mars 1992, les évictions avaient touché 425 000personnes et elles s’étaient déroulées avec une telle brutalité qu’elles avaient choqué l’opinion publique internationale » (Lavergne 1997 : 59)22. L’allocation des parcelles à Mussalass, comme ailleurs, a dû faire l’objet d’une intense compétition entre les candidats déplacés à la régularisation foncière, et plus largement entre les candidats à l’accès à la propriété foncière alimentant clientélisme et corruption aux différents échelons du processus de sélection. Les zones (re)planifiées pouvant accueillir moins de familles, et les critères d’éligibilité défavorisant les déplacés et les plus vulnérables23, il est fort probable que la population installée illégalement à Mussalass a fait l’objet d’une recomposition à l’occasion de la régularisation du quartier.

Un quartier péricentral habité par la classe populaire (militaires, petits fonctionnaires, petits salariés…)

19 Dans le but de caractériser au mieux Mussalass, deux pistes restent à creuser en ce qui concerne la structuration sociale du quartier.

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20 Tout d’abord, le quartier aujourd’hui, sans être aisé, est loin d’accueillir la population la plus précaire de l’agglomération. Cela se lit en premier lieu dans le paysage urbain, et notamment au travers des matériaux de construction utilisés : pas ou peu d’abris de fortune (rakouba), et une petite majorité des maisons bâties en briques cuites et non en briques crues, moins chères. Cela se traduit aussi dans le choix des produits proposés dans les épiceries de proximité (dukan) qui dépasse les produits de base. L’enquête permet également de mettre en lumière les catégories socioprofessionnelles les plus couramment rencontrées : petit fonctionnaire, salariat (gardien, professeur, institutrice…), petit métier (artisan, chauffeur…). Les foyers dans lesquels aucun membre ne travaille, ou qui vivent sur la seule rémunération d’un emploi précaire sont également présents, sans pour autant être la norme en 2012.

21 Il est également important de noter le nombre significatif de chefs de famille engagés ou retraités des forces armées et de sécurité qui ont obtenu leur parcelle par le biais des services de la planification. Ce phénomène confirme, d’une part, le débouché professionnel que représente l’appareil militaire et sécuritaire pour les populations appartenant à des groupes marginalisés (populations noubas, darfouriennes et sudistes) (Sikainga 1996) et, d’autre part, le rôle de l’Etat, plus gros propriétaire foncier du pays, qui par l’entremise du ministère de la planification de l’Etat de Khartoum, des localités, et des comités populaires, rétribue ses agents à moindre frais en leur allouant des parcelles à des fins clientélistes. Sans pouvoir revenir avec précision sur la recomposition sociale ayant eu lieu lors de la planification, on peut cependant émettre l’hypothèse que ce quartier a vu arriver à cette occasion des populations déplacées plus privilégiées que d’autres zones planifiées plus périphériques.

22 En effet, Mussalass est, dès sa création, un quartier de proche banlieue par ailleurs peu isolé du reste de la ville en comparaison avec la situation du Dar Es Salam d’Omdurman par exemple, qui lors de son établissement était très éloigné du reste de l’agglomération. C’est d’ailleurs ce que nous disait l’un des premiers résidents de Mussalass : « Les gens se sont installés là parce que ce n’était pas trop loin. » (op.cit.)

23 D’une situation peu périphérique, le quartier va rapidement passer à une position péricentrale à mesure que l’agglomération va continuer de grossir et de s’étendre, mais également avec l’achèvement en 2001 de la construction d’un second pont sur le Nil Blanc permettant de lier Khartoum à Omdurman. Ce pont, qui connecte le sud de l’agglomération d’Omdurman à Khartoum et plus spécifiquement à son centre-ville, va favoriser la pression foncière et les processus de spéculation à l’œuvre dans ces quartiers populaires (Abu se’ïd, Fitahab, Mussalass…). Sur les berges du Nil Blanc, d’immenses projets immobiliers vont d’ailleurs voir le jour dans les années 2000 avec le boom économique de la rente pétrolière (Franck 2015 ; Denis 2005), mais c’est à l’échelle des citadins lambda que les enjeux fonciers sont les plus aigus. En effet, les prix à la location sont élevés dans la capitale soudanaise, y compris dans les quartiers populaires où les loyers représentent presque toujours une part très importante des dépenses des familles. A Mussalass, les prix à la location relevés lors de l’enquête en 2012 se situaient entre 400 et 600 SDG pour une maison de deux chambres et entre 200 et 350 SDG24 pour une chambre ou une moitié de maison, ce qui représente de fortes sommes par rapport aux salaires khartoumois. A titre d’exemple, les rémunérations d’un gardien, ou d’une employée d’école, sont situées dans cette même fourchette de 200-600 SDG. L’accession à la propriété représente donc un enjeu majeur des familles

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pauvres à Khartoum et ce phénomène est renforcé depuis la dépression économique liée à la séparation ainsi qu’aux difficultés d’entente entre les deux nouveaux voisins. Les prix ont flambé, l’inflation est galopante et les ménages ont de plus en plus de mal à joindre les deux bouts.

24 C’est dans ce contexte que sont intervenus les départs de populations « sudistes » de la capitale soudanaise et de Mussalass.

Un quartier bousculé par la sécession

Les retours au Sud à l’origine de l’intense activité immobilière de Mussalass

25 Une intense activité immobilière (transactions foncières, et locations) agite le quartier. Si cette dernière était prévisible, elle n’en reste pas moins remarquable. Environ 50 % des parcelles enquêtées ont subi un changement de locataire et/ou de propriétaire depuis la signature de l’accord de paix en 2005 (Fig. 2). Cette activité est visible en 2006, en comparaison avec les années précédentes (2000-2005). Les changements s’accélèrent nettement depuis 2011 (année du référendum d’autodétermination et de l’Indépendance officielle du Soudan du Soudan), et plus particulièrement en 2012. Ce résultat de l’enquête corrobore la première impression laissée par le terrain : celle de rencontrer principalement des personnes très récemment installées dans le quartier (depuis moins d’un an). Avant de revenir plus précisément sur la temporalité 2005-2012 des arrivées de nouveaux résidents – que l’on suppose concomitantes au départ des anciens habitants –, il convient de préciser que les retours dans le Sud sont largement contraints par la saison des pluies. « Le piteux état des routes et des pistes rend inaccessibles de nombreuses régions du Sud pendant la saison des pluies [qui y est beaucoup plus longue que dans le Nord du Soudan]. La période pendant laquelle les retours sont possibles est donc courte et ne s’étend que de novembre à juin, voire même à mars dans certaines zones » (de Geoffroy, 2007). Ainsi, le moment de l’enquête, août 2012, correspond à une période où les retours ne sont pas envisageables par la route.

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Une intense activité immobilière à Mussalass

26 Les populations sudistes sont bien au cœur de cette agitation immobilière puisque, sur notre échantillon, deux tiers des logements ayant connu un changement de propriétaires ou de locataires depuis 2005 étaient directement concernés par le retour au Sud de leurs propriétaires. En outre, il faut avoir à l’esprit que le départ de sudistes ne touche pas uniquement le quartier de Mussalass mais l’ensemble de l’agglomération. A ces transactions directes, on pourrait également ajouter les changements immobiliers indirects au sens où certaines familles non originaires du Sud et initialement installées à Mussalass ont acheté ailleurs dans la capitale un logement à un foyer sudiste sur le départ et ont vendu leur bien immobilier de Mussalass. C’est le cas d’une famille de notre échantillon qui a acheté une parcelle meilleure marché dans l’ancien camp de déplacés de Wad el Bechir (Omdurman) à une famille qui, elle, (re)partait au Sud et a revendu en conséquence sa maison de Mussalass en mars 2012, réalisant ainsi un gain en argent liquide.

27 En regardant de plus près la temporalité des emménagements (qui désignent en creux les déménagements) dans le quartier (Fig. 2), on peut noter un premier « pic » en 2009, un deuxième en 2011 et enfin une explosion pour l’année 2012. Il est intéressant de relire cette histoire immobilière au regard des événements politiques ayant fortement affecté le pays, puis les deux pays et donc également leurs ressortissants, en tentant de dégager ceux qui auraient pu jouer le rôle de catalyseur des départs de Khartoum des populations originaires du Sud. Au regard de l’enquête, ni la signature de l’accord de paix en janvier 2005, ni le recensement d’avril 2008, ni même les élections d’avril 2010 ne semblent avoir eu un impact particulier sur les ventes et les déménagements dans le quartier, et ce malgré les fortes incitations au retour en vue de la tenue de ces différents événements (recensement et élections) par le SPLM, principal parti et organe politique du Sud. En effet, la question du retour a été fortement politisée dès la signature de l’accord de paix en raison de ses fortes implications en termes de poids démographique des « régions » en présence, conditionnant la poursuite de la

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négociation des rapports de pouvoir, et des partages des ressources entre le Nord et le Sud Soudan (de Geoffroy 2009 : 359 ; Denis et Dupuy 2008). Il n’y a cependant pas de concordance temporelle évidente entre les arrivées et départs dans le quartier et les échéances politiques précédemment citées. Il faut par ailleurs préciser que, dans la pratique, ce type de concordance temporelle est largement contrarié par la complexité des stratégies familiales (nous y reviendrons), par la saisonnalité des réacheminements et par une conjoncture politique troublée : à titre d’illustration, le recensement initialement prévu en novembre 2007 n’a finalement eu lieu qu’en avril 2008. L’augmentation des départs dans le quartier, constatée pour l’année 2009, ne trouve pas ici d’explication. En revanche, il existe assez logiquement une concordance en termes de période entre l’issue du référendum d’auto-détermination en janvier 2011 et les départs plus importants constatés la même année. Il est envisageable que l’élan – plus que la surprise, car l’écrasante victoire de la sécession était attendue – qu’ont pu susciter les résultats du référendum et l’approche de l’indépendance officielle, ait stimulé les retours au Sud dans le quartier. Le phénomène a en outre été accentué par la mise en œuvre, au début de l’année 2011, des retours collectifs à Mussalass comme nous l’avons précédemment mentionné) est marqué. L’explosion des changements de résidents, constatée pour l’année 2012, s’inscrit pour part dans cette même dynamique. En effet, la séparation officielle entre les deux pays ayant eu lieu durant la saison des pluies (juillet 2011), les départs directement en lien avec cet événement inédit ont été reportés à la saison sèche suivante, soit au début de l’année 2012. Par ailleurs, l’année 2012 représente un tournant puisqu’elle a été marquée par un certain nombre d’incidents entre le Soudan et le Soudan du Sud et notamment, en avril 2012, par l’épisode armé d’Hieglig dans la zone frontalière et pétrolifère du Sud Kordofan qui a fortement affecté les communautés. L’année 2012 est également celle de la mise en pratique de la sécession, ce qui s’est notamment traduit, pour la communauté Sud- Soudanaise à Khartoum, par de nombreuses incertitudes concernant la nationalité, le statut de résidents au Nord, la possibilité de travailler au Nord, d’y posséder une maison… Autant d’éléments pouvant être à l’origine et/ou participer de la décision de partir, voire de vendre.

Partir ou rester/vendre ou louer ?

28 Les facteurs participant à la décision du retour dans le Sud sont évidemment complexes et dépassent les seules contingences politiques nationales pour s’articuler aux échelles familiales, et individuelles notamment. Le départ/retour dans le Sud ne conditionne pas nécessairement la décision de vendre son bien immobilier khartoumois qui a souvent été difficile à obtenir, et qui, s’il constitue un capital pouvant être nécessaire à l’établissement dans le nouvel Etat, peut également représenter une sécurité dans le contexte politico-économique troublé du Soudan du Sud, et/ou dans le cas d’un retour avorté au Sud. Lorsque la décision de vendre sa maison de Khartoum est prise, elle donne un caractère plus définitif au retour dans le Sud des familles concernées. Sur les 12 cas de vente intervenus entre 2005 et 2012 que le travail de terrain a permis de repérer, 11 de ces ventes ont été conclues par des familles sudistes (Fig. 3). La dernière vente est également liée au départ des populations sudistes de Khartoum puisqu’il s’agit de ce que nous avons précédemment désigné comme des cas indirects - en l’occurrence, une famille ayant vendu à Mussalass pour acheter ailleurs à des Sudistes sur le départ (parcelle n° 42 Fig. 3). L’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud est donc à

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l’origine de l’ensemble des ventes observées sur notre échantillon pendant la période 2005-2012.

29 Les conditions dans lesquelles la décision de vendre est prise, lorsqu’elles ont été abordées par l’enquête, livrent des informations sur la façon dont ces familles sudistes perçoivent l’environnement khartoumois – et donc Nord-Soudanais –, et les possibilités ou non de continuer à y vivre après la sécession. L’itinéraire familial de la parcelle n° 45 (Fig. 3) témoigne des compromis qui ont été réalisés et des allers-retours que les familles ont subis durant la période de transition et depuis la séparation. « Nous sommes arrivés à Mussalass en 1993. Avant, nous habitions à Dar es Salam 17 (Omdurman) [quartier destiné à accueillir les déplacés]. Nous sommes propriétaires de cette maison… [En fait, ils ne le sont plus, voir suite de l’entretien]. Avant, nous étions 15 ou plus à vivre ici dans cette maison. Mais mon père est parti à Torit [Eastern Equatoria], en juillet 2011. Ma mère, avec les petits, en octobre 2010. Mon père travaille, enfin travaillait plutôt, avec les UN (Nations Unies) ici. Il est allé dans le Sud avant 2010, mais il est revenu à Khartoum et est finalement parti en 2011. Nos affaires [la maison est quasi-vide] sont parties dans le Sud bien avant le référendum dans une voiture louée par mon père jusqu’à Kosti et ont ensuite été chargées en conteneur sur une barge sur le Nil. Après le référendum, les voyages sont devenus difficiles. Maintenant, dans cette maison, on est 9 : deux sœurs, des cousins,…des jeunes. On est tous à la fac. On finit l’an prochain et l’on s’en va. En fait, on a déjà vendu la maison il y a 4/5 mois [avril/mai 2012] et maintenant on loue 500 guinées/mois pour rester là. […]. On a voté la séparation, bien-sûr ! Nous sommes de ceux qui ont fait la sécession. On veut la liberté. Les Arabes sont méprisants. Dans les transports en commun, ils nous regardent mal. C’est plus difficile pour nous [les Sudistes] depuis la séparation. S’il n’y avait pas les études et l’obtention de nos diplômes, on serait déjà partis. […] Torit ? C’est bien !... C’est difficile mais ça va aller. J’y suis allée quatre mois en 2010 et je suis revenue à Khartoum. Le climat est bon, européen …S’il n’y avait pas mon examen [universitaire], j’irais tout de suite. » (Entretien avec Suzanne, 22/07/2012, parcelle n° 45)

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30 Si l’on considère le cas de cette famille, la décision de vendre la parcelle est intervenue au printemps 2012, une fois les parents installés dans le Sud, et alors même que la maison reste occupée par des jeunes engagés dans un cursus universitaire à Khartoum appartenant à la famille élargie ou non. Vivre à Khartoum implique aujourd’hui pour ces jeunes le versement d’un loyer. La parcelle n° 34 se trouve dans une situation quasi- identique puisque la maison a été vendue en juin 2012 et qu’il est prévu qu’elle reste occupée par les jeunes de la famille pendant encore 2 mois (jusqu’à fin septembre 2012), date à laquelle ils devraient rejoindre le reste de la famille à Juba. Le caractère tardif des transactions foncières se retrouve sur de nombreuses parcelles de la rue enquêtée. On pourrait par exemple évoquer la vente à distance de la parcelle n° 10 dans laquelle les nouveaux locataires ont tout d’abord loué à une famille repartie à Malakal – ville de l’Etat du Haut Nil du Soudan du sud (l’argent du mois de juin 2012 ayant été envoyé là- bas) avant de verser le loyer du mois de juillet 2012 au nouvel acheteur de la parcelle, installé à Khartoum et originaire du Nord du Soudan. Le printemps 2012 marque la fin de la position attentiste des populations sudistes installées à Khartoum qui avait pu prévaloir jusqu’alors en matière de transactions foncières. Il est important de revenir et d’analyser les raisons invoquées pour expliquer les ventes, où s’entremêlent les hésitations familiales, les volontés de constater la possibilité de s’établir au Soudan du Sud, les interprétations des discours et des événements politiques, les sentiments d’absence de choix, les peurs de confiscation avec la mise en place progressive de lois et des mesures établissant les nouvelles nationalités soudanaises (Nord et Sud).

31 La sécession du Soudan du Sud, et le processus qui y conduit (notamment les modalités de vote au référendum), vont profondément transformer les fondements de la nationalité soudanaise. Cette dernière, jusque-là basée sur des critères de filiation et de naissance25, va, à compter de l’organisation du référendum d’autodétermination et du Southern Sudan Referendum Act de 2009, se voir pour la première fois affublée de critères ethniques26 (Manby 2012 :22). La loi sur la nationalité du Soudan du Sud – que les deux parties en présence n’ont pas réussi à négocier conjointement lors du processus de paix– sera rendue publique en juin 2011, et reprendra en tous points les critères du Southern Sudan Referendum Act faisant de l’origine ethnique la base de la nationalité Sud- Soudanaise. Une première réponse du gouvernement du Soudan (du Nord) intervient en juillet 201127 avec des déclarations dans la presse de politiciens intimant les Sud- Soudanais résidents au Nord à régulariser leur situation avant avril 2012. Dans la foulée, en août 2012, la loi sur la nationalité soudanaise est amendée plusieurs fois et comporte dorénavant une nouvelle condition de révocation : « la nationalité sera automatiquement révoquée si la personne a acquis de jure ou de facto la nationalité du Sud Soudan » (Vezzadini 2013 :124). Dans la mesure où cet amendement vient contredire d’autres paragraphes toujours en vigueur de la même loi (notamment ceux liés à la possibilité d’acquérir la double citoyenneté), il ouvre la porte à une application clientéliste et discrétionnaire de la loi, d’autant plus importante que les Sudistes rencontrent de grandes difficultés à fournir les documents officiels permettant d’obtenir leur régularisation (Assal, 2011). Les implications foncières de ces tractations autour de la nationalité sont importantes puisque « depuis l’époque coloniale aucun étranger n’a le droit de posséder de propriétés immobilières ou de terrain au Soudan » (Vezzadini idem). De la même manière, les possibilités de travailler, d’être soigné, d’étudier au Nord pour les communautés Sud-Soudanaises deviennent problématiques pour ne pas dire précaires. Les nombreuses transactions immobilières enregistrées au

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printemps 2012 dans le quartier de Mussalass font écho à la date limite d’avril donnée par les autorités soudanaises en juillet 2011 aux Sudistes pour leur régularisation. Elles s’inscrivent en outre dans un contexte où les négociations qui avaient vu le jour à compter de mars 2012 sur les questions de droit et de protection des ressortissants des deux Etats résidant dans l’un ou l’autre des pays devaient aboutir à la signature d’un accord en avril 2012, et ont été annulées en raison de l’explosion à la même époque de troubles armés entre les deux pays. Cet accord, devant notamment garantir aux soudanais la liberté de résidence, la liberté de mouvement, la liberté d’entreprendre une activité économique et enfin la liberté d’acquérir et de disposer de propriétés dans les deux Etats, est connu sous le nom de l’accord des « Quatre libertés »28. L’échec de sa signature en avril 2012 a inquiété de nombreux Sudistes à Khartoum et a probablement accéléré la vente de leurs biens immobiliers à cette époque29.

32 A Mussalass, les familles sudistes dont l’ensemble des membres sont repartis au Sud sont finalement peu nombreuses à avoir fait le choix de ne pas vendre. Nous avons observé 4 cas sur notre échantillon : les lots n° 1 et n° 2, qui appartiennent au même propriétaire, et les parcelles n° 14, 30 et 83 (Fig. 3). Toutes ces maisons ont été mises en location à la suite du départ. Il n’est pas inutile de pousser un peu plus loin l’analyse en regardant qui occupent aujourd’hui ces parcelles. Il s’agit de deux familles sudistes recomposées suite à la sécession (parcelles 14 et 30), une famille mixte qui a choisi de s’installer au Nord après la sécession (parcelle 2) et une femme seule avec des enfants, originaire du Darfour (parcelle 83). Des liens d’ordres différents – voisinage, parenté, régionaux (originaires de la même ville, par exemple) – unissent les propriétaires aux locataires dans trois cas sur quatre et révèlent les arrangements qui ont été conclus autour de l’occupation des maisons. Dans trois cas sur quatre également, les familles locataires sont extrêmement précaires financièrement et font référence à leurs difficultés de payer le loyer, voire à leur obligation de changer souvent de propriétaire en raison d’impayés. Les deux familles sudistes mentionnent la perte de leur travail suite à l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud comme la principale raison de leurs difficultés.

33 L’éclatement géographique des familles sudistes est également à l’origine de la mise en location de la moitié des maisons (3 cas rencontrés : parcelles 54, 62, 69). Les reconfigurations familiales en lien avec les départs/retours dans le Sud se traduisent souvent par des séparations générationnelles. Les jeunes éduqués - et particulièrement ceux en cours de cursus supérieur (parcelles 54 et 62) -, de même que les personnes âgées précaires, parfois avec des enfants en bas-âge, restent à Khartoum. Ces dernières n’ont en effet pas les moyens de partir (parcelle 69) ou sont en attente de leurs indemnités de licenciement. Ces trois parcelles n’ont pas été vendues par leur propriétaire originaire du Sud du Soudan. Le cas de la parcelle 69 est important à souligner car il dénote d’un non-choix. La vieille dame handicapée qui occupe dorénavant, avec de jeunes enfants, la moitié de la maison familiale déclare ne pas avoir les moyens de partir au Sud. L’éclatement géographique des familles se traduit par des reconfigurations au sein des foyers avec certaines maisons qui accueillent aujourd’hui uniquement des jeunes adultes appartenant à des familles élargies, le temps pour eux de finir leurs études supérieures.

34 A cette rupture générationnelle s’ajoute une différenciation liée à la classe sociale des familles concernées. Ainsi, les moyens financiers dont disposent les familles jouent à plein, les plus démunies ne pouvant pas partir se distinguent des familles qui ont

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impérativement besoin du pécule de la vente de la maison pour prendre un nouveau départ au Sud, ou encore de celles qui n’ont pas immédiatement besoin de cette ressource pour se (ré)installer et qui peuvent éventuellement mettre en place des stratégies locatives et attendre de vendre à un meilleur prix. Toutefois, les moyens financiers ne constituent pas le seul facteur, et l’éducation ainsi que l’accès à l’information (notamment sur les droits de la communauté sud-soudanaise) jouent un rôle important dans les stratégies déployées par les familles, comme en témoigne l’entretien avec Nuweila : « Le gouvernement [du Nord] a fait peur aux gens [aux Sudistes] et ils sont partis. Le ministre de la santé a déclaré que si un Sudiste était malade on ne lui prodiguerait pas de soins, on ne lui ferait même pas une piqure. Ils [les Sudistes] ont eu peur, ils sont partis. Le problème c’est aussi le travail, les Sudistes ne peuvent plus travailler ici, sauf pour le privé et encore… Il ne reste que les jeunes qui étudiaient et les retraités qui travaillaient pour le gouvernement qui attendent le paiement de leur retraite pour voyager. Ma tante a attendu la sienne pendant des mois et elle a fini par partir avant de l’avoir. Il me reste 3 mois pour finir mes études de médecine à l’Université de Bahri et après je pars. Mais on ne vendra pas la maison, mon petit frère reste encore pour finir ses études. Et peut-être on reviendra ? Un étranger ne peut-il pas posséder une maison dans un autre pays que le sien ? Tu vois : il y a des gens qui ont eu leur maison sans payer et ils ont eu peur que le gouvernement la leur reprenne alors ils ont vendu et sont partis. Nous aussi cette terre, les autorités des terres nous l’ont donnée, mais il n’y avait rien et ce quartier à l’époque était loin. Les gens [les Sudistes] voulaient rester mais, après juillet 2012, avec la question de la nationalité, il y a 3 ou 4 mois, les gens ont eu peur qu’on leur prenne ce qu’ils avaient alors… ils sont partis. Regarde nous par exemple, nous sommes en attente de statut et de papiers. Il n’y a pour le moment ni passeport, ni de possibilité de double nationalité, ni permis de séjour. Ce n’est pas encore en place. Le seul papier que l’on possède c’est une carte de recensement de la communauté sud-soudanaise. Il y a deux mois, suite au problème d’Hieglig, l’ensemble des Sudistes au Nord ont dû s’enregistrer auprès de l’administration. Ton nom et ton adresse. [Il me la montre]. Tous les Sudistes sur Khartoum sont devenus étrangers. . [ …] De la même manière que pour toi : quand on vient (au Nord) on doit avoir un sponsor, on doit payer un permis de séjour. La question des Sudistes est aujourd’hui du ressort des affaires étrangères. [ …] La solution c’est de mettre en place les « Quatre libertés », le droit de venir au nord sans passeport et sans permis de séjour. » (Entretien avec Nuweila en compagnie de son ami Reagan, parcelle n° 54)

35 Les familles plus éduquées, disposant de meilleures connexions, vont mieux résister aux nombreuses rumeurs de confiscation qui se sont répandues dans la capitale avant (pendant la période de transition) et après l’indépendance du Soudan du Sud. Ces familles attendent qu’une solution soit trouvée, elles ont entendu parler de l’accord des Quatre libertés, mais leurs trajectoires restent hésitantes, et changeantes. La peur d’être dépossédées, en lien avec le nouveau statut des populations sud-soudanaises au Nord, va donc participer de la décision de vendre sa maison à Khartoum. Elle va également dans d’autres cas conduire à une mise en conformité vis-à-vis de la loi. C’est le cas de la famille sudiste (parcelle n° 34) désireuse de rester à Khartoum qui était propriétaire d’une maison sur des terres agricoles (non constructibles) dans un autre quartier de la capitale et qui a préféré acheter une maison à Mussalass, et ce afin, d’une part, d’éviter tout problème avec les autorités des terres et, d’autre part, dans le but de réaliser un gain financier qui viendrait pallier la perte d’emploi du chef de famille.

36 Enfin, les stratégies en matière foncière de la population sudiste diffèrent également en fonction du lieu d’origine au Soudan du Sud. Nous avons déjà vu que les familles issues

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d’un mariage mixte étaient relativement bien représentées dans le quartier et avaient tendance à rester à Khartoum et à conserver leur bien immobilier. Il en est de même pour les populations originaires des zones frontalières contestées. Mais un retour/une installation au Sud ne s’exprime pas de la même manière selon que l’on vienne de Malakal (très proche de la frontière avec le Soudan) ou de Djouba (plus proche de l’Ouganda que du Soudan). Les moyens de transports, l’état des routes, la proximité avec le Nord, permettent ou non des aller et retours. Ainsi, l’enquête en 2012 a clairement mis à jour deux groupes de Sudistes : ceux qui partent sans revenir (désignés la plupart du temps comme ceux de Djouba) et ceux qui vont et viennent – ils partent au Sud mais reviennent passer trois/quatre mois à Al Mussalass – , comme c’est le cas de ceux de Malakal notamment. Or cette différenciation va être profondément renforcée par les troubles qui éclatent au Soudan du Sud en décembre 2013.

Un nouveau Mussalass ?

37 Avant de développer les changements récents constatés en 2016 à Al Mussalass, il est important de revenir sur les changements observés dès 2012. Tout d’abord, et ce fut l’une des remarques préliminaires de ce travail : si les prix du foncier étaient plus bas que d’habitude, ils ne se sont toutefois pas effondrés, témoignant de ce que le marché foncier restait dynamique, notamment dans les zones péri-centrales. L’enquête a permis de noter la présence de maisons vides, mais les départs ont dans l’ensemble bénéficié à l’arrivée de nouvelles populations, notamment de nouveaux déplacés en provenance des Monts Noubas (région du Sud Kordofan) où les affrontements ont repris avant même que l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud ne soit proclamée, en 2011. Ils représentent 6 des 16 cas de nouvelles locations dans le quartier, soit autant que les familles sudistes dont les trajectoires locatives traduisent à la fois les recompositions familiales et la précarité financière et statutaire liées à la séparation (Fig. 3). On pourrait également ajouter l’arrivée de deux nouvelles familles locataires, qui appartiennent au groupe des familles mixtes ou originaires de la zone frontalière, qui montrent que les déplacements en provenance des régions périphériques du Soudan vers la capitale se poursuivent.

38 Si l’on regarde à présent les achats, les familles Noubas ne représentent que 3 des 12 cas d’appropriation de parcelles constatés entre 2005 et 2012 à Al Mussalass contre 8 achats contractés par des familles d’autres origines (que Noubas et Mixtes et Sudistes). Ce dernier point corrobore l’impression des habitants du quartier de voir arriver de nouvelles populations : « les Arabes achètent, ils ont de l’argent »30. Une majorité des achats contractés par ces familles l’ont été dans le but de mettre leur nouveau bien en location. Il s’agit donc d’un achat d’investissement. Certaines maisons ont par ailleurs été achetées et revendues trois fois ou plus entre le départ des familles sudistes et l’année 2016. Des agents immobiliers travaillent aujourd’hui à Mussalass pour trouver des locations ou des ventes. Peut-on pour autant parler de gentrification ?

39 Les perceptions du changement dans le quartier sont tantôt négatives (« avant, les gens étaient ensemble ; maintenant, on ne connait plus ses voisins ; les gens sont divisés aujourd’hui ; le quartier n’a plus le même goût »), tantôt positives (« il y a moins de chahut, c’est plus calme… »), ou encore inexistantes (« il n’y a pas de changement »). Les évolutions se traduisent pourtant dans le paysage : par exemple, au nombre important de chantiers (durcissement des maisons, ajout de carrelage au sol, …) et par

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l’embourgeoisement de certaines propriétés dans le quartier. A un autre niveau, la séparation a profondément transformé l’organisation du quartier puisque les populations sudistes ne peuvent plus faire partie des comités populaires (lejna sharbiya), qui représentent l’échelon le plus fin de l’administration locale. A Mussalass, l’ensemble des membres du comité a changé et notamment son chef qui, d’après nos informateurs, ne défend pas les intérêts des populations sudistes résidant toujours et de nouveau dans le quartier. Les Sudistes ne peuvent plus travailler (sauf en payant leur permis de séjour et d’importantes taxes sur leur revenus, ce qui est rarement possible), notamment dans les administrations, ce qui conduit à leur déclassement social et à leur paupérisation et accroit, par conséquent, les inégalités au sein du quartier.

40 Alors qu’en 2012 l’enquête de terrain s’était naturellement concentrée sur les départs des populations Sud-Soudanaises, en 2016, leur situation est complètement différente. Les populations sud-soudanaises sont de retour, tout du moins les populations originaires de l’Etat du Haut Nil (Malakal) qui étaient bien représentées à Al Mussalass avant l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud. Les violents conflits qui y ont fait rage en décembre 2013 ont poussé à nouveau sur les routes de très nombreuses familles. Elles viennent et reviennent à Khartoum -qui est finalement l’endroit sûr le plus proche - qu’elles connaissent et où elles peuvent compter sur des liens de solidarités. Ces familles, qui ont souvent vendu leur maison de Mussalass il y a quelques années, doivent tout reconstruire à nouveau, louer parfois la maison qu’elles possédaient auparavant, et ce à des prix qui ont doublé en quatre ans. Pour la plupart d’entre-elles, racheter une parcelle est inenvisageable sur le plan financier et de surcroît compliqué, si ce n’est impossible, sur le plan administratif. Les locations que nous avons pu visiter sont vides, de meubles et d’objet, témoignant de l’extrême précarité de ces familles (re)déplacées. Les contraintes administratives (impossibilité de travailler, difficultés pour être soigné, pour aller à l’école…) qui s’exercent sur ces populations devenues étrangères sont extrêmement mal vécues31, et contribuent à leur (re)marginalisation sociale et économique. Les petits métiers informels (ouvriers journaliers, ménages, tressage de cheveux, vendeuse de thé, fabrication d’alcool, prostitution,…) deviennent la norme ainsi que les seules opportunités de faire vivre sa famille. Encore une fois, ces familles se recomposent.

Conclusion

41 Cet article souhaitait réinscrire les trajectoires des populations Sudistes dans l’histoire urbaine de Khartoum au travers de l’exemple du quartier populaire de Mussalass. Il a ainsi montré comment les politiques urbaines, puis nationales, se traduisent localement en se transcrivant dans la propriété foncière urbaine. Ce travail souhaite avoir démontré la pertinence d’une approche d’un quartier populaire et des mobilités des populations Sudistes par le foncier et l’immobilier. Cette approche nous a en effet permis, d’une part, de revenir sur les conséquences passées d’une politique urbaine discriminatoire en termes de marginalisation et, d’autre part, de souligner la mixité sociale qui existait dans les quartiers populaires khartoumois avant l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud. Cette entrée par le foncier nous a permis de saisir l’impact des politiques nationales (notamment les lois de nationalité qui conditionnent la propriété) sur ce que nous appellerons un deuxième mouvement d’exclusion urbaine des

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populations Sud-Soudanaises à compter de la sécession, tout en mettant en lumière l’importance des forces du marché (phénomène de gentrification) dans ce deuxième mouvement d’exclusion.

42 Enfin, cette entrée foncière se révèle également pertinente pour saisir les recompositions et différenciations à l’œuvre au sein de la catégorie « Sudiste » après l’Indépendance du Soudan du Sud et pour déconstruire une catégorie « Sudistes » forcément artificielle et réductrice au regard de la complexité des trajectoires familiales. En effet, selon l’espace d’origine au Sud, les familles n’ont pas opéré les mêmes choix concernant leur parcelle à Khartoum. La question de la sécurité qui se posait dès l’indépendance pour les populations originaires des zones frontalières a par exemple participé à la décision de ne pas vendre. Le maintien sur place des jeunes, notamment ceux qui devaient finir leurs études, et des personnes-âgées trop faibles, ou malades pour voyager, ou encore la mise en conformité avec la loi des familles désireuses de rester, sont des exemples des recompositions que cet article a mis en évidence.

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NOTES

1. Le choix d’une enquête qualitative suivant une approche systématique de porte à porte a été adopté en 2012. Au total, 61 foyers ont été interrogés. Cette enquête a été réalisée sans

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interprète, avec l’idée que ce que je perdrais en compréhension en n’étant pas accompagnée par un interprète soudanais serait compensé par une parole plus libre du fait de mon statut d’étrangère, plus neutre sur ces questions de séparation du Soudan. Trois entretiens semi- directifs auprès de résidents du quartier ont complété cette enquête systématique, auxquels s’ajoutent les entretiens menés en janvier 2011 dans le cadre d’une enquête préliminaire. Le second temps d’enquête (janvier-avril 2016) correspond à une mise à jour nécessaire, au vu notamment des conflits qui ont éclaté en 2013 au Soudan du Sud et du fait que nous sommes quatre ans après le premier terrain. Nous avons alors procédé par entretiens semi-directifs. 2. Il est important de noter que ces estimations incluent les populations Noubas dans les déplacés du Sud « environ 500 000 Dinkas, 80 000 Shilluks, 80 000 Bari, 64 000 Firtit, 46 000 Nuers, et 40 000 Funj, auxquels s’ajoutent environ 400 000 Noubas, 260 000 Furs, et 280 000 déplacés appartenant à d’autres tribus arabes » (idem). Or, si les Noubas ont été plus que largement victimes du conflit entre le Nord et le Sud, ils ne sont pas touchés de la même manière que d’autres populations sud-soudanaises par l’indépendance du Soudan du Sud et la question des retours. Cet article s’attachera à souligner l’hétérogénéité de la catégorie des « Sudistes », et les différenciations à l’œuvre actuellement. 3. Et notamment lors de la seconde phase du conflit (1983-2005), beaucoup plus meurtrière et dévastatrice pour les populations civiles du Sud Soudan qui fuient en masse et gagnent la capitale dans des proportions jamais connues jusqu’alors. La première phase de la guerre civile (1956-1972) avait elle aussi engendré des déplacements forcés mais ceux-ci concernaient essentiellement le Sud du pays. Au sujet de la guerre dans le Sud, voir notamment l’ouvrage de référence de Douglas Johnson (Johnson, 2003). 4. Cette ambigüité resurgit sur l’emploi de la terminologie « originaires du Sud » qui désigne les gens appartenant à des groupes ethniques du Sud du Soudan et se distingue donc de « natif ». 5. Noubas désigne des communautés originaires des Monts Noubas (Sud Kordofan). Comme toujours au Soudan, à cette identité régionale ou géographique se greffent des référents identitaires ethniques et culturels. 6. Les retours dans le Sud n’ont pas été uniquement portés par le plan de retour qui est loin d’avoir atteint ses objectifs initiaux (De Geoffroy, 2009 : 367). Les retours « spontanés » constituent l’essentiel des retours au Sud. 7. S’il existe des cas de conversion à l’Islam des populations sud-soudanaises installées à Khartoum, et une certaine « porosité » des appartenances religieuses, ces populations sont majoritairement chrétiennes et animistes. La présence d’une église dans un quartier est par conséquent un bon marqueur urbain de la présence des communautés sud-soudanaises. 8. Enquête du 22/08/13, parcelle n° 4 Fig. 3. Propos également tenus par le chef de famille de la maison n° 6 Fig. 3. 9. Enquête du 22/08/13, parcelle n° 40 Fig. 3. 10. De nombreux terrains de recherche dans la capitale soudanaise depuis 1999 me permettent d’observer les changements dans le paysage de la capitale, notamment depuis la signature du CPA. 11. Désigne l’opération de recensement de la population post-sécession par le biais de la mise en place d’une nouvelle carte d’identité nationale. 12. Entretien du 22/08 avec Lana (résidente à Mussalass). 13. Ce décompte est une estimation obtenue en croisant les informations obtenues sur le terrain avec l’image Google Earth. Une parcelle, plot en anglais, désigne la superficie allouée à chaque foyer pour y établir son espace de vie. La superficie dépend de la catégorie du quartier. Pour la catégorie 4, celle de Mussalass, les parcelles y font 200m² environ. 14. Al Mussalass signifie « le triangle » en arabe. Il s’agit du nom populaire du quartier, sa dénomination administrative étant 55 Ferdos.

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15. La région d’Abyei est l’une des trois zones frontalières problématiques (avec le Sud Kordofan et le Nil Bleu) qui s’étaient vu conférer un statut particulier dans le cadre des accords de paix (2005). Elle concentre une part importante des tensions entre les deux pays, les deux voulant l’administrer. A ce jour, aucun compromis n’a encore été trouvé. 16. Ce terme de « fabrique urbaine » est celui qu’emploie le ministre de la planification Banaga Sharaf Eldin Ibrahim (en poste de 1989 à 2001) dans ses ouvrages ; il exprime ainsi sa conviction quant à la nécessité de l’assimilation de ces populations migrantes. L’ensemble de ses écrits témoigne également d’une classification des déplacés, en fonction de leur origine régionale et de leur supposée plus ou moins grande aptitude à l’assimilation au modèle dominant (arabo- musulman). 17. L’établissement de ces villes de la paix en 1987 est un exemple de cette politique urbaine de mise à distance des populations migrantes nouvellement arrivées à Khartoum (Pérouse de Montclos, 2001). 18. L’arrivée en masse dans la capitale de déplacés en provenance des régions de l’ouest du Soudan (du Darfour, notamment) intervient durant la décennie des années 1980 et, plus particulièrement, lors de la sécheresse des années 1984-1985. 19. Pour les chercheurs, l’accès aux camps de déplacés de l’agglomération du Grand Khartoum est soumis à l’obtention d’une autorisation de recherche qui peut se faire attendre, et dont il est très difficile de se passer eu égard à la rapidité avec laquelle les forces de sécurité viennent troubler le déroulement des enquêtes en interrogeant le chercheur. Dans les autres quartiers de la capitale, il est possible de compter sur un temps de réaction plus long et une action moins déterminée des services de sécurité. Ainsi en août 2012, une semaine d’enquêtes quotidiennes à Mussalass s’est écoulée avant que je sois à mon tour interrogée. 20. Ville capitale du Sud-Kordofan située dans les monts Noubas. 21. Cette référence d’achat aux citoyens montre comment les deux systèmes légaux (coutumier et officiel) coexistent aux marges de la capitale (Casciarri 2015). 22. A titre d’exemple, sur la continuité de cette politique urbaine et de sa violence, on peut citer le déguerpissement de Shikan en 2004, et celui de Soba Aradi, en mai 2005, pour lesquels les moyens employés ont fait l’objet de critiques des acteurs internationaux sur place (De Geoffroy 2009). 23. Pour être éligible à l’allocation d’une parcelle il faut : être soudanais, avoir une famille à charge (avoir un certificat de mariage), être habitant du quartier depuis une date antérieure à 1990 (date qui fait l’objet de changements au cours du temps et en fonction du type de quartier), gagner sa vie (enquête socio-économique), ne pas avoir d’autre lieu de résidence dans l’Etat de Khartoum. Pour être relogé sur place, des critères et conditions s’ajoutent comme, par exemple, apparaître sur la liste sélectionnée par la lijna sha’biya (comité populaire - il est l’échelon administratif le plus fin mis en place par ce gouvernement). L’ensemble de ce processus désavantage les déplacés : pour l’obtention de papiers officiels et l’accès à l’information, ou encore pour le paiement des diverses « taxes » qui ponctuent le processus (De Geoffroy 2009 : 341-345). 24. Compte tenu des variations du taux de change, il est délicat de donner les prix en dollars. Ces derniers sont à appréhender comme des ordres de grandeur. En 2012, une location entre 400 et 600 SDG correspondait à une location comprise entre 70 et 110 $ et la location d’une chambre se situait entre 36 et 65 $. Les prix en 2016 à la location ont doublé. Le taux de change et l’inflation se sont eux-aussi envolés. 25. « La loi fondamentale sur la nationalité, le Sudan Nationality Act de 1957 définissait la nationalité soudanaise selon les critères suivants : une personne née au Soudan dont le père est né au Soudan, qu’elle ou ses ancêtres de ligne paternelle aient résidé au Soudan depuis 1988 (date amendée à 1924 puis à 1956). De même, il était possible d’obtenir la nationalité par naturalisation après un temps de résidence continue de 10 ans. Cette loi a été amendée plusieurs fois, mais

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jamais de manière substantielle, y compris en 1994 sous le gouvernement national islamique […] Enfin en 2005, année du Compréhensive Peace Agreement, un dernier amendement est introduit pour assurer plus d’égalité entre les sexes. Ainsi la nationalité a pu être transmise à travers le père mais aussi par la mère » (Vezzadini, 2013 :123). 26. Cet acte définit comme Sud-Soudanais « une personne dont un ou deux de ses parents appartient à une des communautés « indigènes » qui se sont établies au Sud en 1956 ou avant cette date, ou dont l’ascendance est identifiable à une des communautés ethniques du Sud, ou qui a été un résident de manière permanente et sans interruption au Sud depuis le 1er janvier 1956 » (idem). 27. Dès janvier 2011 et la publication des résultats du référendum d’autodétermination, des déclarations des autorités nord-soudanaises dans la presse insistent sur le fait que l’ensemble des Sud Soudanais présents au Nord deviendront étrangers à compter de la sécession (ibidem). 28. Cet accord est une réplique de l’accord du même type (et du même nom) conclu avec l’Egypte en 2004. 29. Cet accord des « Quatre libertés » fut finalement signé le 27 septembre 2012 sous le patronage de l’Union Africaine avec sept autres accords (parmi lesquels ceux concernant le transit du pétrole sud-soudanais, la sécurité, la mise en place d’une zone de démarcation à la frontière…), mais l’ensemble de ces accords n’ont à ce jour pas été mis en œuvre (Sudan Tribune, 25/05/2016, « Implementation of Agreement with S. Sudan is indivisible »). 30. Entretien dans la Parcelle n°6. Ces propos sont revenus plusieurs fois lors de notre enquête en 2012. 31. « Avant les sudistes avaient une valeur ici [Khartoum]. Mais je suis devenue comme une Ethiopienne, une étrangère. C’est devenu le pays de quelqu’un d’autre », Margaret, parcelle n°21, 2012

RÉSUMÉS

Cet article offre une lecture urbaine et foncière des retours au Sud de résidents « sudistes » de l’agglomération de Khartoum qui font suite à l’Indépendance du Sud. A partir d’un travail de terrain consacré aux transactions immobilières qui affectent le quartier populaire de Mussalass, dans la proche périphérie d’Omdurman, il s’agit d’analyser les stratégies familiales foncières et locatives des populations directement concernées par la séparation du Soudan du Sud de manière à saisir les recompositions à l’œuvre dans les quartiers populaires de la capitale soudanaise, ainsi qu’au sein de la population Sudiste du Grand Khartoum.

AUTEUR

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Sudanese’s capital city’s urban development, analysing land property conflicts is one of the core points of my research.

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Conflict with Others at a Bleeding Frontier: The Case of Tagoi in the Northeastern Nuba Mountains – Sudan

Osman Mohamed Osman Ali

1 The subject of this article is the Tagoi tribe 1, who have not received a great deal of attention from social scientists. It deals with the disputes over natural resources and political authority between the Tagoi, who claim prior access to the north-eastern Nuba Mountains,2 and the Hawazma Baggara (or simply the Hawazma) and their allies,3 who have arrived in the region recently in response to a variety of interests and attractions. 4 It studies the arguments from the Tagoi’s perspective.

2 The article is based on material collected during fieldwork carried out from November 2012 to March 2015 among Tagoi migrants in Khartoum State. The concentration of fieldwork in Khartoum State was due to security threats in the Tagoi Area and the recent presence of the largest group of Tagoi migrants in Khartoum, mostly on the outskirts of the three towns. Only one short field trip to the Tagoi Area, which focused on corrective and additional data, was organized in March 2015 as a finale to the fieldwork. This trip only became possible when an opportunity arose to visit the Tagoi Area to offer condolences for the death of the tribe’s king, Mek Mohamed Ahmed Hamdan Jabouri, which presented an opportunity for large numbers of Tagoi mourners to visit their home region, from which they had fled in 2011 because of an surge in the conflict between the government of Sudan (GoS) and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army North (SPLM/A-N) in areas of South Kordofan, including the Tagoi Area. The majority of Tagoi families were forcibly displaced to safer areas in Sudan, and the Tagoi villages were totally stripped of their populations. Only the families of the royal kin group (khashum albeit) are currently in Alfaydh, the capital of the Tagoi Kingdom, as Tagoi customary law prevents them from leaving Tagoi land under any circumstances, even if they risk extermination.

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3 The fieldwork included group interviews with men and women. Data were also collected through face-to-face individual interviews and telephone conversations with Tagoi with a profound knowledge of the history and culture of their tribe. Unplanned brief conversations with males and females of various ages were also conducted during occasions for celebration and mourning in Tagoi households in Khartoum and Alfaydh.

4 All the group interviews were conducted in Khartoum State, with the exception of one, which took place in Alfaydh. Between three and eight Tagoi from the elite and the ordinary population participated in each of twenty-six group interviews. The criteria for the selection of participants were the acquisition of in-depth knowledge and new information on issues for discussion. The participants were between 50 and 85 years of age. Two attended all the group interviews, as they were the link between the author and the Tagoi people and were the organizers of the group and individual interviews. Most of the participants were male ; women were only present at one group interview, but it lasted for six consecutive hours, concentrating on important issues relating to women. The participants were both members of the royal kin-group and commoners, including native administrators, casual workers, housewives, businessmen, soldiers, police, school teachers, government employees, workers and medical staff. Pensioners formed the majority of these participants.

5 To illustrate how the Tagoi’s oral history, which is briefly mentioned at various stages of this article, makes sense within the wider regional context (that is, the north-eastern Nuba Mountains, the "Kingdom of Tegali" and other areas of Sudan), brief relevant historical sources were reviewed ; they will be cited later in this article. Other secondary data were obtained by reviewing previous studies in the context of violent conflicts in Southern Kordofan, and a variety of extra secondary data has also been used in certain sections.

6 The article seeks to answer two principal questions stemming from the preliminary observations : (1) how did the mostly simple and locally manageable farmer-herder disputes about natural resources in the Tagoi Area escalate and then coalesce into the armed conflict between the GoS and the armed rebel movements in South Kordofan ? (2) what is behind the armed intervention by the government in favour of the Arab nomadic pastoralists in their conflict with the Tagoi over land and authority ?

The Tagoi: an historical background

7 Over the course of history, a large number of tribes have found refuge in the granite hills of the Nuba Mountains, which cover an area of 30,000 square miles, and whose boulders rise above the plain of Kordofan (Elles 1935: 4). We are therefore presented with a substantial variety of cultures over the small area in which the Tagoi live. The irregular rectangular-shaped Tagoi area ("Tatgoi", in the Tagoi language) is located in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains and stretches from north to south, angled in a slightly north-westerly direction (see map no. 1, below). According to a recent government-imposed boundary demarcation in South Kordofan State, the Tagoi Area is part of the Abu Kershola Locality,5 and is surrounded by the localities of Al-Rahad, Um Rawabah, Al-Abbasiyya, Rashad, Haiban, Dellami, and Habila. A number of tribal groups also surround the Tagoi : Nuba of the Mount of Daeir, Kajagjah, Tukom,6 Rashad, Tegali, Lunfan, Kawahla, Tira, Heiban Uttor, Kortala, Kawalib, and the inhabitants of the "Six Mounts".

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The Modern History of the Tagoi

8 Prior to the 16th century, many Nuba peoples were spread over what is today northern, central, and western Kordofan. The arrival in the 16th century of the Muslim Juhaina, who later formed the pastoral seasonal migrant tribes (such as the Baggara) in northern Kordofan and later on the Muslim Ja‘aliyyin and Ghudiyyat (of largely indigenous origin) in central Kordofan, and who also organized slave-raids and engaged in inter-tribal warfare, played their part in confining the Nuba to South Kordofan (Stevenson, 1962: 118-119; Stevenson 1963: 9). In South Kordofan, some Nuba occupied uninhabited hills, while others drove out weaker communities from their homes and occupied them themselves. There followed a time of plenty for the Nuba in South Kordofan. Vast tracts of land surrounding the hills were cultivated, so that when the Baggara arrived in Kordofan in search of pasture and water, they naturally turned southwards into this prosperous region at some time during the 18th century, drove the Nuba into the hills, and occupied all the best watering places. Sub-divisions were then put into place, with each sub-tribe of the Baggara taking its own area of hills and watering places. Each of these sub-tribes usually protected the hills in its own area in return for supplies of grain and slaves, and raided hills belonging to other sub-tribes. Much the same state of affairs persisted during the Turco-Egyptian occupation of the country in the 19th century. A few hills were attacked, and their populations wiped out, some sub-tribes paid tributes in the form of recruits for the army, and the remainder were left to the Baggara, who in return paid heavy tributes and provided the army with recruits who had been taken from the Nuba by force (Sagar 1925 : 138-140).

9 The first parts of the Nuba Mountains to be influenced by Islam through Islamic preachers were the hills in the north-east (Tegali, Tagoi, Rashad, etc.), which was perhaps the most easily accessible area (Stevenson 1963 : 10-11). One of these

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preachers, Mohammed Al-Jaʻali, came to Tegali from the north in about 1530. Kabr- Kabr, the chieftain of Tegali, gave him his daughter in marriage, and she bore him a son (Abu Jaridah). Kabr-Kabr died in due course, and Abu Jaridah was chosen as his successor. The kingdom to which he succeeded consisted of no more than a few hills in Tegali. It was he who first conceived the idea of facilitating the spread of Islam and extending his own power by bringing in settlers from the north and east. His descendants continued to spread Islam and expand the kingdom, and by the middle of the 17th century they ruled supreme over all the north-eastern Nuba Mountains. As rulers of an independent state who were on friendly terms with the powerful kings of Sinnar, they installed migrants from the Funj as subject kings (Meks) over the hills of Rashad, Tagoi, and Gadir, and in later years, both Rashad and Tagoi were allowed to become independent kingdoms. This was the Kingdom of Tegali before the coming of the Arab nomadic tribes, who began to arrive towards the end of the reign of Ismaʻil Mohammed Jeelyh Abu Gurun, the eighth king of Tegali (1705-1773), and continued to infiltrate the area until the 19th century. They all became subject to the kings of Tegali (Elles 1935 : 4-10, 19).

10 During the Mahadiyya, the Khalifa Abdullahi Al-Taʻaishi in 1885 dispatched a force to punish the Nuba Mountains for the increasing insurgences there. Hamdan Abu Anja in the west, and El-Nur Angara in the east, reduced the old kingdom of Tegali to a state of ruin and desolation. Eventually, towards the end of 1887, the two Emirs returned to Omdurman, taking with them the majority of those who had not been killed. Once again, Ibrahim El-Khalil, a young leader of the Mahadiyya army, who raided the Nuba Mountains in about 1892, inflicted severe punishment on Tegali, contenting himself with sacking the Tagoi and Kajagjah hills. Jeelyh Adam Dabello (1892-1916), who was king of Tegali when Kordofan was reoccupied, soon acknowledged the government of the new Anglo-Egyptian regime and remained loyal by force of circumstances. In 1899, a Mamur was posted to Keraia, 7 but it was not until some years later that a British Inspector was also posted (Elles 1935 : 25-26, 28-29). The new administrators saw that the only possible method of controlling the "broken fragments" of the old kingdom of Tegali, which consisted of diverse, largely autonomous, units in an area stretching from north to south (230 miles) with very poor communications, was to proceed slowly and allow the broken fragments to grow together, assisted by two main influences : common economic interests and the old traditions of the Tegali crown. The essential prerequisite – that all these fragments should be within a single administrative district – was satisfied in 1931, when Talodi was added to the Eastern Jebels District. Thereafter, common district headquarters and judicial and taxation systems, frequent meetings of the heads of the various divisions, and the opportunity for Mek Adam, the son of Jeelyh Adam Dabello, to visit even the most southerly of the areas that once owed allegiance to his forbears, all worked towards the same end: to bind the various parts into a greater whole without making them feel that they were losing their local or tribal identities. The expansion of the Tegali Kingdom then began, and Kawahla, Kenana, Hawazma Halafa, Moreib, Tukom, Turjok, Tagoi, Rashad, Nuba of Kau-Nyaro hills, Elliri, Aulad Himeid and Talodi Omodia were gradually added over a period of twenty-four years, after which time the kingdom of Tegali covered almost the whole of the Eastern Jebels District and comprised some 140,000 people within an area of around 15,000 square miles. No sooner had the government completed its policy of piecing together the broken fragments of the old kingdom and restoring the authority of its hereditary ruler than it transformed it into a warranted rural district council in 1947.

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This change was brought about with the minimum amount of dislocation. In this way, the old kingdom of Tegali, which had been founded in the 16th century, reached its apex in the 19th century, and was disturbed by the Mahdiyya and rebuilt by the Anglo- Egyptian government in the 20th century, ceased to exist after that time. It is not dead, however : rather, it has undergone a natural transformation in line with modern trends in Sudan (Kenrick 1948: 144-150).

11 The main turning points in the history of the Tagoi, which is chiefly based on traditional tales recounted by Tagoi informants8 and embedded in the main historical changes described above, are these : a small Arabic-speaking group of Muslim Funj was exiled from Sinnar, the capital of the Funj Kingdom, to the north-eastern Nuba Mountains following a dispute over political authority. This movement had taken shape during the reign of the first Tagoi king "Mek Kundan" (1726-1751), during a period that saw major political changes in the Funj Kingdom that explain why and how the Tagoi, as a Funj group, were exiled from Sinnar: between 1650 and 1750, the king of the Muslim Nubians reigned over lands from Dongola to Ethiopia and from the Red Sea into Kordofan, and exacted tributes from the neighbouring southern lands of Kordofan and Fazughli and from the Shilluk. Their kingdom was known both by the name of its capital, Sinnar, and as Funj Kingdom, after the name of its ruling group, the Funj (or Unsab), who were recognized as Arabs (Spaulding 1985: 3, 96, 212). The Unsab dynasty was overthrown in a coup that took place in about 1718. The reigning sultan was replaced by his maternal uncle, Nol. After a brief reign, Nol’s son, Badi IV, succeeded him, and their combined reigns (1718-1762) constituted the opening phase of what the historian Jay Spaulding has called the Heroic Age of Sinnar. The Funj then suffered repression, and Badi IV made a bold bid for the support of other elements in society (Spaulding 1985: 212-223, 284-286).

12 Intermarriages between the expatriate and host groups in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains resulted in a socio-cultural cross-fertilization, giving the Tagoi their distinctive culture and an acquired language with a local class-prefix and concord system and considerable Arabic influences (Stevenson 1962 : 122-125). The expatriates founded a kingdom and became holders of political authority. In line with the quotation from Elles (1935: 19) above, the kings of Tegali, who were on friendly terms with the powerful kings of Sinnar, installed Funj migrants as subject kings over the Tagoi and other hills. The Tagoi thus began to have direct contact with the Islamic world, and their lives started to undergo a number of changes during the reign of Mek Jabouri I (1828-1851) in the form of serious conversions to Islam and the Arabicization of the names of people and villages. Religious authority was acquired by the political rulers during the reign of Mek Jabouri II (1888-1896), when the orientation towards Islam first became prevalent among the Tagoi. After that time, the kings of Tagoi became both political leaders and men of religion, and the numbers of Qur’anic schools, mosques, and scholars of Fiqh and Islamic Shariʻa grew rapidly and Sufi missionary work accelerated a change in people’s perceptions, the disappearance of many local religious beliefs and practices, and the emergence of a new understanding of religion.

The Tagoi in the 20th Century

13 Between the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium period (1899-1956) and the present day, the Tagoi in the Nuba Mountains have undergone significant socioeconomic and political transformations: with the establishment of a strong administrative system in the Nuba

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Mountains during the Condominium, inter-tribal wars were brought under control, cultivation was extended outwards from around the foothills, and Nuba farmers began to rebuild their homesteads on the lower slopes and pediments fringing the massifs in areas exposed to government and commercial influences. This down-migration started in the early 1930s (Roden 1972: 79-80), and the Tagoi, too, descended from their mountains on the orders of their king, Mek Hamdan Jabouri (1933-1968) and occupied a number of permanent villages situated several miles on to the plains. The reasons for this descent included over-crowding, waves of epidemic diseases, the need for the newly-emerging modern social facilities (such as schools, hospitals, and markets), their desire to take advantage of better natural resources and protect their lands from settlement by outside groups, the introduction of rain-fed short staple cotton farming on the plains, and the construction of a cotton gin in Um Berimbeta in 1936.9 Since that time, the Tagoi have lived rather different lives, and have opened up to neighbouring tribal groups and wider Sudanese society.

14 As I will show in a later section of this article, there have recently been mass migrations from the Tagoi Area, as a consequence of which many villages there have been depopulated. The Tagoi have also suffered from a loss of access to many cultivable and grazing lands as a consequence of outright land-grabbing resulting from expanding agricultural schemes and direct interventions by the government or government- supported armed pastoralists. As they became one of the populations that inhabited a "hard border" with the newly-established South Sudan, while also remaining socially and culturally on the margins as before, the Tagoi have also been involved in the ongoing civil war since 2011, many of them fighting alongside the SPLM/A-N. They have been seriously affected by the counter-insurgency operations led by the government in the region, and have become almost an internal diaspora population, spread across various parts of Sudan.

15 Leif Manger sees the current violent conflicts in Southern Kordofan as falling within a tradition of enmities, unrest, and violence throughout the region’s history that is a result of the struggle for sovereignty over land and the right of self-determination of their development. Manger traces the historical legacies of these conflicts back to pre- war colonial times, and argues that since that time, questions of land rights and use have been framed in ethnic, religious, and racial terms, with the Nuba’s past as an enslavable population being perceived as the basis for their relations with other groups (Manger 2007, 2001).

16 Some studies have analysed how historical, social, and political dynamics have systematically marginalized the Nuba and deprived them of their customary lands. The Nuba were ignored during the peace negotiations between the GoS and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A),10 even though they were in a similar position of socioeconomic and political marginalization to the southern Sudanese. They are marginalized in the political and economic spheres in different ways, as they have also suffered a long history of oppression, and so the recent conflicts might also be a result of Nuba resistance to any further repression. These studies also explore how the Nuba Mountains have emerged as a borderland with geopolitical significance in the wake of South Sudan’s separation. This situation is associated with violent conflicts and contested boundaries, not only between Sudan and South Sudan, but also among several groups with economic and other interests in the area (Komey 2013, 2008; Abbas 1973; Mohamed Salih 1995; Kadouf 2001).

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17 As other studies have shown, denial of access to natural resources is also a key factor in the violence between the sedentary Nuba and the pastoralist Baggara groups in Southern Kordofan. While coexistence between the Baggara and Nuba is an important cultural feature, it was also shaped by competition over fertile land, water sources, and forest products, but the different modes of cooperation and conflict changed significantly during the civil war, and many forms of coexistence ceased to exist when one group lost its land rights entirely. To this one must add the natural resource-based conflicts between farmers and nomadic pastoralists in the Nuba Mountains, which intensified after the Comprehensive Peace Agreement signed by the GoS and the SPLM/ A in 2005, because they were no longer manageable using traditional conflict resolution patterns (Adam 2009; Suliman 1998; Komey 2008).

18 Intervention by the State, which often favours one side and excludes the other from land use, is one of the factors that escalated the conflicts in Southern Kordofan into nationwide civil wars. The revival of tribal militias there started at the beginning of the Second Sudanese Civil War (1983-2005).11 The government backed militias among the Baggara and incorporated them into the State’s institutions of violence. As a result of this, the Nuba people experienced extreme violence, as the government supported the Baggara groups in their claims over Nuba land and other resources by arming these groups against them (Mohamed Salih 1995, 1994), and the relations between the Nuba and Baggara changed from an uneasy peace to irremediable enmity (Suliman 1999).

19 Some studies argue that the concepts of identity and belonging have been driving forces of conflicts in Southern Kordofan. They focus on claims of an autochthonous identity among the Nuba, and explore the myths surrounding their origins, their relationship to the area, and the political implications in the context of socio-political processes in the region. Claims over communal land on the grounds of autochthony become a source of identity politics, and the way the Nuba constructed these policies and how the neighbouring Baggara responded to these claims in the context and aftermath of the civil war are explained. The Nuba’s land claims, which were backed up with ethnic, cultural, and religious explanations that were closely connected to the concept of the Nuba Mountains as their ancestral homeland, have been challenged by the Baggara and the modern Sudanese state, and this has led to a conflict between legality according to the State and the legitimacy of the traditional institutions (Komey 2009, 2008; Manger 2007; Suliman 2002).

A Basic Perspective

20 The Tagoi people generally draw their social life and social relations perspectives from their tribe’s political and administrative hierarchy, in the past from the king down to his advisors and then his subjects, and nowadays from the Amir down to the Omdas and Sheikhs and then his subjects. They used this pyramid of authority formally to depict how their homes were located on the Mount of Tagoi, where the homes of the king and his married children were at the top of the mountain, the homes of the king’s advisers directly below, and the commoners’ homes at the bottom of the mountain. This depiction extends to the conical roof of the hut: Tagoi informants perceive its structure as being similar to the pyramid of authority and the style of their houses on the Mount of Tagoi. Typically, the roof of a hut consists of four main large wooden posts that are installed vertically and then tied together with three main round ties of thin horizontal

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wooden posts that bear the names of the social strata in the politico-administrative hierarchy: the king (jittar), the king’s advisors (jindi), and the general public (yidro).

21 During the reign of Mek Adam Jabouri (1910-1933), the Tagoi native administration attempted to build the Tagoi kingdom across its wider geographical area using the same perspective for building huts or homes, both of which have the same name in the Tagoi language (kon). They demarcated its borders with neighbouring tribes and then installed Tagoi families from the various social strata along these borders to secure property rights and control entry by non-Tagoi. Mek Adam Jabouri then announced the borders of Tagoi Area and that they were owned by his tribe, and issued a decree imposing fees on non-Tagoi persons who crossed through or resided in this area. This action became necessary when the Tagoi began to descend from the Mount of Tagoi and spread out in villages on the plains below.12

22 In the run-up to the reign of Mek Adam Jabouri, no regional government had authority over the Tagoi area. It was only after the execution of Mek Gedayl Jabouri13 that the Anglo-Egyptian colonial authorities established their tutelage in the area, which has been part of the State of Sudan since that time. It was therefore essential for Mek Adam Jabouri to demarcate the borders of the Tagoi kingdom. The main reason behind this demarcation was to reserve the land and its natural resources. Some Tagoi informants claim that when their grandparents first left their mountain, the surrounding flatlands were completely devoid of people, as they were also part of the Tagoi territory. For them, the areas within this territory are currently either inhabited by the Tagoi alone or shared between the Tagoi and the other recently arrived groups (Hawazma, Barno, Bargo, Fallata, Bedeiriyya, and Masalit).

23 The building of the wider kingdom structure was not complete following the border demarcation, however. For the Tagoi informants, the main bonds representing the different social strata were not strengthened as a hut is traditionally built, and did not connect all the parts and levels of the kingdom. Many Tagoi migrated out of the area, and the kingdom has therefore become a free area for settlement by Hawazma and their allies,14 who have succeeded in developing an independent native administration in the area, and have begun to contest the Tagoi’s rights to political authority and land.

24 Many Tagoi are of the opinion that it was their former native administrations after the reign of Mek Adam Jabouri that gave these newcomers tracts of land to temporarily settle on and cultivate, but they have recently claimed ownership of these lands. As I have mentioned before, the Tagoi claim that they were deported from Sinnar areas in the early 18th century and settled in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains. Later migrations brought groups from Barno, Bargo, and Fallata, who over time became minorities in the newly-established Tagoi territory, working in rain-fed agriculture and in orchards. Another three groups of nomadic cattle herders (Baggara : the Hawazma and Ambararo) and camel herders (Abbala : the Shanabla) began passing through Tagoi territory as they moved between their autumn homes (makharif) in North Kordofan and summer homes (masayif) in South Kordofan or South Sudan (the Kaka area of the Upper Nile region).

25 Initially, there was peaceful coexistence and reciprocity between Tagoi and these late arrivals. Men from these groups would leave their wives and children with their Tagoi neighbours when they moved southwards with their animals. They even had "sowaybat" (stores) at the homes of Tagoi families to store the crops they harvested from the cultivable land tracts that were often offered to them for use during their presence in

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the Tagoi Area and that they could not take with them to North Kordofan. In return, many Tagoi used to give the new arrivals their cows to look after with their own. Members of these late-arriving groups celebrated occasions of both celebration and bereavement with their Tagoi neighbours, and enjoyed close friendships with them. Even in situations where their animals encroached on to Tagoi cultivations, the Hawazma consistently and voluntarily came to the affected farmers to pay adequate compensation for their losses. These intimate relationships extended to the point where the native administration of Tagoi provided the Hawazma with places to stay overnight on dunes of red sandy or semi-laterized clay loam soil ("garadid", singular "gardood"), which in most cases extended from the north to the south of the Tagoi territory. This gift led to disagreements between the native administration of Tagoi and the ordinary Tagoi people 15 that escalated to violence. As some Tagoi informants describe them, these garadid are areas where large trees abound, and there are plentiful large termite hills (ganattiir) where large serpents live (such as the serpent called "ras al-shaytan" [head of the demon]). For the Tagoi, the north-south direction is inauspicious and associated with demons and their movement, and it is the direction of the garadid that is believed to make them a "natural" abode for demons. In any event, the garadid are the places where the Hawazma stay overnight, and many Tagoi identify them and their cattle as demons. The relationship between garadid, demons and the Hawazma not only tells us that the Tagoi informants are inclined to demonize the Hawazma, portraying them as wicked and threatening, but also shows that the Tagoi leaders gave garadid to Hawazma because according to the Tagoi’s belief system they are uninhabitable and uncultivable areas of land: the Tagoi do not live or cultivate crops on the garadid because they are the places where demons reside. The subsequent conflict between the two groups was not about the garadid, however, but about fertile land and housing areas. Nevertheless, although they were unusable, inauspicious and associated with demons, the garadid could be granted to the Hawazma as temporary overnight accommodation in accordance with certain agreements and conditions. They are not allowed to form permanent settlements for them, however, simply because they form an integral part of the Tagoi’s inherited lands.

Controlling the Movement of Outsiders

26 For the Tagoi informants, the Hawazma had an ancient "mirhal" (plural "maraheel"), a term that means a specific route for a nomadic pastoral group. Their mirhal still exists today: it starts from their home area of Al-Hammadi in the north and goes south, first through the areas of Kadero and Kortala, and then across the areas of the "Six Mountains" to the west of the Tagoi Area’s western border, and through the areas to the west of Kawalib and Sheibun and the east of Kadugli (see Map no. 1, above). It then proceeds southwards to Bahr Al-Arab. Since the early 1970s, however, the Hawazma have started to use new maraheel that cross the Tagoi Area from north to south.

27 According to some informants, when the Tagoi were living on the Mount of Tagoi, the Hawazma were grazing their cattle in the surrounding lowlands. Just after the Tagoi descended on to these lowlands, the Hawazma and other smaller groups began to settle with them. The Tagoi native administration allowed these groups to settle with the Tagoi on the steppes, which they thought of as Tagoi property for many years. At the time, there were other maraheel that were used by other small nomadic pastoral

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groups, who crossed the Tagoi Area as they moved between their masayif on the rich savannahs of South Kordofan and South Sudan and their makharif on the poor savannahs of North Kordofan in search of water and pastures. Over time, many families from the host and transient groups, which were rapidly growing in size, began to take possession of tracts of land with a view to settling in the region permanently.

28 The reign of Mek Adam Jabouri saw the beginnings of the organization of the maraheel for the nomadic pastoral groups that had been accustomed to crossing the Tagoi Area. These maraheel had entrances, exits, places to stay overnight and tracks for movement, which the Tagoi native administration used to identify at its annual meetings, and which were basically intended to prevent animals encroaching on to the Tagoi’s cultivations and other properties. Um Berimbeta was the first area the Hawazma passed through on their journey from the Allouba area (Al-Rahad) in North Kordofan southwards to the Liyya Um Sharmout area in the southern part of the Nuba Mountains or the Kaka area (Upper Nile) in South Sudan.16 When they arrived at Um Berimbeta, the Hawazma would send a delegate to the king of Tagoi to inform him of their arrival in the region and their numbers and to pay the transit fees. It was only after this had been done that the Tagoi king would give them permission to dig wells for drinking water and use the pastures along the marked maraheel. At the beginning of the rainy season in North Kordofan in June, the Hawazma returned to their makharif in North Kordofān along the same marked maraheel. There were three maraheel for the Hawazma in Tagoi territory, which still remain open today. The first passes through non-agricultural areas, starting in Um Berimbeta and crossing the areas of Tandawah, Toamah and Tajmalah. The second starts in Um Berimbeta and passes to the east of the Tarawah agricultural areas and to the west of the Rashad agricultural areas (that is, the Malgat and Sharak agricultural schemes). The third starts in Um Berimbeta and crosses Al- Awaja and Al-Rihaynah, and then Hajar Yasin near Ambayr, from where it goes along the sharie alhawa (highway) directly to Talodi.

29 The descent from the Mount of Tagoi on to the plains did not create clear conflicts with the tribal groups in the region at that time. In the beginning, the conflict between the Tagoi and Hawazma took the form of simple underlying disputes between farmers and shepherds about natural resources, and it was manageable by the use of the available conflict mitigation mechanisms. When, for example, a conflict emerged as a result of an encroachment of nomads’ animals on to the Tagoi farmers’ cultivations outside the marked maraheel, it was resolved by a committee of "ajawiid" (mediators) made up of representatives of the tribal groups in the particular area and chosen by the advisor concerned, a Sheikh or an Omda. If the native administrators failed to resolve a conflict, they would hand it over to the police, to be handled through the justice system by applying Sudanese criminal law.

Repeated Evacuation and Land Grabs

30 There have been several waves of forced mass migrations from the Tagoi Area over more than a hundred years. Some have been due to authority issues and feelings of injustice, oppression and exclusion, while others have been associated with national resistance uprisings.17 These six migrations took the following forms: (1) the group that accompanied Mek Jabouri Jeelyh II (1888-96) on his military campaign against Abyssinia during the Mahdist revolution; (2) the group of soldiers Mek Gedayl Jabouri (1897-1910)

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sent to support Sultan Ali Dinar in his fight against the Anglo-Egyptian army in Darfur; (3) the families and other close relatives of the assassinated Mek Idris Karbos Jeelyh (1896-7) and his brother Ismail, who migrated to Abbasiyya; (4) the groups that fled from the Mount of Tagoi after heavy artillery shelling in 1910 by Anglo-Egyptian forces during the reign of Mek Gedayl Jabouri; (5) the group of horse-riding Tagoi fighters the Anglo-Egyptian government deported to Darfur after the killing of Mek Gedayl Jabouri; and (6) the groups that have recently been displaced from the area because of the ongoing civil war in South Kordofan between government forces and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement-North (SPLM/A-N). Over the course of time, all these events and mass exoduses have led to a sharp decline in the number of Tagoi and to many areas being depopulated.

31 A hundred years after the significant population loss in their tribe as a result of violence between the forces of Mek Gedayl Jabouri and the Anglo-Egyptian government, the Tagoi have also found themselves involved in the current civil war, which began in 2011 and has produced an acute crisis and the displacement of large numbers of Tagoi families.

32 Since the late 1970s, many pockets of Hawazma, Bargo, Barno, Fallata, Masalit, and Jallaba merchants have settled permanently in the various Tagoi areas and have become involved in disputes with them over natural resources and political authority. The reason behind these settlements is that when the land included in the mechanized agricultural schemes that had been constructed in the areas of Um Lubia and Rideena within the Tagoi Area by the Nimeiri government in 1978, which included a total area of more than 50,000 acres, was distributed,18 these groups took the lion’s share, as they had the funds to purchase it. Owing to a lack of money, and despite the complaints filed by the Tagoi native administration with the authorities concerned, most Tagoi were not successful in buying land within the mechanized agricultural schemes.19 The establishment of mechanized agricultural schemes in the Tagoi Area did not affect the nomadic pastoral activities of the Hawazma and others, however, because the areas where these schemes were established had previously been marshland and therefore were no good for cattle herding, and the nomadic pastoral groups’ maraheel also passed through the mountains, away from these marshlands. Establishment of these schemes involved a considerable portion of the Tagoi agricultural lands that have been completely abandoned by them with the passage of time. Other parts of the Tagoi agricultural lands were taken away to become maraheel for the nomadic pastoralists. Because of this, claims of ownership of these lands by these groups have begun to surface. This is in addition to the Tagoi land that had previously been cut for cotton production and cotton gins, and other land that was taken from the Tagoi Area and annexed to neighbouring areas. For example, Um Berimbeta, Um Lubia, Waykaya, and other areas of fertile agricultural lands were attached to the native administration of the Hawazma (the Emarat Al-Halafa). The Hawazma also took Abu Kershola, to which the areas of khor Dileeb and Ambayr were later affiliated administratively. These were the fertile western and southern areas of Tagoi territory, and had formerly been used for cotton production. As a result of all of this, the social map of the Tagoi Area has been changed with regard to its borders.

33 As the Tagoi informants told me, the period in Sudan the recently arrived migrants into the Tagoi Area exploited most was the Nimeiri Regime (1969-1985). 20 They did so by taking control of all the administrative structures at a provincial level by becoming

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involved in the Sudanese Socialist Union, which was the country’s only legal political party between 1971 and 1985. By so doing, the members of these groups took possession of political authority and were thus instrumental in setting up the mechanized agricultural schemes in the areas of Um Lubia and Rideena and distributing their lands on terms that took the financial capabilities of the members of their groups into consideration.

Latest Developments

34 Since the beginning of the Second Sudanese Civil War between the central GoS and the SPLA/M, security concerns have prevented the Hawazma and Ambararo from reaching their traditional masayif in the South Sudan side of the border. These security concerns previously arose because of the war, but since the secession of South Sudan in 2011 they have shifted to the international border between Sudan and South Sudan. Nonetheless, the Ambararo easily managed to move their masayif to the Liri area in South Kordofan, although they still pass through Tagoi territory without settling in the Liri or Tagoi areas permanently. The Shanabla had no tradition of travelling to any area beyond the present border with South Sudan, because the final destination of their southbound movement is the Kabus area of Rashad Locality in South Kordofan. The Ambararo and Shanabla therefore had no problem with adapting to the latest developments; this problem was confined to the Hawazma, who had to look for a solution. Some settled in Tagoi territory in the form of dense concentrations (hallal, neighbourhoods) in three areas (Alfaydh, Um Berimbeta and Abu Kershola), where they began to purchase Tagoi land.

35 According to the Tagoi informants, the Tagoi have recently felt that the Hawazma’s strategy for adapting to the recent security and political developments involves a plan to grab land and settle in Tagoi territory, emptying it of its traditional owners through militarization and joining the militias supported by the GoS in its war against the SPLM/A-N rebels in South Kordofan. Based on this feeling, many young Tagoi males 21 have joined the SPLM/A-N to be armed and to receive military training that might help them protect their land.22 Consequently, there has been an escalating conflict over land and political authority between the two tribal groups under the umbrella of the armed conflict between the GoS and the SPLM/A-N.

36 In order to increase their strength against the Tagoi, the Hawazma joined the Barno, Bargo and Fallata in an alliance under the name "Al-Halafa" based on a common interest in land acquisition. Historically speaking, during the reign of Mek Adam Jabouri (1910-33) a "Mandobia" (representative office) with limited authority was granted to the chief of the Hawazma to permit him to rule his group on behalf of the Tagoi king. Under the current National Salvation Government (specifically in 1995), the Hawazma Mandobia has been upgraded to an independent principality known as the "Emarat Al- Halafa",23 with a shift of most of the group’s members from the former Ansar Al-Mahdi and Umma Party to current support of the ruling National Congress Party (NCP), and heavy involvement in the government-supported militias.24

37 For many Tagoi informants, the current key difference between the Emarat Tagoi and the Emarat Al-Halafa is that the former governs settled people who enjoy the right to both own and use land, whereas the latter governs nomads, who only have the right to use the land along the maraheel for cultivation and grazing. The disagreement

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regarding the nature of the two types of native administration was what lay behind the escalation of the conflict between the Tagoi and the Hawazma and their allies (Al-Halafa). The Tagoi informants believe that granting Al-Halafa an independent administration parallel to the Tagoi’s means that these newcomers share ownership of land with them, an attempt that they depict as looking for a bloody conflict on the ground.

38 There had been a series of conflicts between Tagoi and Hawazma in previous times,25 but these were resolved by the use of a successful mechanism: the king of Tagoi and the Omda of Hawazma routinely met in a place between their residential areas (mostly at the Mangala rest-house in the Toamah area). The litigants had to appear before them and relate their problems from their own respective points of view. Since the conflict between Tagoi and Hawazma has been associated with the renewed civil war in South Kordofan, however, the native administration no longer has adequate authority or powers to intervene in and resolve local disputes.

39 All of this is in addition to the premeditated intention to drive the Tagoi from the area. The current National Salvation Government has used the fact that one of the leaders of the SPLM/A-N (Abdel Aziz Al-Hilo) is a Tagoi and that many young Tagoi men have recently joined the SPLM/A-N against the Tagoi, and the situation has encouraged the government to support the Hawazma and their allies politically and militarily in their conflict against Tagoi over the ownership and use of natural resources. The Tagoi informants believe that this support is extensive, and that one of its consequences has been the mingling of Arabism with the popular defence force that supports the official army of the government against the rebel movement, which has also mingled with non- Arabism. Political mobilization in the Tagoi Area to participate in the war has therefore been along "government versus opposition" lines. The Tagoi have split into two segments : a smaller one that supports the government, and a larger one that supports and/or joins the SPLM/A-N. The former group is said to come mostly from the lower, and politically weak, social strata in the various local communities of Tagoi, while the latter is mostly from the upper, and politically strong, social strata.26 The Hawazma have chosen to support the government in order to bring their plan to seize land and political authority in the region, which all the Tagoi informants view as being historically properties belonging to them, to fruition. The Hawazma have also had the opportunity to acquire sufficient strength to achieve this. The government has had to balance its support for the Tagoi, who support it to a limited degree, but clearly support the armed opposition, and its support for the Hawazma, who support it completely. The Tagoi have therefore been deprived of government support, and they also feel that the government "stands in line" with the Hawazma and their allies. As a result, and with the escalation of conflict into more excessive violence, more Tagoi have joined the armed opposition in the Nuba Mountains, and others have been displaced to other parts of Sudan. The Tagoi Area has become a land of war, armed robbery, and other forms of mass violence that have generated a feeling of insecurity among all the residents of the area (the Tagoi, Hawazma, and others) and hence have forced many to move away to safer areas. It has been observed that during the escalation of the conflict, the Hawazma frequently failed to stick to the defined maraheel, as the cases of the intentional encroachment of herdsmen’s animals on to Tagoi farms has increased considerably, stirring a great deal of violent friction.

40 Some Tagoi informants are of the opinion that the conflict between the Tagoi and the Hawazma over land and political authority has recently become entangled with the

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political conflict between the GoS and the SPLM/A-N: these informants describe the conflict between the Tagoi and Hawazma as both “tribal” and "political", as between the Tagoi and the Hawazma and their allies, including the central government. With the intervention of the government and opposition groups, the local conflict between the Hawazma and Tagoi has reached a new dimension. The government wanted more supporters who could carry arms and fight on its behalf against the rebel SPLM/A-N in the Nuba Mountains in general, and the Hawazma and their allies have taken advantage of this need, enrolled in the government-backed militias, and thus obtained arms and advanced military training that has benefited them in their conflict with the Tagoi, which was formerly of a limited scope, because it was associated with the use of elderly light weapons between limited numbers of people. The recent possession of modern firearms has extended the conflict to include highly-trained armed forces and armaments.

41 In June 2011, after the secession of South Sudan, the civil war broke out again between the GoS troops and the SPLM/A-N in many areas of South Kordofan, including the Tagoi Area. The renewed war has forcibly displaced the majority of Tagoi families to safer areas in Sudan, particularly in Khartoum, Kosti, Al-Rahad, El-Obeid, Wad Medani, and Sinnar. As I mentioned above, the result of this mass displacement has been that most Tagoi areas are now unpopulated. Only the families of the royal kin-group (the iyal Jabouri) are in Alfaydh at present, as the king and his family are prevented by Tagoi customary law from travelling and settling permanently outside the borders of the kingdom under any circumstances.

42 Some of the Tagoi informants described the latest escalation of conflict between Tagoi and Al-Halafa. As they tell it, this escalation started with the assassination of Omda Abdul Karim, the Omda of Abu Al-Hassan village, in Alfaydh by a group of armed Hawazma, who attacked him as he was leaving his home to conduct the night-time prayer (ṣalat al-ʿishaʾ) at the mosque. Omda Abdul Karim was one of the harshest critics of the presence of Al-Halafa in the Tagoi Area and was outspoken in declaring the need to force them to leave the area. After his assassination, a powerful movement to expel the Al-Halafa from the area grew among the Tagoi. Meanwhile, the Al-Halafa called a meeting, at which large numbers of their young men assembled and were armed, and a plan was prepared to attack the Tagoi in their various areas during the Eid prayer and wipe them out. As an incentive for the young combatants, land and orchards owned by Tagoi people were distributed to them in advance as proceeds of war. The plan was to make the entire Tagoi Area the property of the Al-Halafa. The attack began in Alfaydh and moved to a number of other Tagoi villages – Ambayr, Toamah, Abu Al-Hassan, Al- Mansur, Jibaylat, and Tarawah – which were completely run down and abandoned and occupied by Sudanese army forces during the period of fieldwork on which this article is based. The attack, which was carried out by troops from the popular defence forces composed exclusively of Al-Halafa and backed by the government army, was accompanied by the killing of residents and the burning of houses. The young Tagoi from the SPLM/A-N intervened militarily to defend their people, taking the Mount of Tagoi as their base, and with this military intervention, the attack was halted.

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Concluding Remark

43 The social order the Tagoi have built over more than two centuries has weakened due to factors including armed conflicts or security threats, land grabs for agricultural investment, government-influenced native administration, migrations, and contacts with other communities. Their old independent kingdom no longer governs them ; instead they are currently living in a modern State in which they cannot organize themselves as their grandparents did. National and local developments have affected their possession of both political authority and land, with its natural resources, as they have lost both with the passage of time. The former land ownership, the customarily agreed tribal boundaries, and control over the passage of nomadic pastoralists are no longer recognized under the modern State, whose conditions have created most of the changes we have studied in the lives of the Tagoi.

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NOTES

1. Although currently contested in African studies, the term "tribe" is used in this article because all the Tagoi informants speak of their own and their neighbouring groups as "tribes". Many people from neighbouring groups (such as the Kajagjah, Rashad, Tegali, Tira, and Kawalib) also identify the Tagoi as a "tribal group". It is therefore practical to use this term. 2. According to an oral tradition, the Tagoi migrated from the Arabian Peninsula to Abyssinia, from Abyssinia to the Funj Kingdom, and then from the Funj Kingdom to the North-Eastern Nuba Mountains. They arrived there in the second quarter of the 18th century, at the beginning of the reign of their first king, Mek Kundan (1726-1751). This chronological calculation is what the Tagoi depend on for proving the precedence of their existence in the area of the Mount of Tagoi and its surrounding plains. Hawazma settlement in the Tagoi Area began in the 1940s and 1950s during the reign of Mek Hamdan Jabouri (1933-1968). In short, the Tagoi claim their status as "first comers" to the area, and are thus autochthonic there. 3. These include Jallaba merchants and some groups from West Africa: Barno, Bargo and Fallāta (locally known as "BBF"). 4. These interests and attractions involved grasslands, extensive fertile lands that are suitable for growing important cash crops, and opportunities for successful trading. 5. Source: warrant of establishment of Abu Kershola Locality, South Kordofān State, 2014. 6. One should not confuse "Tukom" with "Tagum". The first is a subgroup of the Tagoi tribe, while the other is a subgroup of the Rashad tribe. Both live in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains. 7. Keraia was the capital of Tegali Kingdom until it was moved to Abbasiyya in 1929, during the Anglo-Egyptian rule. 8. The historical accounts that follow are based on a version of oral history that is common among the Tagoi and is narrated by informants of different ages and from different social strata. No other versions of this history were touched on during the prolonged fieldwork. Hardly any documents were available to cast light on the history of the Tagoi: the documents that related these historical accounts were burnt in 1942 in a lightning strike on the home of Mek Hamdan Jabouri Jeely (1933-1968), the father of the late Mek Mohamed Ahmed (1968-2015), the former kings of Tagoi (mentioned by Mek Mohamed Ahmed Hamdan in a group interview, Khartoum, 24/11/2012). 9. Source: the foundation stone of the cotton gin in Um Berimbeta. 10. These are the negotiations between the GoS and the SPLM/A that began in June 2002 to end the Second Sudanese Civil War (1983-2005), to develop democratic governance countrywide, and to share oil revenues. They culminated in the January 9, 2005 signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA), also known as the Naivasha Agreement. The CPA was a collection of agreements that the GoS and the SPLM/A signed between 2002 and 2005. Included in the CPA are updates and amendments to previous protocols. It further sets a timetable for a referendum in Southern Sudan on its independence. The peace process was encouraged by the Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD), as well as by IGAD-Partners, a consortium of donor countries. 11. The Second Sudanese Civil War was largely a continuation of the First Sudanese Civil War, which was a conflict between the northern part of Sudan and the southern Sudan region from 1955 to 1972 that demanded representation and more regional autonomy. 12. As mentioned previously, the documents that related this information were burnt in 1942 at the home of Mek Hamdan Jabouri Jeelyh. 13. Mek Gedayl led an active Tagoi rebellion against the new Anglo-Egyptian colonial rule in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains until he was captured and executed in 1910. Later in the same year, the Anglo-Egyptian colonial authorities preferred hi s brother, Adam Jabouri, as his successor in order to calm the volatile situation in the area of Tagoi. The Tagoi then became

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subject to the Tegali Kingdom, which, with the support of the Anglo-Egyptian rule, became the dominant kingdom in the region, before it was converted into the so-called "East Jebels District" (Kenrick 1948: 144-148). 14. The Hawazma who settled in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains have splintered into subgroups: (1) the Abu Al-Ali Hawazma, who in turn split into four internal kin-groups: Dar Gwad, Awlad Qaboush, Dar Baytti and Naiili; (2) the Al-Halafa Hawazma, who are divided in turn into eight internal kin-groups: Dar Ali, Dar Fayid, Al-Assirrah, Awlad Quhaym, Awlad Tatbiddo, Salamat, Al- Ayadgah, and Al-Togiyah; and (3) the Rawawgah Hawazma, who split into three internal kin-groups: Dar Jama'a, Awlad Nuba and Dallahya. Each of these Hawazma subgroups has an administration led by an Omda. These administrations were formed with the introduction of the Nazirate system in the early 1950s, before Sudan gained independence from the Anglo-Egyptian Condominium. The Hawazma then nominated a Nazir to rule over them (Al-Tahir Al-Nour Khawai). During these last years of Anglo-Egyptian rule, the Hawazma had no permanent settlement in the Tagoi Area. Later, they only had three settlements in the Alfaydh and Um Berimbeta areas, each of which was confined to a small kin-group from the Al-Halafa Hawazma, which was expelled from the Hawazma homeland for misconduct (committing murder or engaging in conflict over political authority): Salamat, Dar Fayid, and Al-Ayadgah. 15. The old political and administrative hierarchy of the Tagoi included representatives from the different residential areas, who made up a "board of advisors" for the king. The king and his advisory council represented the political authority, and were involved in all large and small matters concerning the Tagoi tribe. Since the reign of the late king (Mek Mohamed Ahmed Hamdan), the label "king" has been replaced with "Amir" (prince), just as the label "advisors" has been replaced with "Omdas" and "Sheikhs". Political and administrative offices are hereditary through the male line, and hence exclusive to certain families. The office of king is inherited as follows: two girls who have never been married, and who are selected according to certain criteria, are seated beside the new king at his investiture, one on his right and the other on his left. One of these two girls must be from his mother's side, and the other from his father's (to satisfy the two parties). The new king must marry these two girls at that moment, even if he has been married before. The first son the king fathers by one of these two wives becomes the Prince of the Crown, or the son who deserves to be the next king of the Tagoi. 16. Hawazma families that only had a few cows tended to stop in the Liyya Um Sharmout area, while families with many cows usually continued on to Kaka. 17. There were other voluntary migrations from the Tagoi Area (labour, educational, rural-urban, etc.). These were migrations of individuals with no significant impact on the local demographic structure, which is why they have been excluded from the list. Besides, there was no mass migration from the Tagoi Area during the First Sudanese Civil War, simply because the area was not part of the war zone. 18. Um Lubia is in the southern part of the Tagoi Area, between Alfaydh and the border with Liri and Tira. Rideena is in the western part of the Tagoi Area, between the Mount of Tagoi and the border with Kawalib. 19. Source: Mek Mohamed Ahmed, the former king of Tagoi, in a group interview, Khartoum, 24/11/2012. 20. These recently arrived migrants include groups of Hawazma, Bargo, Barno, and Fallata. 21. Most of these young rebels joined the SPLM/A-N in response to the Hawazma's attack on the Tagoi areas in April 2011. They came from a variety of social strata. 22. These Tagoi rebels engage in military activities that are designed to halt Hawazma expansion over Tagoi land. These activities manifest themselves in the form of engaging in armed skirmishes with Hawazma cattle herders, killing large numbers among them, and abducting their livestock. They also take the form of targeting Hawazma residential areas. Their aim is to weaken the potential of the Hawazma and destabilize their settlements.

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23. The headquarters of the Emarat Al-Halafa is Um Berimbeta. 24. This political and administrative development coincided with the change in the old political and administrative hierarchy of the Tagoi through the replacement of the king-advisers structure with the Amir-Omdas-Sheikhs structure that is known and used in many Sudanese communities. The change was part of an overhaul imposed by the government of South Kordofan State in 1995, when every king in the region was renamed "Amir", and their advisors were given the labels "Omdas" and "Sheikhs" in accordance with their particular administrative levels. One purpose of the change was to create some sort of equality between the various existing kingdoms and emirates in the region in terms of the rights to land and socio-political significance and weight. 25. The first war between the two sides was in the 1940s, when the Tagoi expelled the Hawazma from the Tagoi Area by force. 26. One legend recounted by the Tagoi informants tells that in ancient times, a man and his wife gave birth to pairs of leopards, serpents, lions, bees, humans, and small red locusts. All these pairs lived as one family. Over time, the pairs of leopards, serpents, lions, bees, and locusts were expelled into the wilderness for misconduct, while the human pair remained with the parents. The pairs in the wilderness developed into spiritual beings that the Tagoi distinguish from similar natural beings. It is believed that there are spiritual and blood bonds between these spiritual beings and various Tagoi families, as they are all come from one couple. Members of the families associated with these spiritual beings could see them or use them for their own benefit. The importance of each animal or insect illustrates the social statuses of the Tagoi kin-groups. At the top in terms of importance is the leopard, for its strength, courage and fierceness, as it is the "king of animals". The kin-group linked to the leopard (royal families) enjoys political authority and the highest social status. Next come the serpent and the lion, which are seen as deputies of the leopard, because they are also strong, brave, and fierce, but to a lesser degree than the leopard. Next are the bees, which provide people with food and symbolize goodness, while also being dangerous. In last position come the locusts, which are harmful. Importantly, persons inherit their fathers' social status, whether it be the kin-group of the leopard, serpent, locusts or other spiritual beings.

ABSTRACTS

This article looks at the escalating conflict between the Tagoi and Hawazma and their allies over natural resources and political authority in the north-eastern Nuba Mountains, from the Tagoi’s perspective. It explains why and how the Tagoi Area has become a free zone for settlement by the Hawazma and their allies, who have succeeded in developing an independent native administration in the area and have begun to contest the Tagoi’s rights to political authority and land. It illustrates how security concerns associated with the Second Civil War between the government of Sudan (GoS) and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A) first and the Sudan/South Sudan international border after the secession of South Sudan in 2011 have contributed to the escalation of this conflict. It also shows how this conflict has recently become entangled with the armed conflict between the GoS and the SPLM/A-North, thus attaining a new dimension.

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INDEX

Keywords: conflict, land, authority, border, territory

AUTHOR

OSMAN MOHAMED OSMAN ALI Osman Mohamed Osman Ali is an Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Sociology and Social Anthropology at the Faculty of Economic and Social Studies of the University of Khartoum. He has published around 21 books, chapters, articles in journals, and reports on sociological and anthropological theories, juvenile and youth violence, Muslim diversity, non- Muslims in northern Sudan, Jama‘at Attabligh wa Adda‘wa, faith-based peace-building in Sudan, safety on paved highways, gender relations and the position of women in Sudan, and other issues. He also has considerable two-decade long research experience through his involvement in a number of feasibility studies, research projects and surveys on various topics. He has also presented scientific papers at numerous international conferences.

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Thriving on chaos: the war in Darfur and the transformation of the authoritarian coalition

Anne-Laure Mahé

The author wishes to thank the Centre for Social, Legal and Economic Studies in Khartoum for its financial and logistical support during the fieldwork this paper is based on.

1 In May 2008, for the first time in the history of Sudan, a rebel movement reached the gates of the capital city. Darfur’s Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) had brought the war from the periphery to the economic and political centre of the country. The assault was pushed back, but it was nonetheless a sign that a regime that had long seemed unshakeable might actually be weaker than had previously been thought.

2 The current regime was established in June 1989, following a coup d’état orchestrated by the National Islamic Front (NIF) and carried out by a faction of army officers, among whom was Omar al-Bashir. It was only after a few weeks, however, that Sudanese and foreign observers alike understood the major role played by the Islamists, who were led by Hassan al-Turabi. The newly-established regime did not shy away from using violence. People were forced out of their jobs, demonstrations at the University of Khartoum were repressed, and most importantly, the secret services were reformed. This organization, which was initially renamed IS-SOR and is now known as the NISS, became one of the cornerstones of the regime’s rule, and the infamous “ghost houses”, secret prisons where opponents were sent to be killed and/or tortured, were created (International Crisis Group 2011: 60). Those early years of violence have left an enduring legacy among the Sudanese, especially as the regime has been careful to demonstrate its ruthlessness time and time again1.

3 Adding to this form of political violence, the war was also reignited in the country’s provinces in the south and east and in the western province of Darfur. While their root causes are complex, and can sometimes be found in local disputes, there is little doubt that these conflicts are the consequence of a mixture of economic and political marginalization, with an added layer of cultural discrimination and racism arising from

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the regime’s policies of Islamization and Arabization2. Indeed, Omar al-Bashir’s government has long been accused of fuelling these wars while carefully protecting its backbone, which is Khartoum and the nether riverine regions from which most of Sudan’s elites have come since independence in 1956. In the end, conflicts come and go in Sudan one after the other, but still Bashir stands strong in Khartoum, and his re- election in April 2015, although plagued by suspicions, has confirmed his grip on power.

4 That said, his longevity in the face of adversity from a multiplicity of rebel groups is rather odd, especially since many of them have identified the regime as the source of Sudan’s problems, both political and economic. It was, for instance, the main topic of the mysterious “Black Book”, whose writers called themselves ‘The Seekers of Truth and Justice’, which was disseminated around Khartoum in 2010. It contains an abundance of data and facts about the marginalization of every periphery in the country (Flint and de Waal 2008: 16), echoing the “New Sudan” discourse that was propagated by the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A), the main southern rebel movement, although it eventually turned its back on it when it signed the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) in 2005. Despite its name, the CPA did not include any rebel movements from Darfur, or from anywhere else for that matter.

5 In this article, I question the relationship between civil wars and authoritarian resilience. I attempt to go beyond the notion that these wars are threats that the regime must overcome in order to survive, and follow De Waal in exploring the existence of structured governance systems in areas and times of turbulence (de Waal 2016). Looking at the transformative effects of the war on the “winning coalition” (de Mesquita and al. 2005), the small group whose loyalty keeps the autocrat in power, I argue that civil wars provide autocrats with opportunities. More specifically, they represent a moment when autocrats can find and groom new members of their coalitions in a way that entrenches their power. To develop this argument, I focus on the war in Darfur, and rely on both preliminary data collected during a field trip in Khartoum in early 2015 and secondary sources. Interviews were conducted with Darfuri officials, members of the opposition parties, and rebel movements, as well as with civil society actors. Research conducted in authoritarian contexts faces specific challenges, such as limitations on what informants are able to say without taking risks. It was therefore necessary to gain the interviewees’ trust, for instance by ensuring the anonymity of the process, and to accept rejection, but also to interpret silences and contradictions during the interviews. Another way to improve the quality of the data has been through triangulation, using information that had been provided during other interviews or from secondary sources. Within these limitations, the primary aim of this article is to explore an argument that may provide an answer to a specific theoretical and empirical puzzle.

6 The paper is divided into three parts. The first offers a brief review of the literature on the relationship between war and authoritarian regimes, and discusses how the notion of the winning coalition can be used to comprehend the mechanisms that connect them. The second looks at way the war has proceeded, and introduces a new central actor, the Janjaweed. The last explores the impact of the inclusion of this actor on the regime’s strategy, focusing on its function within the broader security apparatus. The paper concludes with some remarks that question whether the allies the regime has

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groomed in this context are really supportive of it, as there are no unequivocal allies in Sudan.

Investigating the factors of authoritarian resiliency: war and the winning coalition

War in the study of authoritarianism

7 The literature is rather indecisive on the issue of the relationship between civil wars and authoritarian resilience, which relates on a broader level to the question of the use of violence. The recent renewal of interest in research on the topic of authoritarianism, which has been focused mostly on the role of nominally democratic institutions, has set aside the question of the use of violence. This decision has been justified by the idea that authoritarianisms after the third wave of democratization are qualitatively different from their predecessors. For many researchers, authoritarianism has transformed itself to respond to the challenge of the spread of the democratic norm, leading to the appearance of what have been coined “hybrid” regimes, which mix democratic and authoritarian traits (Carothers 2002, Diamond 2002, Levitsky and Way 2002). Furthermore, these regimes are starkly distinct from the forms of extreme personalization of power – such as those practiced by Idi Amin Dada and Jean-Bedel Bokassa – that were common during the immediate post-independence period. There are also nowadays fewer military regimes, which used to be the most common type of non-democratic system (Tripp 2004). These regimes were characterized by their use of violence, an area in which they possessed a comparative advantage (Fjelde 2010). According to Tripp (2004), authoritarianism has softened, and Picard (2008) seems to concur when she writes that most autocrats seek to avoid using violence, instead implementing strategies aimed at internalization of the balance of power. Analyses of authoritarianism have therefore moved away from definitions that postulate an affinity between violence and authoritarianism (see especially Médard 1991) towards definitions that function more as typologies built upon criteria of “who governs” (see, for instance, Geddes 2003 and Geddes 2004). Some authors, such as Svolik, nonetheless still highlight the continued importance of violence, though often as a background feature: “political power in dictatorships, even when nominally exercised through political institutions, must be ultimately backed by a credible threat of violence (Svolik 2009: 479)”. It has also been argued that violence is a counter-productive strategy, especially when used indiscriminately: if an individual cannot avoid a regime’s violence by remaining inactive, he or she is much more likely to join the opposition (Zahar and Saideman 2008; Kalyvas 2006; Cai 2008). A regime can therefore end up threatening itself: “Repression may work in the short run, as it raises the cost of dissent. But dissent delayed can be much stronger and more violent (Saideman et Zahar 2008:11-12)”.

8 Furthermore, authoritarianism that uses too high a level of violence exposes itself to international sanctions that might endanger the regime through their economic effects (see, for instance, Brownlee 2002). This idea of violence as a double-edged sword can be linked to the debate in the literature on civil wars between proponents of an approach that describes violence as a form of hubris and authors who consider it to be instrumental: that is, something actors can use to reach their political or military goals (Valentino 2014). As De Waal explains, both cases do coexist in a specific political

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marketplace that is defined as “a system of governance run on the basis of personal transactions in which political services and allegiances are exchanged for material reward in a competitive manner” (De Waal 2016: 1). Sometimes, violence will be used as a tool to enhance someone’s position, and sometimes it will “arise from error” (De Waal 2016: 3), when one participant misjudges the rivals or the market.

9 In order to move beyond these debates, there is a need for more case studies that highlight the exact mechanisms by which violence and authoritarian resiliency are connected. It may be especially fruitful to connect the use of violence, whatever form it may take, to other resiliency factors that are investigated in the literature. Gerschewski, for instance, has provided a model of the interrelations between what he calls the “three pillars of stability” – legitimation, repression and co-optation – demonstrating how one can reinforce the other (Gerschewski 2013), and yet his use of the concept of repression places violence in the form of civil war outside his framework. Indeed, most research on authoritarianism, including those I have quoted above, addresses violence by referring to repression and forgetting about civil war, despite the fact that the line separating these two phenomena is often blurred. Here, I propose to consider civil war as a form of violence that may play the same role as repression in an authoritarian context, as both forms of violence can overlap. Civil wars, according to Kalyvas, are a type of “armed combat within the boundaries of a recognized sovereign entity between parties subject to a common authority at the outset of the hostilities” (Kalyvas 2006: 5). They are complex processes involving micro and macro struggles. One of the factions is usually the State’s armed forces, which are part of a broader security apparatus that includes the secret services and multiple police organizations. While the latter are often considered to be the force that implements repression, the roles are not usually as clear-cut, just as the transition from a local insurrection that can be repressed to a full-blown civil war that needs to be fought is more a matter of a political framing process than it is a mechanical one. Civil war, I argue, is both an externality of authoritarian politics and a governance strategy in itself, as it can lead to transformations within the winning coalition.

The winning coalition

10 The concept of the winning coalition has become somewhat ubiquitous in the North American literature on authoritarian politics. It has been borrowed from De Mesquita, Bruce and Siverson’s research, in which they argue that every regime type needs to preserve the loyalty of the group to which it owes its power – the winning coalition – which is part of a larger group called the selectorate. In order to maintain this loyalty, leaders can choose to distribute either private goods, which are only given to members of the coalition, or public goods, which reach the totality of the selectorate by means of state policies. In democracies, the winning coalition is made up of the entire selectorate, as the leader is chosen through elections and universal suffrage. These regimes will therefore rely more on the implementation of public policies (De Mesquita, Bruce and al. 2003: 8). The opposite applies in authoritarian regimes, where the winning coalition will be limited to a small group.

11 Identifying with precision who is part of a winning coalition in authoritarian contexts can prove rather difficult, not only because the coalition evolves over time, but also because secrecy often prevails, and people who appear to have power may sometimes

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be puppets in the hands of others. The process of identifying a coalition may be easier in hybrid regimes that organize electoral processes, digged as they may be. Looking at who is allowed to participate and who is allowed to win can give an idea of the individuals and the broader category of people whose support is deemed necessary by the autocrat. It is also possible to look at the members of key institutions, although it would first be necessary to clearly identify where the locus of power lies. Another solution is to investigate co-optation practices, more specifically the distribution of goods and privileges, which again show whose loyalty is being nurtured. De Juan and Bank’s research on which area of Syria still had electricity despite a period of power shortages highlights one of the many ways to identify if not who exactly the members of the winning coalition are, but at least the portions of the population that are favoured by the regime (De Juan and Bank 2015). Finally, it is important to incorporate the dynamic dimension of these coalitions into our analysis. Authoritarian regimes do not always rely on the same strategy or the same groups to maintain power. As they are confronted with challenges, both internal and external, autocrats who are able to have a fluid coalition, one that can evolve to respond to these challenges, are best placed to avoid being overthrown. Indeed, the transformation of many regimes into hybrid regimes signals this capacity to retain power through an ability to adapt.

12 The argument presented here is that in the case of Sudan, the war in Darfur presented a challenge that was overcome because of the regime’s ability to transform its winning coalition. This was not done as a response to the war, however; it was achieved through the war itself, meaning that there is a strong congruence between strategies implemented to win wars and resiliency strategies. Whether these strategies achieve their aims is not necessarily relevant here, as my purpose is not to reconstruct the connection between actors’ supposed goals and their “end results” a posteriori3, but to investigate the processes in order to highlight certain “situational logics” (Dobry 2007). Therefore, while I recognize the capacity of actors to actually devise strategies, I also take into account the possibility that these strategies may have an impact on processes other than the ones they were intended to influence.

Fighting the war in Darfur

The root causes of the conflict: the convergence of micro and macro struggles

13 This civil war, which officially started in 2003, is still under way, despite the fact that a peace agreement – the Doha Document for Peace in Darfur (DDPD) – was signed in 2011. It is not my purpose here to dwell on the sources of the conflict, which are especially intricate, but I will attempt to offer a quick overview of the events that I hope will do justice to this complexity. While Darfur only became the theatre of a full-blown civil war in 2003, the roots of the conflict go back to the development policies implemented since independence in 1956, which have marginalized the region. Tensions reached new heights in the 1980s, when Darfur was affected by drought. This was nothing new in itself, but it was combined with a national economic crisis that crippled the advance of Darfur’s commercial economy, which had been progressing in preceding decades (De Waal 1989: 78). This situation resulted in population movements from one area of Darfur to another, as well as to other parts of the country. Most importantly, nomadic

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Arabs4 and members of the Zaghawa group travelled towards less affected areas such as Jebel Mara. Disputes multiplied as “movements to other dars5 and the lack of respect for the traditional system of organizing this movement led to confrontation” (El- Battahani 2009: 46). Faced with growing tensions, many groups began to arm themselves and build their own militias (El-Battahani 2009: 46). It is important to underscore that these quarrels did not systematically oppose Arabs and non-Arabs, and that the ethnic groups that populate Darfur should not be considered to be completely homogeneous communities. As a matter of fact, many of the actors in the conflict straddled the borders between different identities quite easily. Nonetheless, various Arab groups came together at the end of the 1980s, uniting for a war against the Fur (1987-1989). They formed a political block called the Arab Gathering that was influenced by the pro-Arab ideology that was being propagated by the Libyan government at the time (de Waal 2004: 720). This is this period during which the Janjaweed started to appear as a more or less cohesive group, the word itself traditionally referring to gangs of outlaws from neighbouring Chad (Flint and de Waal 2008: 36). According to Mamdani, the Janjaweed began as an armed militia supplied by the Arab camel nomad groups who formed a minority within the organization (Mamdani 2010: 231).

14 What ignited the spark at a local level in 2003 was the fact that certain nomadic groups were failing to respect the traditional migration routes that had been agreed with the farmers –mainly Fur, in this case – under the supervision of the local authorities (interview, Darfur Regional Authority (DRA) member, Khartoum, March 10 2015). The incident quickly escalated into killings and raids, and it was when these small-scale quarrels intersected with national politics that they turned into a full-blown civil war. The appearance of two movements that began to articulate their grievances in terms similar to the SPLM/A’s discourse played a major role in this process. They were a response to the longstanding dismissive attitudes and marginalizing policies that had been implemented by the centre since colonial times and were then pursued by al- Bashir’s regime (El Battahani 2009: 55). The first, the Sudan Liberation Movement/ Army (SLM/A), had the support of the SPLM/A, and was composed mostly of Zaghawa and Fur and to a lesser extent of members of the Masalit, Beri, and Meido groups. The appearance of the second movement, the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM), was related to struggles within the regime’s winning coalition.

15 In 1999, the alliance between the Islamists led by Turabi and factions of the military led by Bashir came to an end. The policies promoted by the NIF were unsustainable, especially because Turabi’s insistence on making Sudan the centre of a global Islamist revival movement ended up isolating the country on the international stage (Marchal and Messiant 1995). Even its closest allies, the Saudis, became wary of it when the government welcomed Osama Ben Laden to Khartoum. As funding from donors and international organizations dried up and embargos were implemented, Sudan’s economic situation became dire. In 1999, Turabi made his move to become the elected leader of the nation, and attempted to sideline Bashir. It did not work. Bashir used his hold on the army to exclude Turabi and his followers from the political game, and Turabi was placed under house arrest. But he did not disappear from the national stage completely : he created a new party, the Popular Congress Party (PCP), which joined the ranks of the opposition (Burr and Collins 2003; Ahmed 2009). This marginalization of the Islamist old guard fuelled the conflict in Darfur. Displeased with the situation,

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members of the PCP generated unrest in the western provinces in order to destabilize the regime, and though Turabi denies it, it is said that he is behind the creation of the JEM, or is at least one of its main sponsors (El Battahani 2009: 66; Flint and de Waal 2008).

16 Both these movements contributed towards taking the conflict to a new level, as their grievances were actually a criticism of Sudanese governance overall. They protested against the marginalization of the region, and demanded improved distribution of wealth and power. In this attempt to address national-level issues, they downplayed the importance of ethnic divisions (Flint and de Waal 2008: 16). It is also probably no coincidence that these movements appeared at a time when the negotiations between the SPLM/A and the government had begun to gain momentum. Some Darfuri politicians may have thought the moment was right to present similar claims, as the negotiations might be a sign the regime had been weakened.

The Janjaweed as the cornerstone of the government’s strategy

17 The two rebel movements, especially the SLA/M, quickly achieved their first successes on the ground. To counter them, the government decided to recruit militias from among the Arab groups, relying on a strategy the regime - but also the preceding ones, including during the democratic interlude (1986-1989) - had already used in the south (Flint and de Waal 2008: 23). This had the advantage of allowing the regime to argue on the international stage that it was clearly not fighting a war in Darfur. This form of sub- contracting was also a cheap way to fight the war, at a time when the government’s finances were strained by a lengthy conflict in the south that had reached a stalemate: retirement and other benefits do not need to be offered to militiamen as they do in the case of members of the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF), and no contracts are signed (interview, retired army officer, Khartoum, April 28 2015). In order to lead this war on its behalf, the government identified key personalities, of whom the main – and most infamous – one was Musa Hilal. The sheikh of the nomadic Arab Mahameed group, Hilal established his headquarters in the area of Misteriha in North Darfur in the mid-1990s, leaving Aamo, the town where his father had established himself in 1973 and used to hold court. In little more than a decade, Misteriha became a military base where Hilal’s men were trained (Flint and de Waal 2008: 38). He had already been involved in the fighting before the conflict broke out, and had ties with the then-Governor of North Darfur, General Abdallah Safi el Nur. He had also been a leader of the Arab Gathering, a coalition of Arab groups, since the 1990s (HRWA 2005: 12). The next Governor, Lieutenant-General Ibrahim Suleiman Hassan, apparently found Hilal too troublesome, and concerned about the increasing tensions in Darfur, he detained him and sent him to prison in Port Sudan, on the other side of the country. According to Human Rights Watch, this led to a decline in the number of attacks committed by the Janjaweed (HRWA 2005: 13).

18 After SLA/M’s initial victories, however, Hilal was liberated, and Suleiman was removed from his post by the President. The Sheikh settled in the Kebkabiya area, where he organized meetings during which he ordered his fellow tribesmen to attack non-Arab villages (HRWA 2005: 12-13). Although exactly what was promised to the fighters cannot be known with certainty, the fighting offered them the opportunity to make what they were trying to take since the 1980s theirs: land. This pressing issue had been

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the reason behind attacks from one group or another in many parts of Darfur since the 1960s, following waves of migration from the northern areas, which were affected by drought, and from neighbouring Chad that increased the pressure on available farmland (Abdul-Jalil and Unruh 2013: 166–167). The issue was exacerbated by various land reforms, such as the 1970 Unregistered Land Act, which stated that all land that was not registered at that date belonged to the government, and the abolition of the custom-based Native Administration in 1971. These reforms allowed the newcomers to claim land rights, disregarding the customary rules that had previously regulated the allocation of land among groups (Abdu-Jalil and Unruh 2013: 166-167). The government’s intervention in the division of Dars in Western Darfur in the 1990s increased tensions, leading to “a devastating ethnic conflict and widespread insecurity” (Abdul-Jalil 2006: 16), and a state of emergency was declared in Western Darfur from 1995 to 1999. As Kalyvas reminds us, the relationship between the national framing of a civil war and people’s motivations on the ground is a complex one, as more often than not “individual and local actors take advantage of the war to settle local or private conflicts often bearing little or no relation to the causes of the war or the goals of the belligerents (2003: 475–476)”. Darfur is a textbook case in this respect: not only did the JEM and SLA/M frame a fight that had its origins in very local situations in terms of a national governance issue, but there was also a mutually beneficial alliance between certain Arab groups and the government. It is important to mention, however, that not all groups contributed to the Janjaweed, and that many people opposed this strategy. In any event, from then on, the Janjaweed began to act in coordination with government forces, which provided weapons and logistical support.

19 Testimonies collected by Human Rights Watch describe the attacks as joint army- militia endeavours: “In many cases, villages were first heavily bombed, then the Janjaweed and army ground forces moved in, again with aerial support, to ensure the “cleaning up” of any remaining civilian presence (2005: 19)”. Antonov aircraft, helicopters and Sudanese military vehicles were regularly spotted alongside the camel- riding Janjaweed (HRWA 2005, 16). Both sides have denied any such coordination. Hilal blamed the SAF for the attacks, claiming he was “only a coordinator for the Popular Defence Force”, as “training, uniforms, and guns are the responsibility of the military people” (HRWA 2005: 19). The government, on the other hand, denied its involvement with the Janjaweeed (de Waal 2004: 724). Despite these claims, the relationship between the regime and Hilal was obvious, and his frequent round-trips to Khartoum left few doubts. According to Tubiana, the relationship between the Janjaweed and the central government involved three levels of authority: • the local tribal leader, Hilal, who was - at least at the beginning of the conflict - not much more than a mere underling; • local politicians and/or military men from Darfur, who were closer to the epicentre of power in Khartoum. • the regime hardliners (2005: 176).

20 One of the people whom many consider to be responsible for organizing the Janjaweed at a higher level is Ahmed Haroun, who was Minister of the Interior at the time. He is currently the subject of a warrant issued by the International Criminal Court – as is Bashir – for his involvement in the war.

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The Janjaweed and the security apparatus

A counterbalancing strategy

21 As mentioned previously, the government’s reliance on militias to fight its war in Darfur is not a new strategy. It had already been used in the South, fuelling divisions within the rebel movements by pitting one group against the other, and while Bashir’s regime does have a long history of creating militias, the same policy was also implemented by Sadiq al-Mahdi in 1986, when he “established militias to counteract the NIF militia and to serve in the war against the SPLA” (Salih 2005: 8–9). This process of creating militias can be interpreted as part of a counterbalancing strategy. As early as 1989, the new leadership had created a paramilitary militia called the People’s Defense Force (PDF). This was arguably Turabi’s idea, the aim being to create an armed force that would be loyal to the NIF, as opposed to the SAF, which, Turabi apparently claimed, was too secularized to be completely devoted to his project (Burr and Collins 2003: 193). It is therefore necessary to understand the appearance of the PDF in the broader context of the regime’s inside politics, with Turabi and Bashir’s dual governance. The early years of the regime also saw the rising importance of the security services. Well-trained and well-financed, the presence of the NISS is pervasive in the lives of many Sudanese. While it is very difficult to find reliable information about the inner workings of the regime, even more so in the case of the security apparatus, it is said that the NISS is not only completely independent from the armed forces but also the one organization that is truly the strong arm of the regime (interview, professor, Khartoum, March 25 2015). According to one of the interviewees, during the JEM’s attack on Omdurman in 2008, the SAF ended up being caught between the rebels and the NISS’s forces, who launched their attack without any consideration for the military and decimated their ranks (interview, retired army officer, Khartoum, April 28 2015). In 2011, to add to these internal divisions, Bashir announced the creation of a small force called the Strategic Unit, which was to be in charge of crushing any revolt against the regime (International Crisis Group 2011: 14). This fragmentation of the security organs goes even further, as “the police are broken into regular, public order and popular police, the central contingency force and transhumance route police. The Jaali section of the upper elite reportedly has a private force (the “Precious Stones”) under Bashir’s command” (International Crisis Group 2011: 14). One actually has only to wander around Khartoum a little to see this fragmentation incarnated in the many different uniforms that can be spotted along the streets.

22 This can be interpreted in different ways. While some might relate it to internal power struggles, with each faction arming itself to the teeth, the idea that it might be a sign of the regime’s weakness needs to be approached carefully. According to some of the interviewees, these factions are part of the regime’s policy of deceit. Referring to an attempted coup in 2014, one stated that the perpetrators were later released because “they are part of the system (interview, rebel leader, Khartoum, April 29 2015)”, while another explained that: “All these people who are ruling the country are united, but they behave as if they are divided… It is a kind of deception, the message that there is a hope they are going to collapse. But this collapse, which might come, as a consequence of their fragmentation or conflicts, is itself being used to intimidate the Sudanese or the international community. If we are to fight each other, this would bring hell to

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Sudan. And not only Sudan, to the whole region”. (interview, professor, Khartoum, March 22 2015)

23 Another interpretation of the fragmentation of the security apparatus, and the one favoured here, is that this is part of a counterbalancing strategy that is not, however, necessarily consciously implemented as such. Recent literature has attempted to describe the strategies dictators use to avoid coups, which are named coup- proofing strategies. The army in particular is looked upon suspiciously, as it is the actor that has the means to implement a coup. One of the most common practices used is counterbalancing, which consists in dividing the army into different organizations, for instance by creating paramilitary forces (Belkin and Schofer 2005; Lee 2005; Powell 2012). These groups will then compete with each other, for funding, for example. The creation of the PDF, the reinforcement of the NISS, and the subsequent creation of different bodies all contribute towards curtailing the power of the army, while at the same time making sure that no organization becomes completely overbearing. While it is true that the extent of the NISS’s powers seems to contradict this theory, and that this interpretation needs more investigation, it is not unthinkable that the process of counterbalancing might be derailed as the years go by, with one organization taking the lead over the others. At the same time, given the near impossibility of knowing what happens within these organizations, it may very well be true that the NISS is not as omnipotent as it is thought to be.

From expandable allies to last bulwark of the regime

24 In any event, the Janjaweed, who became the government’s allies during the conflict, are acquiring importance within the whole apparatus, and gaining power to a point where they may actually be counterbalancing that of the NISS, even though the relationship between the two remains unclear. According to one interviewee, it is the NISS that orchestrated the repression of the demonstrations that took place in September 2013 in many large cities, with the Janjaweed executing the orders (interview, rebel leader, Khartoum, April 29 2015). The Janjaweed have actually been brought in from Darfur to be stationed on the outskirts of Khartoum. While some claim that they are only there for training purposes (interview, retired army officer, April 28 2015), others argue they are there to stay, a claim that seems to be corroborated by recent events. Indeed, according to the Enough Project NGO, the Janjaweed were reorganized in 2014, and a part of them was transformed into a new organization, the Rapid Support Forces, led by Mohamed Hamdan Daglo (also known as Hemeti), and integrated into the NISS (Kumar and Ismail 2014). According to Ahmed Hussain Adam (2014), in May 2014, “Mr Bashir used the force in Khartoum - not for the first time, but on an unprecedented scale - deploying at least 3,000 of the RSF’s estimated 10,000 fighters in the capital and placing it under the direct command of the NISS”. This situation has fuelled tensions in these neighbourhoods, with reports of clashes between the local population and the repackaged Janjaweed (Sudan Tribune 2014; Sudan Tribune 2015). Analysing the government’s composition after the 2015 elections, Ali and Hussain Adam (2015) further argue that the Janjaweed are now one of the main pillars of the regime. The members of this government “are either army generals or NISS officers, or maintain strong connections with the NISS, the SAF, and the Janjaweed”. Hemeti secured some key positions for his relatives and supporters at different levels of the government, meaning that “Hemeti and his Janjaweed militia (the RSF) have been

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given the upper hand in the new government and crowned as Bashir’s personal army” (Ali and Hussain Adam 2015). This indeed raises the question of the control of the NISS over the Janjaweed, which seems more and more in doubt.

25 Undoubtedly the Janjaweed, or at least a part of them, are becoming an increasingly vital part of the winning coalition. The way this militia is used also reflects the regime’s governing techniques. According to a Professor at the University of Khartoum, one of the devices the regime is using to ensure its survival is intimidation, which for the government means showing the Sudanese that if the regime falls, the situation is going to become even worse, a threat that is especially effective with the rise of ISIS in neighbouring countries. Here, intimidation is intrinsically related to the use of coercion, with the idea that “if we [the regime] are threatened, we are going to destroy everything, everything is going to explode. So a lot of Sudanese now (…) they will tell you that yes, it is better” (interview, professor, Khartoum, March 22 2015). The deployment of the Janjaweed serves a specific purpose here: it sends a message that if people try to oppose the regime in ways that are considered to be too overt, they will pretty much let the dogs out, and if they are toppled, these people will have no one to control them and all hell will break loose. The government’s reaction when popular demonstrations took place in Khartoum in 2013 therefore served as a sort of reminder that the status quo is preferable: “The first day there is very minor response from the government. On the second day, even some police and military began to send cordial messages to the people on the streets. But on the third day, as the President himself put it in the TV, they have recourse to what they called…They said for the first day we allowed the people to express their…and the second day we saw that they began to destroy public and private properties. And that is why, on the third day we switch to…the Janjaweed, with their land cruisers, with these … and with guns and they…250 people died. Students, workers and the like. And that is how they put…and this was a very strong message. We are going to kill as much as possible if you continue to be on the streets. They are using this device very effectively and a lot of people on the street, ordinary people, they do believe that this government is bloody and they can kill.” (interview, professor, Khartoum, March 22 2015).

Concluding remarks: ambiguous allies

26 Managing a winning coalition is a tricky business. One has to balance factions to give them power with one hand, while making sure with the other that they do not start to feel too emboldened, to the point of fomenting a coup. As they reach the epicentre of power and make themselves less and less expendable, the Janjaweed’s leaders may start to get ideas the regime might find distasteful. This seems to be the case with Musa Hilal, who began his transformation from local leader to a politician of national stature at the end of the last decade. In 2008, he was nominated as a special advisor to the President. Then, after gaining a certain amount of prominence, he defected from the NCP in 2014 and launched his own party, the Sudanese Awakening Revolutionary Council (SARC) (International Crisis Group 2015: 11). He simultaneously made a decisive move to take control of gold mining in the Jebel Amer area of North Darfur. In April 2014, the Sudanese Ministry of Minerals awarded the concession for the exploration of gold deposits in the area to the MAM Group, a Sudanese industrial group, a decision to which Hilal replied by warning the company not to come without the agreement of the area’s local and tribal authorities (Radio Dabanga 2014a). In fact, he had actually

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created a management board for the mine. It was said during a meeting that “the responsibility for protection of the gold mine lies with the management board, and not with the regular forces” (Radio Dabanga 2014b). On this occasion, Hilal reportedly called on the Sudanese to fight the regime (Tubiana 2014; Radio Dabanga 2014b). Relations with the regime became strained, and looked to be beyond repair when he gave the regime an ultimatum in early 2015: either the government responded to the SARC’s demands – which were probably about the gold, although little specific information is available – or it would face unspecified consequences. He then instructed his followers to boycott and obstruct the election in Darfur (Sudan Democracy First 2015). In February, however, the government apparently accepted his demands and signed a memorandum of understanding with the SARC. Hilal finally endorsed Bashir’s candidacy and even mobilized his troops, this time to pressure voters. Perhaps in order to further confirm his loyalty to the regime, the long-time governor of North Darfur, Osman Youssif Kibir, whose troops fought Hilal’s, has recently been dismissed. His daughter’s wedding to Idriss Deby, the Chadian President and a regional power broker, in 2012 might have also reinforced Hilal’s position.

27 Hilal’s behaviour demonstrates the porosity of the insider/outsider dichotomy, and how easily these defining lines can be crossed. More than this, “border-straddling” is a fully-fledged political strategy in Sudan: Hilal is not the first personality to blithely switch sides in order to pressure the government into meeting his requests. This undoubtedly ties in with the idea that factions within the regime are not much more than power devices created for the purpose of cutting a larger slice of the national cake. In the end, no faction is interested in overthrowing the system, because each benefits from the marginalizing power structure that forms the cornerstone of the regime. It should not be forgotten, however, that this structure did not emerged suddenly in 1989: it is firmly rooted in decades of self-serving, inequality-producing politics that go back to the colonial era (see, for instance, Ahmed 2004; Deng 2010; Vezzadini 2011).

28 For now, the Janjaweed’s rise to prominence has not turned into a cautionary tale, and decades of deceitful politics should make any analyst of Sudanese politics wary of spotting signs of the regime’s weakness in any kind of internal squabble. If we analyse the Janjaweed’s positioning and trajectory – and more specifically those of their leaders – we can see how the time of the civil war has been exploited by the regime to empower new allies, or to be more precise, old ones who had been at the periphery of the regime’s core. This goes to demonstrate not only the flexibility of the winning coalition in Sudan, but also the stability of the regime’s survival strategies, which rely on violence and a capacity to find opportunity in any challenge. The war is not necessarily a moment distinct from that of “normal politics”, as the same dynamics persist: counterbalancing is implemented, loyalties are bought, and specific groups of people are removed from influential positions. The fact that war may become politics as usual may nonetheless have unexpected consequences, as people who have committed terrible abuses are never held responsible, and are even rewarded. This is very clear not only when one looks at the Janjaweed, but also when one studies the rebels. Through the power-sharing devices that are a part of every peace agreement nowadays, some rebels have gained access to prominent positions within the government. Furthermore, peace agreements are negotiated and signed one after the other, with the latest one integrating the groups that spoiled the previous one. This

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demonstrates that the use of violence is an efficient means of having one’s your demands met. Hence, at the local level, more and more groups and sub-groups have started to acquire weapons for themselves, having noted how power-sharing seems to work in Sudan (Bashir Ali Adi 2014). This process actually explains to a large extent not only why fighting is still under way in Darfur, but also why this situation does not threaten the government, since groups begin to fight each other for a share of power that in the end is always allocated by the government. Furthermore, this fragmentation means that the government can always find new allies by playing the “divide-and- conquer” game over and over again. Here, instability does not preclude authoritarian resilience: it fuels it.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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NOTES

1. In September 2013, the regime violently repressed demonstrations in the country’s main cities. In Khartoum, the security forces reportedly killed more than 200 people.

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2. Policies such as these had also been implemented by previous regimes, but they have been intensified under al-Bashir’s rule. 3. For a thorough critique of analyses that focus on actors’ intentionality and their depiction of the relationship between agents and structures, see Dobry 2007. 4. This term and others referring to various identity categories and groups are commonly used in the literature on Darfur, but should not be considered from an essentialist perspective, as they are historical and political constructs (Vezzadini 2011). 5. “Dars” is the name given to a tribe’s homeland in Darfur.

ABSTRACTS

Authoritarian regimes are often considered to be prone to civil wars because they are fundamentally based on principles of marginalization and coercion. Recent literature on authoritarian resiliency tends nonetheless to consider that regimes that are plagued with violence cannot endure over the long term. Building on an analysis of Omar al-Bashir’s regime in Sudan, this paper explores the relationship between civil wars and the winning coalition, the group of people whose loyalty is necessary for the survival of the regime. It studies the way in which the war in Darfur has been fought, and demonstrates how this has led to changes within the coalition that may contribute to the entrenchment of authoritarianism in Sudan.

INDEX

Keywords: Sudan, Darfur, authoritarianism, civil war

AUTHOR

ANNE-LAURE MAHÉ Anne-Laure Mahé is a PhD Candidate in Political Science at the Université de Montréal. She has an MA in Political Science from Sciences Po Bordeaux, France. In her dissertation, she aims to gain a deeper understanding of the phenomenon of authoritarian resiliency in Sudan, focusing on Omar al-Bashir’s regime (1989-today). In order to highlight the processes and mechanisms that fuel the regime’s longevity, she observes the interactions between the centre and one of its peripheries, the federated state of North Kordofan, in the context of a specific development policy. She demonstrates how the implementation of a participatory approach by local authorities opens spaces for both the production and the subversion of power relationships that link the citizens of North Kordofan, the state authorities and the central regime. [email protected]

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Hakamat and Peacebuilding 2004-2012

Nadine Rea Intisar Adam

1 When I returned to Sudan for research purposes in 2015, and while gathering information for my new project, I came across a video produced for the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) for the launch of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) at the Social Good Summit in New York in September 2015. This video, which was entitled `UNDP and Turning Tables present: Hakamat Calling Sudan´, is set in North Kordofan. The women in the video are singing about the land, the rain; or, as Vimeo puts it, This video is shot in North Kordofan State in Sudan, which is suffering from rapid desertification as a product of Global Warming and humanly invoked deforestation. In North Kordofan, Turning Tables engaged a group of Hakamat – traditional female war chanters – and challenged them to make a song about what is happening to the land, why the men are leaving, how the women undertake all the work and how the scarcity of resources inflicts their lives. (UNDP, Turning Tables 2015)

2 I was directed towards the video by someone I had asked for information on gender and peacebuilding projects and art and peacebuilding projects in Sudan. While watching the video, I recognized two of the Hakamat in the video clip as two of the participants at a Hakamat peacebuilding workshop I had followed for my previous research in 2012. Although a Hakamat song is used in the `Turning Tables´ video to draw attention towards climate change, rainfall, and agriculture, the Hakamat had become popular as potential peacebuilding actors with organizations working on peacebuilding in and for Darfur in around 2004. When the war in Darfur broke out in 2003 international organizations began working on peacebuilding in the region and they initiated projects involving the Hakamat in peacebuilding activities Already from the late 1980s, the Government of Sudan (GoS) was seeking to engage the Hakamat in regional affairs, mainly in the areas of tribal conflict and violence; the GoS alternated between incentivizing the women to cooperate and locking them away so that they would not interrupt or disturb local processes through their propaganda (Musa 2011).

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3 Eriksson Baaz and Stern have discussed the emergence of `top stories´ during violent conflicts and wars. They argue that every conflict has its own 'top story' – that is, a story that the international media are keen on reporting on, scholars wish to research into, and international and local organizations want to work on – because this is where aid money flows to (Eriksson Baaz, Stern 2013: 94f.). I argue that the topic of the Hakamat in Darfur and how they might be involved in the efforts to achieve peace in the region and beyond through peacebuilding workshops became a `hot story´ with organizations working on peacebuilding in and for Darfur. Because they are women who sing in favour of violence and encourage fighting, one staff member of an international organization referred to them as the `gangster rappers´ of Sudan. The topic of the Hakamat evolved into a 'top story' among NGOs and UN agencies in Sudan from 2004 at least until 2012, when the research for this article was carried out (UNDP Sudan 2007, 2008/ Peace Direct12.03.2010). This may also be because Hakamat peacebuilding projects `looked good´, as another UN employee told me: their shows make for good photographs and videos for the organizations´ reports. It may also be that the Hakamat have caught people’s attention particularly because they are women who call for violence and war and for tribal disputes and revenge, all of which are actions that conflict with the assumed `peaceful´ nature of women, and hence contradict the characteristics that are often attributed to women and girls by international actors in conflict situations (Eriksson Baaz, Stern 2013: 88ff).

Becoming and Being a Hakama

4 The root of the word Hakamat has connotations such as “wisdom, judging/judgement, and rule” (Amina 04.04.2013), while according to Mohamed Hakamat “literally” means an “arbiter of men´s conduct” (Mohamed 2004: 13). Researchers are usually in agreement that the Hakamat belong to the 'nomadic Arab groups' of Darfur (Garri 26.11.2012/ Mohamed 2004). Other ethnic groups have women singers who engage in Hakamat-style activities, too, although the names given to these singers differ for each ethnic group (Connick Carlisle 1975/ Garri 26.11.2012/ El Fangry 13.08.2012/ Badri, Abdel Sadig 1998: 24). A woman can become a Hakama either by being born into a family whose women have had the role before and receiving an education deemed appropriate for a Hakama, or because she has a talent for singing, composition, and guidance. Mohamed explains the prerequisites for a Hakama thus: [B]elong to a respectable1 family, […] strong personality and leadership qualities and […] be able to compose poems and songs. The title of Hakkama is bestowed in a special ceremony with feasting and dancing. (Mohamed 2003: 479)

5 Connick Carlisle, who studied 'Women Singers in Darfur', describes the women in this way: Her personal character must have won the respect of her people before she can be acceptable functionally as someone with power to move their thoughts and their emotional reactions into the areas she directs. She must be acknowledged as the most clever and witty singer; often she must embody the ideal of physical attraction; and particularly she must have the gift of poetry and improvisation, all this encompassed in a person of dignified bearing. (Connick Carlisle 1975: 266)

6 Badri and Abdel Sadig define a Hakama as “a woman who composes and sings innovative songs that emphasize and transmit the society´s beliefs, norms, and value system” (Badri, Abdel Sadig 1998: 16). This corresponds to the narratives of the

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Hakamat I interviewed in 2013 and had met in late 2012. Amina, Amouna and Amna (all 04.04.2013) also emphasize the value system and traditions in their communities and the role the Hakamat play in the transmission of these values to the next generation.

7 While Mohamed sees Hakamat poetry and songs as being mostly concerned with conflict (Mohamed 2004: 13 et seq.), other scholars such as Connick Carlisle, who has analysed the songs of three different ethnic groups, describe the women´s role as influencing affairs beyond the area of conflict, such as transmitting local customs and influencing the local judiciary (1975: 267). Garri distinguishes between two types of songs, “songs that glorify and are usually sung in ceremonies; and blood lyrics, which are used to encourage fighting, usually in a conflict between two groups” (Garri 26.11.2012). Similarly, the Hakamat I interviewed told me that there are two types of songs: “there is a good and a bad part in the songs” (Amouna 04.04.2013). Badri and Abdel Sadig also see the influence of the Hakamat on their communities as being for both peace and for war. Depending on the situation, they found examples of women encouraging inter-ethnic marriages to promote peace, and women who “sing songs in praise of warriors in the community” (1998: 24). In his anthropological study of the 'Baggara', Cunnison mentions women who sing songs “of praise or alternatively of mockery”. They idealize 'manly' virtues such as bravery and honour, and indirectly influence decisions by reacting to them through songs and poetry (Cunnison 1966: 117). As the reputation of a man is paramount, being brave or facing a 'threat' is an ideal of manliness in nomadic communities (Cunnison 1966: 117f.). Garri called it a 'life-long stigma', if a man fails to do what is expected of him, and he either has to commit suicide or move away from the community (Garri 26.11.2012) because “if one cannot maintain one´s reputation, it is better to die” (Badri, Abdel Sadig 1998: 24). Mohamed says that Hakamat songs “extol manliness” (Mohamed 2003: 480) because they praise typical 'male' attributes, like being a good and brave fighter.

8 The Hakamat I interviewed explained their influence on men as 'reasoning': If we argue with men logically, they won't be stubborn. We talk with them logically and they eventually just know this is the right thing and follow it [what we said]. […] If you talk to them wisely and with patience and understanding, they will understand. (Amouna 04.04.2013) There is an exchange of opinions, the men hear what women say. (Amina 04.04.2013)

9 Men follow what a Hakama says because they fear her reaction towards them if they do not, or if they are caught behaving in a way that shows them to be cowards or not complying with the image of a `brave man´ (Mohamed 2004: 15f.).

10 What was impressive to me when I attended the Hakamat workshop in 2012 was the power of the rhythm of the songs the Hakamat sing. They are sung in chorus, not as solos: one Hakama sings a portion of the lyrics and the others around her sing together after her. They support her by clapping to the beat, which brings out an exceptionally powerful feeling from the song. Dancing and repetition of the lyrics the first woman sings to the beat of the song add authority to it. As I observed and listened to the women´s songs, I was in no doubt that the Hakamat can mobilize and electrify a listening crowd, which supports the Hakama with singing, clapping, drumming, or dancing. To some extent it reminded me of a military march, when soldiers repeat their commander’s orders, and march to the beat of the tune.

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The Hakamat and the War in Darfur

11 The Hakamat are associated with the war in Darfur, in particular the inter-ethnic conflict and violence. In an Amnesty International study on Darfuri refugees in Chad, the women were accused by the interviewees of having accompanied Janjaweed in attacks on villages. The Hakamat encouraged the men to rape the women, verbally abused the attacked population and looted the villages together with the militias after they had forced the inhabitants to flee (Amnesty International 2004: 24), an indicator of their involvement in the macro-conflict in Sudan. Amnesty International describes the Hakamat´s participation in the inter-ethnic violence: they support the Janjaweed with songs and participate in lootings as an act of exclusion. The Hakamat hope that what they need to exist and survive can be satisfied through exclusionist behaviour (Amnesty International 2004: 24).

12 The involvement of the Hakamat and their engagement in support of the Government of Sudan (GoS) is an issue Musa addresses in her thesis on Baggara Hakamat in Nyala. The government of Sudan has been making use of the Hakamat since the 1990s. The GoS first invited them to cultural gatherings, where they performed in praise of the government and were paid in money and commodities such as sugar or sheep. This was an attempt to win their support for the 'Arabization' mission that began the 'Arab' vs. 'African' polarization. The Hakamat were requested to mobilize and recruit the youth of their community for the GoS army to fight the rebels in the south of the state (Musa 2011: 372f., 380, 408). The GoS also organized military training for the women, and integrated them into the Sudanese army. It supplied the Hakamat with ID cards that proved their membership of the armed forces or police units, thereby giving them all the rights that came with their position (such as the right to arrest and search) (Musa 2011: 380f.). After the war broke out in 2003, the regime tried to use urban Hakamat for its propaganda against the opposition, as a result of which the Hakamat´s lyrics changed, and the women added religious aspects and praised the government and President Al Bashir, something that had not previously been a part of their songs; they had formerly addressed issues that concerned their community, and as the government did not usually influence people’s daily lives, it had rarely been mentioned in Hakamat songs prior to 2000 (Musa 2011: 387f.).

13 The Hakamat I interviewed were probably aware of the rather bad image they have in Sudanese society and with the organizations working for peace in Darfur. They were very keen to tell me about the 'good side' of their work, and wanted to portray Hakamat activities in a positive light. When I asked them about their role in their community, 'Azifa' (04.04.2012) – and I am not sure whether she was joking or serious – said “to start a war”, at which 'Ahlia' (04.04.2013) nudged her and whispered “Don't say that”. There was another similar incident when 'Amna' started to talk about the blood money cases the Hakamat are sometimes involved in (04.04.2013), at which point 'Amouna' interrupted her and told me about the Hakamat´s role with the youth of the community and their responsibility to tell the next generation about traditions and customs and about what constitutes correct and incorrect behaviour (04.04.2013). 'Amouna' was very keen to let me know about the 'good side' of the Hakamat´s work: “We are women of wisdom, we tell generation after generation about […] life and what happened in history” (04.04.2013). Taking into consideration that the Hakamat I interviewed and met were originally from Darfur but now live in the capital of Sudan, Khartoum, I argue that

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maintaining traditions has a high worth for them because in their new surroundings in the city, in a part of Sudan were they are marginalized (International Refugee Rights Initiative 2013), they need an identity marker. They are also aware that the 'violent part' of Hakamat songs is undesirable in these new surroundings and that they need to dissociate themselves from the role as mobilizers in their communities, at least publicly. Similarly, in an interview published by Voices of Darfur2, a Hakama stressed that she and her colleagues no longer engaged in activities that called for violence. She accentuated the “noble and uplifting” objectives of the Hakamat, and when asked about about women singing in favour of war in Darfur she responded: “That sort of Hakama is no longer seen in Darfur” (Hakama 'Altahir' in Rijal 2013: 28), adding that now they know about the 'culture of peace' and advocate it, thereby emphasizing that Darfur needs 'development' in order to become stable and peaceful (Rijal 2013: 26f.).

Hakamat Peacebuilding

14 As early as the 1980s, the Sudanese government and authorities in Darfur saw the Hakamat as a 'security threat'. During a peace process designed to bring two rival ethnic groups together, the Hakamat were taken out of their communities to a city in Darfur and kept there until the peace deal had been signed. In another attempt to 'pacify' the Hakamat, the governor of Darfur organized training for them in order to 'reorient', or 'redirect', their songs away from instigating violence and promoting war towards singing for peace (Mohamed 2003: 480).

15 With the start of the international intervention in Darfur, since around 2006, several NGOs – both local and international – and UN agencies have implemented programmes that address the role of the Hakamat in peace, conflict, violence, and war. Most seek to 'change' the role of the singers and poets from encouraging violence to encouraging peace (UNDP Sudan 2007, 2008/ UNAMID 29.11.2012). Some organizations have started civil society-based organizations in order to look for a way for the Hakamat to earn money other than by attempting to mobilize men to go to war and be violent. These organizations argue that some Hakamat sing their war songs because they are paid to and depend on the money they earn from mobilization (Peace Direct 12.03.2010/ Rasha El Fangry 13.08.2012). Collaborative for Peace (CfP) has therefore implemented an income-generating programme for them, organizing them into a cooperative and instructing them on how to make handicrafts, how to grow peanuts as a cash crop, and how to generate income by selling these commodities in the market. Interestingly, during my interview with Rasha El Fangry, CfP’s programme coordinator, she mentioned that fifty Hakamat are involved in the cooperation. I wondered whether all of them could be Hakamat, considering that each villageprobably only has one singer and poet (El Fangry 13.08.2012). Although it may be correct to say that the war has had a great influence on changing the Hakamat´s activities generally, however, it also seems that being a Hakama (or claiming to be one) has become a means of attracting attention and joining certain initiatives.

16 Eriksson Baaz and Stern see the Congolese organizations and women in their DRC study as “clearly not passive recipients of interventions. Instead, they are active agents who strategize in their dealings with various intervening actors” (Eriksson Baaz, Stern 2013: 103). Similarly, the Hakamat have also adopted the language of international actors and well know how and to whom to talk about certain issues, and what to leave aside and

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remain silent about. In response to my final interview question, in which I asked them what 'peace' meant for them, they answered 'development'. For me, this was a sign that they had adopted the language of international actors, one they had learned during their engagement with them, as they explained `development´ by `education´ and told me how they had asked the organization to organize literacy training for them because some of them had not had any kind of formal education (Focus Group Interview 04.04.2013). Besides their engagement with organizations and their development and peacebuilding agendas, this claim for literacy training can also be seen as an indication of changing priorities in their new home, the capital of the country, where values are different and formal education matters more than being a Hakama does, and where their influence, even over their own communities, may be limited.

17 While researching in Khartoum, I met NGO employees who told me that their organizations had Hakamat workshops or worked with Hakamat by including them in shows and events that foster peace. In a joint campaign with UNDP and the GoS called 'Mobilizing Efforts for Peace in Sudan', for example, the Sudanese NGO SUDIA staged a number of shows in Sudan for which Hakamat were announced as part of the line-up. One of these events – the one that had been planned for Khartoum – was cancelled due to problems with security and other government institutions, and the show was banned at the last minute, although it had initially been permitted and advertised all over the city (Ahmad 2012/ SUDIA 2012/ UNDP Sudan 2012).

18 During my research stay in 2012, I observed a `Hakamat peacebuilding workshop´ during which the women were trained in the composition of peace lyrics. The ten best songs produced by the approximately twenty participants were selected, and the women performed them in a few places around Khartoum. During the course of the workshop, input on the war in Darfur was offered and the need for peace was stressed, most of the time recited by the facilitators. The women were requested to sing their self-composed songs with their peace lyrics and the other participants supported them by clapping, dancing, and singing the refrain as a chorus. Not all of the twenty-four women who participated in the workshop were Hakamat. The organizers estimated their number to be around one-third of the participants, while the others were singers or Hakamat supporters. Contact with the women was facilitated through a music professor who knew a few of them, while local leaders and Hakamat from the IDP camps the organization worked in also cooperated in helping to find the twenty-four women the funding organization was looking for. Interestingly, the organizers themselves did not believe their workshop would have much impact on the women and their future activities; however, the Hakamat were a `hot topic´, as Eriksson Baaz and Stern call them, since the idea of women who are influential in their communities and drivers of violence contradicts the image of African women as victims of violent conflicts without an agency of their own (Eriksson Baaz, Stern 2013: 88ff.). The personalities of the women who participated in the workshop were varied: some gave the impression of being good leaders and were quick-witted and outgoing, while others were rather shy and introverted, and some were very talented singers and communicators, while others were less so. During the workshop, the women were required to compose peace lyrics, and the facilitators looked at the 'development' of the texts of the songs. The result of the training workshop was five open shows at which the ten best Hakamat out of a group of around twenty women performed the songs they had composed during the

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training in several places in Khartoum and surrounding areas, such as cultural centres and IDP camps.

The Economy of Building Peace

19 In an interview with researchers, a staff member of UNAMID told that it was not easy to teach the Hakamat to sing for peace and change their songs because when they organize a cultural event, the women come and sing and receive money for attending, whereas back in their own communities they just continue as they did before, which includes calling for violence (Salim (UNAMID Public Information Assistant) in Evans-Pritchard, Yousif 2012). UNAMID therefore tries to involve the Hakamat in discussions on options as to how they might be included in the peacebuilding process (Evans-Pritchard, Yousif 2012). According to the US Embassy in Khartoum, following the UNDP Hakamat training that began in 2006, “despite an initial positive response to the workshop, village leaders, local government officials, and other Hakama women remained reluctant to further endorse UNDP´s DDR programs” (25.08.2008). Despite the reluctance shown towards the workshop by local people and the Hakamat themselves, in the Embassy´s analysis of the programme, the official claimed that it “presents a successful use of economic, military and diplomatic efforts to change attitudes away from war towards peace” (US Embassy Khartoum 25.08.2008).

20 Hakamat used not to be paid for their songs and poetry; instead, they received gifts in appreciation of their work, and especially at festivities such as circumcisions, Hakamat are presented with goats or cattle. It is only in the last few years that Hakamat have been paid when they are invited to sing at public or government gatherings (Mohamed 2003: 479/ Focus Group Interview 04.04.2013/ Garri 26.11.2012). One of the organizers of the peacebuilding workshop told me that the women would probably ask me for money at the focus group interview, which I found interesting from this standpoint. Although it had been clear that I would only pay for bus rides and provide food and drink, they later asked me for payment for their participation, which is an indication of how peacebuilding is a `business´, and of the small payments attendees receive.

21 Money therefore seems to be an incentive for taking part in peacebuilding workshops, especially for those Hakamat who live in Khartoum in difficult circumstances, but probably also for those who live in Darfur. Because of their economic situation, like all of us to some extent, can be paid for singing what is demanded of them. In the end, some Hakamat sing and rhyme about what they are paid for, while others sing what comes from inside them. Some women may view their activity from an opportunistic standpoint, and do not mind earning well as long as they can cope with the songs they are asked to perform. Just like other artists, some are commercially minded, while others only perform the kind of art that accords with their principles, and others will do both, performing to survive and to express how they actually feel. The two Hakamat who sing about climate change for the UNDP SDG campaign were asked to perform in the video, because it was shot with a tight time frame and the Hakamat in North Kordofan the team initially wanted to work with, were not used to delivering results in a way international organizations ask for. Whereas the two women who finally performed for the video were already accustomed to working with organizations. Hence, the video team hired the ladies and brought them to North Kordofan to produce the music video within the given time, as one of the co-producers told me in Khartoum.

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22 Through these peacebuilding workshops, the women have become aware of the economic advantages of claiming to be Hakamat, and have begun to use them when negotiating. One of the organizers of the workshop told me that one woman, whom I recognized as a leader and the organizers thought of as difficult, came to the organization´s office before the workshop began and demanded a certain sum of money for her and the others´ participation. Because the donor required that a certain number of Hakamat be trained, what followed was a workshop involving 4 'real' and 20 'other' Hakamat. The twenty 'other' women were either Hakamat supporters for special occasions or local singers. Some of the Hakamat I interviewed in the Focus Group Interview (04.04.2013) asked me for money at the end of the interview, although it had been clear that I would only pay for bus rides and prepare lunch and tea for them. At the focus group interview, I also wanted another Hakama, 'Amelie', the youngest of all of them, to join us. She was probably not allowed to come, and the women brought 'Aisha' instead of 'Amelie' without telling us in advance and with the excuse that 'Amelie' could not come because of her 'duties'. Likewise, what happened during my visit at ‘Amna'´s place might be interpreted as an effect of the Hakamat 'business': 'Amouna', the neighbouring Hakama, was upset and angry when she saw me at 'Amna'´s house. They argued, and 'Amouna' left, telling me she was going to pray, but she did not return. I interpreted their argument as group pressure and maybe also envy regarding presumed benefits. The other neighbour, 'Ahlia', was not at home when I arrived and joined us for lunch and tea later on. When I left, the women told me to not forget them when I was leaving, and to bring gifts for them the next time I came to Sudan. It seemed to me that peer pressure was an important issue, as each woman´s activities are watched by the others. Working with NGOs and other organizations is a means of earning at least some little income, and hierarchies within the group seem to come to the fore when they talk with organizations and researchers.

Conclusion

23 The aim of this article has been to show the societal role of Hakamat and how they have been involved by various organizations in peacebuilding activities. The Hakamat peacebuilding workshops carried out by (international) organizations began in around 2007 and continued at least until 2012, when the research for this article was conducted. It seems as though the peacebuilding workshops developed a dynamic of their own, from supporting communities to forming a sort of separate `economic sector ´.

24 The fact that Hakamat call for violence and sing about attack and not reconciliation has been especially emphasized in articles describing their role in situations of conflict and violence (Evans-Pritchard, Yousif 2012). That it is women who are calling for violence may be particularly striking, and may seem extraordinary, as women are generally regarded as being more `peaceful´ than men. On the other hand, reports show the Hakamat as victims of their own culture, by excusing their songs with their difficult financial situation (Peace Direct 12.03.2010). Other accounts portray the Hakamat as being in need of 'development' and 'education' (Mohamed 2004: 14), assuming that they do not yet know what is right and what is wrong and that others need to tell them, and that as soon as they have understood they will stop singing for violence and war and will start to promote peace (UNDP 2007, 2008/ Rajal 2013). The Hakamat have become a

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`hot topic´ with organizations working in the field of gender and peacebuilding because they challenge the role that is usually associated with women in (violent) conflicts by moving away from the commonly-held notion that they are victims towards being active supporters of violence. The Hakamat are still attracting attention in 2015, albeit in different areas from those they used to be associated with, as they are now asked to sing to raise awareness of climate change.

25 While the top story of Hakamat influencing conflict seems to have cooled down, the need for peacebuilding undeniably remains current in what is left of Sudan. Further studies on the Hakamat may clarify their role in violent conflict and peacebuilding since the war in Darfur broke out in 2004, and help explain whether the organizations´ attempts to involve them in peacebuilding has had an influence on actual reconciliation between communities, and whether their (paid) participation in peacebuilding workshops has influenced their authority and if these peace messages have actually been received by and spread within communities.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adam, Nadine Rea Intisar (2013): Darfur´s 'Evil Women'? Hakamat and their role in peace, conflict, violence and war. Universität Wien: unpublished Diploma Thesis.

Ahmad, Najat (10.07.2012): "Sulav Addeen Launches Peace Messages Project”. In: Sudan Vision, http://news.sudanvisiondaily.com/details.html?rsnpid=212281 [12.09.2013]

Amnesty International (2004): Sudan: Darfur: Rape as a Weapon of War: Sexual

Violence and its Consequences. http://www.amnesty.org/en/library/info/AFR54/076/2004 [12.09.2012]

Badri, Amna E., Abdel Sadig, Intisar I. [1997] (1998): "Sudan between peace and war. Internally displaced women in Khartoum and South and West Kordofan". In: UNIFEM African Women Peace Series 1998. Available at : http://www.cmi.no/file/Sudan_btwn_peace &war.pdf [13.08.2013]

Badri, Balghis; Mohamed, Adam A. (2010): "Darfur. A Case Study of the Darfur Region". In: Balghis, Badri; Martin, Charlotte: Inter-Communal Conflicts in Sudan. Causes, Resolution Mechanisms and Transformation. Omdurman: Al Ahfad University.

Connick Carlisle, Roxane (1975): "Women Singers in Darfur, Sudan Republic". In: The Black Perspective in Music. Vol. 3, no. 3, pp. 253-268.

Cunnison, Ian (1966): Baggara Arabs. Power and Lineage in a Sudanese Nomad Tribe. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Eriksson Baaz, Maria; Stern, Maria (2013): Sexual violence as a weapon of war? Perceptions, prescriptions, problems in the Congo and beyond. London, New York: Zed Books.

Evans-Pritchard, Blake; Yousif, Zakla (2012): "Female Singers Stir Blood in Darfur. Women use song to incite men into conflict with neighbouring tribes". In: ICC ACR 311, 04.01.2012. http:// iwpr.net/report-news/female-singers-stir-blooddarfur [05.05.2013]

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International Refugee Rights Initiative (2013): "The Disappearance of Sudan? Life in Khartoum for citizens without rights. Citizenship and Displacement" Working Paper 9. http://reliefweb.int/ sites/reliefweb.int/files/resources/Marginalised%20in%20Khartoum %20FINAL_0.pdf [20.08.2013]

Mohamed, Adam A. (2004): "From Instigating Violence to Building Peace: The Changing Role of Women in Darfur Region of Western Sudan". In: AJCR Vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 11-26.

Mohamed, Adan (sic!) A. (2003): « Sudan: Women and Conflict in Darfur ». In: Review of African Political Economy. The Horn of Conflict. Vol. 30, no. 97, pp. 479-481

Musa, Suad M. E. (2011): The Identity, Agency and Political Influence of al-Hakkamat Baggara Women Poets in Armed Conflict in Darfur, Sudan, from 1980s to 2006. University of Bradford, Department of Peace Studies: PhD Thesis. http://bradscholars.brad.ac.uk/bitstream/handle/10454/5394/ Ph.D%20Thesis%20%20Vols%201%20and%202%20-%20Suad%20Musa%20-%202011.pdf? sequence=2 [20.09.2013]

Peace Direct (12.03.2010): Working with women in Sudan. http://www.peacedirect.org/ women_in_sudan/ [25.07.2012]

SUDIA (2012): Mobilize for Peace. Press Release. Wednesday, July 11, 2012. http://www.sudia.org/ enus/buildingpeace/currentprojects/sensitizationprojectssouthkordofanandkhartoum.aspx [20.10.2013]

UNDP, Turning Tables 2015: Hakamat Calling Sudan. https://vimeo.com/140663233 [12.02.2016]

UNDP Sudan (2012): “I am from South Kordofan”: Peace Ambassador Spread the Message. http:// www.sd.undp.org/story%20Peace%20Ambassadors.htm [20.10.2013]

UNDP Sudan (2008): Hakamat Women: Singing for Peace in Sudan. http://www.sd.undp.org/ news_hakamat.htm [14.04.2012]

UNDP (2007): Women in Darfur Celebrating on International Women´s Day. http:// www.cwgl.rutgers.edu/component/docman/doc_view/156-undp-intl-wday-hakamat-festival-8- march-2007-final [14.04.2012]

US Embassy Khartoum (25.08.2008): "DDR Progresses: Chanting Hakama Women Urge their Men to Wage Peace, not War”. http://wikileaks.org/cable/2008/08/08KHARTOUM1296.html [29.05.2013]

Interviews

El Fangry, Rasha (13.08.2012): (Collaborative for Peace (CfP)): Expert Interview, Khartoum.

Garri, Dahawi (26.11.2012): (Nyala University, Darfur Development Advisory Group (DDAG)): Expert Interview, Khartoum.

Focus Group Interview (04.04.2013): 'Amna', 'Ahlia', 'Amouna', 'Azifa', 'Amina' and 'Aisha', Khartoum

Observations

Observation Protocol Hakamat Peacebuilding Workshop 2012

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Observation Protocol (06.04.2013): Visit to 'Amna´s' home, Khartoum.

NOTES

1. Respectable in the community of the Hakama, which does not necessarily correspond to being respected within Sudanese society in general. Riverine Sudanese in particular seem to have a certain prejudice towards people from the west of the country and the Hakamat, as I found when I talked about my research topic to people in Khartoum in 2012. 2. Voices of Darfur is a magazine published by UNAMID public information section every few month.

ABSTRACTS

Five years after the secession of South Sudan from Sudan, peace building activities in Sudan have not yet come to an end and violent conflicts in Sudan have not stopped – rather, they intensified – while international attention has shifted to other regions of the world. Darfur remains a crisis region, and the southern, eastern, and western edges of the Sudan are still conflict-ridden, even increasingly so. This article looks into how peacebuilding projects engaged Hakamat – female singers and poets – to spread the message of peace between 2004 and 2012. This international involvement was influenced by two things: the image of Hakamat among the riverine North Sudanese and the international peacebuilding community as `troublemakers´; and the fact that they contradict the image of women as passive victims of violent conflicts. It was for these reasons that the Hakamat became a `hot topic´ with organizations working in Darfur. Although the issue was not prominently reported in the newspapers, the organizations working on peacebuilding in Sudan worked keenly with the women singers and poets known as `Hakamat´, who are said to influence the violent conflict in Darfur through their songs and poetry. The Hakamat perhaps first gained the attention of these organizations as potential peacebuilding actors and participants in peacebuilding workshops because of their `extraordinary´ role as women who can influence issues that were regarded as `male affairs´: that is, conflict and violence. Equally, the Government of Sudan also sought to involve the Hakamat in its political processes in Darfur since the late 1980s. This article is based on an unpublished Diploma thesis (Adam 2013), the research for which was carried out in the Greater Khartoum area between August 2012 and April 2013.

INDEX

Keywords: gender, peace building, Sudan, Darfur

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AUTHOR

NADINE REA INTISAR ADAM Ms. Adam studied Development Studies at the University of Vienna, Austria, where she graduated with distinction in 2013. After an internship on labour laws and human rights in Costa Rica, she joined the International Max Planck Research School on Retaliation, Mediation and Punishment (IMPRS REMEP) at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology as a PhD candidate in 2014 with her research project “Gender and Art in the Quest for Peace”.

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Dismantling Processes in the Sudanese Public Health Services Sector The Case of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre

Hind Mahmoud Youssef Hussein and Alice Koumurian

Introduction1

1 “All of a sudden, I heard that the centre was going to be destroyed (…)” said Dr Abbo when we met him in February 2015. “I said to Dr Mamoun [Mamoun Humeida, the Minister of Health of Khartoum State], this centre is not for Sudan, it is for the whole world, all of Africa (…). This building is known all over the world”.

2 Ten years ago, while doing her fieldwork for her Master’s thesis on the socio-economic impact of obstetric fistula on Sudanese women, Hind Mahmoud spent a great deal of time with the patients and doctors at Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre at Khartoum Teaching Hospital. At the time, she was studying gender issues for her Master’s Degree at the Ahfad University for Women.

3 Dr Abbo’s Centre, which was partly funded by UNFPA2, specialized in the treatment of fistula, and began operating in the early 1970s. It was known for having “one of the longest-running fistula programs on the African continent”3 and was a place where on the one hand, women with fistula could stay and be operated on by qualified practitioners, and on the other, doctors could be trained in fistula surgery4. When Hind Mahmoud was told about the destruction of the centre during 20155, following a decision by the Ministry, she was unable to understand why this had happened, since the Centre was crucial to women’s well-being.

4 This paper was inspired by the discovery of this destruction, and asks why a centre of international renown6, an international training centre for fistula surgeons, which followed the training manual developed by the FIGO (Fédération Internationale de Gynécologie et d’Obstétrique) and the ISOFS (Société Internationale des Chirurgiens

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Obstétriques de la Fistule), should be destroyed. Unlike Hind Mahmoud’s Master’s thesis, the main focus of which was the socio-economic impact of obstetric fistula, this paper addresses the institutional aspects of the running of Dr Abbo’s Centre.

5 Our assumption was that the decision to destroy the Centre was related to a dismantling process and to the implementation of liberalization policies in the Sudanese public health services sector, which are themselves linked to a more general context of liberalization in the Sudanese economy.

6 In terms of scientific literature, liberalization in Sudan is a pretty well-documented topic. Babiker has explained that “Sudan started to experiment with adjustment programs at the turn of the 1970s, and since then has continued implementing one form of adjustment policy or another; in the 1990s, however, the government followed self-imposed adjustment policies without the support of any international institution” (Babiker 2016: 14). Ahmed and Marchal write: “in February 1992, the economic policy changed drastically and took a truly neo-liberal turn. It used the most radical recipes of the IMF without any of the corrective measures that are usually implemented to mitigate the social costs of structural adjustment”7 (Ahmed & Marchal, 2007: 32). Ahmed and Marchal explain that the liberalization policy was put into effect at several levels: in 1994, a federation was created that allowed new administrative entities to be required to bear the costs of essential public services (health, education, and local infrastructure), and the government also gradually reduced subsidies for basic goods. Finally, it dismantled the para-public sector through extensive privatization policies (Ahmed & Marchal 2007: 32-33).

7 Although liberalization policies in the Sudanese public health services sector are a central component of this paper, they are not the only issue to be addressed, as the analysis that follows is also intended to deal with the difficult issue of fistula in Sudan.

8 This paper, which is a collaborative work between Hind Mahmoud and Alice Koumurian, therefore consists of three main sections. In the first, we explain our research method, and show that fistula is a challenging research topic. In the second, we present the case of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre from its creation to its destruction. In the third, we connect the case of the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre to the wider dismantling process that is assailing the Sudanese public health services sector.

Research method and research challenges

9 In addition to a review of the existing literature on liberalization policies in Sudan (Ahmed & Marchal 2007, Babiker 1996, Mann 2014), the main source for our analysis is made up of various interviews conducted with health practitioners and stakeholders during February and March 2016.

10 Our original intention was to limit our fieldwork to a single interview with Dr Abbo, the founder of the Centre, from whom we hoped to learn more about the reasons behind its destruction. We managed to secure an interview with him through personal connections, but this was no easy matter, given his great anger following the destruction of his Centre. Initially, he refused to meet with us; however, when one of his friends convinced him of the academic merit of exposing the matter, he agreed to give us two hours of his time. We were grateful for this, because he had refused to

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attend the OB-GYN specialists conference that had taken place on 18-22 February 2016, just a few days before our meeting.

11 During this interview, which took place at Dr Abbo’s home, due to his reduced mobility, Dr Abbo shared many important aspects that we will discuss in depth in this article, but he repeatedly refused to give us a clear explanation of the Khartoum State Ministry of Health’s decision to destroy the Centre. Because of the questions that went unanswered during this interview, and also because we wanted to explore the issue of liberalization policies in the Sudanese public health services sector further, we decided to carry out several other interviews – both formal and informal – with health practitioners and stakeholders.

12 Several requests for interviews were initially turned down, however, as was the case with the new male coordinator of the new fistula ward. We overcame this obstacle by approaching UNFPA’s representatives in Sudan, as this UN agency had been one of the contributing donors to Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre. When we met them, they agreed to organize a visit to the new fistula ward, which allowed us to meet its coordinator, and two formal interviews were eventually organized with him. In terms of our research method, having a Sudanese researcher helped gain access to the new ward. Conversely, having a foreigner involved implied being potentially perceived as a member of the staff of one of the few international NGOs based in Sudan, whose access is strictly controlled – even more so when it comes to visiting public institutions and services. For this reason, Alice Koumurian’s visit to the new ward had to be organized under the umbrella of UNFPA, and she was only able to enter by arriving in a UNFPA car (we should specify that the entrance gates are controlled by guards). At the same time, once the meeting with the coordinator of the new ward was under way, the foreigner was somehow perceived as being a potential donor. The UNFPA representative emphasized this point when introducing Alice Koumurian to the coordinator, although Alice Koumurian herself tried to explain that she did not have this power in her hands.

13 In addition, Hind Mahmoud obtained a formal interview with the coordinator who had been in office at the time of the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Centre. Initially, this former coordinator asked to be provided with a letter from CEDEJ Khartoum on its headed notepaper. This person also originally claimed that the Ministry of National Health had to give permission for publication of the former coordinator’s words.

14 Three open-ended interviews with patients and some relatives took place during our visits to the new ward after the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Centre. An informal interview was also conducted with a fistula surgeon who had left the Centre and is currently working abroad as an international surgeon. We also informally interviewed an international health consultant who was working for the Ministry of National Health in Sudan.

15 Besides the difficulty in obtaining some of these interviews, the lack of availability of data from the new ward – on the success rate of fistula surgery, for example – presented an additional research challenge. We were told that due to the move and changes in the management team, organizational and logistical problems were still being faced, and that the old files had still not been classified.

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The issue of fistula in Sudan: a challenging research topic

16 In Sudan, where “great numbers of women suffer from obstetric fistula as a result of childbirth” (Mahmoud 2005), the issue is undeniably a serious one. But what exactly is obstetric fistula? Technically, it “is a hole between the vagina and rectum or bladder that is caused by prolonged obstructed labor, leaving a woman incontinent of urine or feces or both”8. Depending on where it forms, a fistula can be called either “vesicovaginal” or “rectovaginal”. As for the causes of obstetric fistula, they are fairly well known: according to the UNFPA, “lack of access to obstetric care, traditional harmful practices of child marriage where the body of a young girl is often not mature enough for safe deliveries and female genital cutting” are among its main causes.

17 There is also another form of fistula: the iatrogenic fistula. Unlike obstetric fistula, which only occurs during childbirth, iatrogenic fistula9 is the result of medical malpractice that can occur accidently during surgery that may be related or unrelated to childbirth.

18 In most cases, fistula can be cured by surgery. In some rare cases of inoperable fistula, however, the doctor can perform a urinary diversion, which may result in numerous complications – such as acid-base disturbances, renal infection and carcinoma of the colon – that shorten the patient’s span of life. When we met him, Dr Abbo explained to us that in spite of the fact that he used to tell his patients that they could not expect to live for more than seven years after an operation such as this, this information usually did not prevent them from requesting urinary diversion surgery, which shows the extent of their desperation.

19 As Hind Mahmoud explains in her Master’s thesis, “one of the most important cultural factors contributing to the prevalence of obstetric fistula in Sudan is early marriage”. Indeed, young pregnant women may experience obstruction during the childbirth due to the width of their pelvises: “the girl still has 4% of her height to gain and her pelvis will only be 82-88% of its fully grown size (ASI 1994)” (Mahmoud 2005). If an unborn child becomes stuck, it will result in a lengthy delivery that can take up to three or four days, or even a week in some cases. This usually results in a stillborn baby and, for the woman in the formation of a fistula. In some circumstances, the woman may also die from internal bleeding.

20 Despite its seriousness, Mahmoud states (2005) that “fistula is a relatively hidden problem because it affects the most marginalized members of society”. On the issue of marginalization, one might even argue that the problem of fistula acutely reveals the existence of serious imbalances in Sudan. Not only is fistula a gender and class issue, but it is also a sign of regional inequalities, as is the case with Darfur, which is deeply affected by “the largest numbers of fistula sufferers”10. In addition, the fact that it affects the female sexual organs inevitably adds to its status as a “taboo”.

21 Fistula therefore emerges as a hidden, shameful problem on which scientific information is lacking. As Mahmoud claims, “reliable data on obstetric fistula in Sudan are scarce, sometimes alarmingly so, and often inaccurate, as the full extent of the problem has never been mapped”11 (2005). A scientific approach to the issue of fistula in Sudan therefore addresses a gap in the literature, in particular in that dealing with Sudanese women’s health issues: indeed, there is a striking difference between the small number of writings on fistula and the abundant literature12 on the practice of female genital mutilation (FGM). “Nearly every female anthropologist in Sudan has

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written something on this topic”, as the American anthropologist Ellen Gruenbaum has noted. Thus, compared with the “massive international movement”13 (Gruenbaum 2015) that has mobilized around FGM, less has been done and written about obstetric fistula. Nonetheless, it should be noted that the two issues are indirectly connected, since FGM might be considered to be a secondary cause of fistula. As Khalil explains it, “pharaonic (infibulation type) FGM is relatively common in Sudan, and in these cases healing with fibrosis may occur, leading to a delay in the second stage of labor, causing obstruction”14 (2011). This obstruction is then responsible for the formation of fistula.

22 As researchers, the need to address this issue scientifically and to overcome the taboo surrounding fistula seemed obvious to us, but the research process has been neither easy nor consensual. For anyone discovering the issue of fistula – as was the case for one of the researchers in the team – looking at pictures or listening to technical descriptions of fistula is inevitably an unpleasant experience. In the same way, the personal stories of fistula patients can be very disturbing – or even traumatic – to listen to.

23 This point can be illustrated by a description of a scene that took place at Khartoum Hospital, in the newly-created unit dedicated to the treatment of fistula after the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre. One by one, we visited the rooms where women were either waiting for their surgery or recovering from it. Two women approached us: they were a mother and her daughter. The mother told us that her daughter’s fistula had been caused during sexual intercourse with her husband. Her daughter began to cry, her head down. The surgeon explained that the woman, who was infibulated, had most likely been “opened” by her husband with a knife during their first intercourse: he had torn everything, which resulted in the formation of fistula, although he made it clear that this was not the most frequent causal factor. Irrespective of the origin of the formation of a fistula, however, these women’s personal stories, as seen through both the causes and the consequences of fistula, are all very difficult to hear, and must be even more harrowing to experience.

24 Among our research team, Hind Mahmoud, who is Sudanese, was more familiar with the topic since, as we have already mentioned, it is a very serious issue in Sudan. Her originally cursory knowledge was deepened when she did her Master’s thesis on the subject and spent time at Dr Abbo’s Centre while conducting her fieldwork. However, since fistula affects women of low socio-economic status most widely, she has always been personally detached from the problem of fistula due to her socio-economic advantage. Alice Koumurian, on the contrary, only discovered fistula in the course of this stretch of fieldwork; she had not been exposed to it in Europe, where fistula is rare15.

From an internationally renowned Centre to destruction in 2015: the case of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre

25 As we mentioned earlier, our field research began with a meeting with the 88-year-old Dr Abbo himself, who agreed to welcome us into his home. Dr Abbo was an obstetrician/gynaecologist (OBGYN) and founder of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre, which was named after him. Dr Abbo opened the discussion with a detailed medical explanation of

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obstetric fistula. He summed it up thus: “fistula is due to pressure” during delivery. He continued: “pressure will lead to ischemia; ischemia will lead to a loss of blood supply; a loss of blood supply will lead to necrosis; and necrosis is followed by sloughing”. He then showed us a series of pictures on his computer to help us understand. While explaining the technical aspect of obstetric fistula, Dr Abbo also stressed the serious psychological effects fistula has on a woman: “she is not needed in the community”; “usually, she cannot eat with her family and she cannot drink with her family, because she smells of urine”. Another doctor, who reported to us that practitioners often speak of “social death” after the formation of fistula, corroborates Dr Abbo’s statement. In fact, fistula affects women’s social lives deeply by causing constant incontinence. This rejection on the part of the family can lead to serious psychological problems: a woman with fistula “might get (sic) mad”, to use Dr Abbo’s own words.

26 As he told it, Dr Abbo became interested in the fistula problem during the time when he was a registrar at the Omdurman Medical Hospital. He witnessed how fistula patients were “completely neglected by all doctors”. When he obtained his medical qualification in 1963, he chose to include the treatment of fistula as part of his specialization. After six months of training in Ethiopia with two Australian doctors who were treating fistula there, Dr Abbo returned to Sudan, where he started operating in a very poorly- equipped ward. It was during this period that he met a French nun, Sister Emmanuelle, who later became a central figure in the construction of Dr Abbo’s future Fistula Centre. As Dr Abbo told us, not only she did provide the funding to build the Centre, but “she brought the people” and “supervised everything”. Later on, after Sister Emmanuel had returned to France, Dr Abbo requested and obtained the help of the American “Black Women’s Forum” (Los Angeles). With the fund (25,000 USD) the organization gave him – “a very big fund at that time!” – Dr Abbo managed to finish construction of his Centre, and some time thereafter, Sister Emmanuelle returned to Sudan and provided the Centre with the necessary equipment (beds, instruments, operating theatres, etc.). As Dr Abbo put it, “the building was fantastic”.

27 Since Dr Abbo did not have a nursing staff working for him, he told us that he used to train his patients in nursing or even fistula surgery. He seemed particularly proud of this aspect: “the most beautiful thing I have done in my life: I trained the patients”. Dr Abbo made a point of managing his entire staff himself. He also succeeded in attracting young doctors who were willing to be trained in fistula surgery and to assist him in his work. The Centre also gradually acquired a certain reputation abroad. Dr Abbo told us that he “used to go outside the country to speak about the Centre (…). I had to fly to Chad, Somaliland, Yemen. (…) The Centre started to be well known throughout the whole world. It was the second fistula centre in the whole world following the Ethiopian one”.

28 During our discussion, Dr Abbo eventually mentioned the destruction of his centre. Although we tried several times to ask him why, according to him, the Minister of Health in Khartoum State had taken this decision, his immediate answers were “Mamoun Humeida can answer you” and “up to now, nobody knows why it was broken up”. But he also told us that after the destruction, he had been contacted by the Health Minister, who said “I am not destroying it; I am moving the patients”. He then explained that he did not intend to do anything about this decision: “I am getting old”, “I am waiting for my day” . Since the destruction of the Centre, Dr Abbo also said that he had suffered from “ depression, severe depression”: “I spent all my life trying to build this centre and [it] is now being destroyed by Mamoun”. These words are echoed in a poem entitled “Eulogy of

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Lament and Bafflement” that he composed in reaction to the demolition of the Centre. Dr Abbo requested that this poem be read during the fistula panel at the OB-GYN specialist conference held on 18-22 February 2016 at the Khartoum Police Club, which – as we mentioned earlier – he refused to attend to show his anger at seeing his Centre destroyed. During our meeting, he shared this poem with us, as well as an article written by Mahjoub Mohamed Salih, a well-known Sudanese journalist and the founder of Al-Ayam newspaper, questioning the reasons behind the destruction.

29 Here is Dr Abbo’s poem, entitled “Eulogy of Lament and Bafflement”16, which was written in reaction to the demolition of his Centre: Oh Greetings, fistula centre. May God make your existence fruitful and bless you with protection In your vicinity we fought hardship in all its violence and we overcame it and you were the source of this success In your space we spent time and through cure we wiped away tears For Sudan you represented a symbol and a mark for the black content and the world at large The bulldozer refuses you eternal presence and through oppression (it) simultaneously obliterated both history and knowledge They destroyed you with no due consultation because of the vast differences of opinion that would inevitably ensue Your legacy will endure eternally through generations like the moon, in obscurity, emanating a brilliant light I wish that poetry were my domain so that I might be able to construct a homage to the fistula worthy of the stature of a palace.

View of the remains of the old site after destructions. © Hind Mahmoud, February 2016.

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30 Although we asked several times, Dr Abbo did not offer us a clear explanation of the decision to destroy the Centre. Similarly, when we discussed the issue with various doctors and stakeholders, it always appeared to be a highly sensitive topic, and we consistently felt that we were walking on eggshells. Some of our informants simply replied “government politics”, without being more specific. Others mentioned the government’s intention to build a road in the area of the Centre, which would serve as justification for its destruction. Likewise, it was difficult to obtain a clear answer on whether or not the new place – reconstituted through a simple revamping of an old obstetric ward within a hospital – was able to provide the same capacity and quality of health care and teaching. This question also appeared to be a sensitive one.

31 On the topic of the comparison between Dr Abbo’s Centre and the new ward, the discomfort was palpable during our meeting with the UNFPA representatives. UNFPA used to fund Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre: as one representative put it, “we invested a lot in this centre”. However, in response to our questioning regarding the changes since the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Centre, they replied that, “as UNFPA, we cannot say if it was bad or good”. At the same time, they also contradicted themselves during our discussion when they told us that when “they took the patients to the new centre and put in the new equipment”, “it was very slow”, whereas later on they said that “there was no delay”, and “ the Ministry of Health in Khartoum accelerated [the process]”.

32 We obtained the same conflicting statements in our interviews: while some of our informants said that everything remained the same after the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre and relocation to the new ward, others claimed the contrary: that various aspects relating, inter alia, to the capacity of the new ward, the training of doctors, and equipment have deteriorated sharply. First, in contrast with the UNFPA representatives’ assertions, other informants told us that the new ward had remained closed and that operations took three months to resume after the relocation to the new ward. We were also told that as a result of the interruption and relocation, access to surgery was also compromised: some women did not know that the Centre had been replaced by a ward, and therefore did not come to have the surgery they needed. As for the quality of health care, we were told that some equipment had been damaged during relocation as a result of mishandling.

33 Based on our own observations, the two spaces are not comparable. Firstly, the large specialized institution that was Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre has become a mere ward located at Khartoum Teaching Hospital. Secondly, unlike its predecessor, the operating theatre in the new ward does not seem to meet international standards, and fails to comply with adequate standards of biomedical hygiene. Being located on the ground floor in proximity to the main entrance to the ward, it is more likely to be exposed to dust and dirt, with the risk of contamination from the outside environment. Thirdly, in terms of capacity, the ward currently hosts 34 beds, and while, like in Dr Abbo’s centre, there are still 20 pre-operative beds, the number of post-operative beds has been reduced from 20 in Dr Abbo’s Centre to 12 in the new ward.

34 In relation to human resources, the new ward relies on only two active doctors compared with six in 2005: one retired doctor who is still practicing on a voluntary basis, and twelve nurses. This very limited medical staff is clearly indicative of a crisis, given that this type of surgery does not attract the attention of physicians who might be persuaded to join if more adequate funding were provided to facilitate the new centre’s performance. While some talented doctors have left the centre, the current

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surgeons in the new ward remain the same as ten years ago. In addition, some of our informants also mentioned deterioration in the training of doctors in fistula surgery, which was one of Dr Abbo’s pillar objectives. In addition, his Centre trained fistula surgeons who were willing to practice at facilities located in various provinces of Sudan (Kassala, El-Fasher, Zalingei, El-Geneina, and Nyala). These doctors were trained to adapt to and deal with local issues: reaching fistula patients living in remote areas, providing information on the possibility of treating fistula, and supporting and advising patients in terms of physical and psychological recovery. We harbour doubts about the capacity of the new ward to perform this function in the same way as Dr Abbo’s Centre did.

35 With regard to our questions pertaining to the success rates of fistula surgery, we were not able to compare the situation before and after the destruction, as we could not find any statistics relating to the period since relocation.

36 Despite all the limitations we have mentioned above, the cost of surgery remains negligible, since today, as in the past with Dr Abbo’s Centre, patients continue to receive treatment at no cost, as was confirmed by a doctor working in the new ward.

37 In order to provide a complete picture, we should mention another significant achievement: the creation of a vocational training centre in 2010 as part of the Khartoum Teaching Hospital. This centre is a joint project between the Ministry of Social Welfare and Dr Abbo’s Centre. As women with fistula cannot usually return home and stay with relatives due to the stigma surrounding their condition, this fistula centre is a refuge as well as a training centre for patients: given the fact that most are illiterate, it offers them programmes for learning handicrafts, for example. The refuge is therefore a kind of ward: It is a “wagf” (donation) to Khartoum Hospital from the Presidency of the Republic of Sudan for fistula patients. The doctors decide on admissions on a case-by-case basis in collaboration with a social worker. They generally favour vulnerable patients whose circumstances do not allow them to return home (due to distance from their homes, difficulties with travelling long distances, etc.). At this moment, it is receiving food aid from an individual donor, but its future of the refuge, which is located in a prime location in Khartoum, on Katarina Street in Khartoum 2, has not yet been determined.

Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre: an illustration of the liberalization policies and dismantling processes in the Sudanese public health services sector?

38 In an interview with the Sudan Vision daily newspaper in August 2015, shortly after the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre, UNFPA’s Sudan Representative Lina Musa declared: UNFPA has marked Fistula Day 2015 with a high-level presence from the Government and the Italian Ambassador to Sudan and the team from the Italian International Cooperation, as the main donor to UNFPA on fistula work. The celebration was held at the Abbo Centre for Fistula Treatment, and entitled “End Fistula, Restore Women’s Dignity”. The event was an opportunity for government officials and donors to interact with fistula patients (both those who had been treated and those who were on the waiting list), as well as to strengthen their partnership to break the silence around the issue, secure political commitment and

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mobilize resources to meet the huge needs for such an expensive treatment (Sudan Vision 2015).

39 Firstly, when UNFPA’s Sudan Representative mentions the “Abbo Centre”, she is actually referring to the new ward, and not to the Centre built by Dr Abbo, as one of our informants confirmed. Disingenuously, as we also noticed during some of our interviews, the term “Dr Abbo’s Centre” is still used to describe the new ward, and an old placard identifying the Dr Abbo Centre was even hung outside the new place. Secondly, given the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Centre and relocation to the new ward, the “political commitment” mentioned by UNFPA’s Sudan Representative was obviously neither very strong nor very reliable.

40 During our fieldwork, we attempted to learn more about the causes of the destruction. Although, as we have mentioned earlier, some of our informants did suggest some explanations – such as the government’s intention to build a new road on the same location as Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre17 – we were not able to gather sufficient evidence to shed further light on the exact reasons. However, our empirical observations and our review of the existing literature lead us to connect the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre with ongoing dismantling processes – combined with liberalization policies – in the Sudanese public health services sector. The case of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre and the construction of the new road might also be associated with the government’s strategies to capitalize land (Denis 2005; Choplin & Franck 2014). For instance, the refuge lies in a prime location in Khartoum, and could be attractive for investment.

41 Driven by the general economic context, the liberalization process in the public health sector has been under way for some time, and has had a significant impact. The 2009 “National Policy for the Private (For-Profit) Health Sector” issued by the National Ministry of Health admits that “the macroeconomic and sectorial reforms implemented during 1990s led, inter alia, to an exponential increase in the private health sector. While it could be a welcome sign for enhancing coverage and access, there are indications of increasing inequity and misdistribution of health services.” The existing scientific literature on the issue of health policies in Sudan, while not especially abundant, is nonetheless also helpful. Babiker observes that, in the 1990s, “private hospitals increased from 9 in 1985 to 16 in 1990 and then to 40 in 1995” (Babiker, 1996: 15). As he claims, “the expansion of private health services has been encouraged by the increased demand resulting from the deterioration of the quality of the public health service” (Ibid: 16). We can see the consequences of this expansion of private health today from the very limited scope of the Sudanese public health sector. As a recent report has shown, “the public sector funds 22.34% of total healthcare resources, while the private sector share is 73.14%”18. The destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre and its relocation to a ward with a smaller capacity undeniably contributes to the reduction of the Sudanese public health services sector, as well as to the deterioration of Sudanese public health services facilities.

42 There is a great deal to suggest that this trend towards privatization and reductions in public expenditure was reinforced by the arrival of Mamoun Humeida as the Head of the Khartoum State Ministry of Health in 2011. As the owner of several private hospitals, he does not seem to be best placed to defend the public health services sector, and during our interviews, the issue of his conflict of interest was raised repeatedly. A newspaper article published in the Sudan Tribune in 2013 gives us a glimpse of the current context, starting from the period in 2011 when Mamoun Humeida took office:

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Humeida’s appointment as health minister attracted a wide range of opposition among specialist doctors fearing his approach, which is focused on privatizing health services. The Minister, who owns several private hospitals in Khartoum, made the controversial decision to dismantle the largest government hospital, which was located in central Khartoum and distribute its various sections to the outskirts of the capital. Doctors and activists fear that the move was intended to privatize the hospital and discontinue the free medical services. The Minister has ordered the Brain and Neurology Department to be transferred from Khartoum hospital to Ibrahim Malik and the Academic Hospitals as part of the dismantling process. One physician, who prefers to remain anonymous, said that the two hospitals lack a basic infrastructure. (…) Critics assert that Humeida was appointed to implement a plan for privatizing health services.19

43 This article cites the case of the Brain and Neurology department in Khartoum Hospital, but similarly, in 2013, the Ministry of Health of Khartoum State took the decision to transfer the Jafar Ibn Auf Accidents Hospital to peripheral hospitals (Academic, Bashaier and Ibrahim Malik Hospitals). As indicated in a newspaper article published in Sudan Vision: “Specialists criticised the Ministry’s retreat from an earlier agreement with the management of the hospital on the rehabilitation and maintenance of buildings and supply of medicines and equipment before transferring it to specialised centres, which indicates its intention to close the hospital. The specialists revealed the efforts of senior bodies in the country to stop what they called destruction and drying. They confirmed their intention to submit a memorandum to the Presidency to stop the hospital’s closure, noting that the hospital receives 18,000 children per month.”20

44 Thus, unlike with Dr Abbo’s Centre, where the destruction took place without provoking any particular reaction, the case of Jafar Ibn Auf Hospital resulted in significant protests from doctors and patients’ families that eventually lead to the hospital’s being kept going.

45 In an article published on the African Arguments website, Nesrine Malik, a Sudanese- born journalist based in London, also wrote very clearly about the health services dismantling approach adopted by the Ministry of Health in Khartoum State: (…) he [Mamoun Humeida] has been accused of closing major hospitals before opening others that could replace them (…). In what can be seen as a gross conflict of interest, he is also the owner of private hospitals, which are in direct competition with public facilities. His most disastrous move was to close the Emergency Room at a major children’s hospital in Khartoum, claiming that this was to ensure that patients went to hospitals closer to their homes (…). Doctors say this was catastrophic for child emergency care, as the other ERs to which the cases were directed did not have the same facilities and were few and far between. Humeida’s support for privatization and a de-centralisation of medical care is typical of the way government public spending is run in the country. Many spending policies are made under benign banners such as efficiency and re-distribution. But they are in effect furtive shimmies that allow the government to lift subsidies, spend less on public services, and to plunder them when needed, selling off land or property, or simply cutting off spending altogether, and passing the cost on to the citizen. Mamoun Humeida is a problematic figure who exemplifies the new shape of power in the country – the businessman politician: a sort of private-public mix of commercial heft and government loyalty who blurs the lines between the personal and public purse. Promoting his own interests, as well as the government’s need to privatize, because of its lack of funds.21

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46 In the light of observations such as these, and in the context of fistula in particular, privatization cannot fight the social and medical ramifications: as it affects poor and particularly vulnerable populations, the issue of fistula is not a “profitable one” for medical facilities22.

47 Moreover, the problem of fistula specifically needs a proactive public policy that would include the training of midwives and surgeons, quality equipment, improvements in maternal healthcare, and community outreach to remote areas. Doctors also need incentives, as surgery can be long and risky.23 In Sudan today, many doctors are not interested in practicing this type of surgery, and it is often performed pro bono by surgeons, as a practitioner we interviewed confirmed to us.

48 The links between global and local translates into the fact that the issue of fistula within the public health services sector is one of those topics that attract particular support from NGOs and foundations. Thus, in 2003, UNFPA and its partners launched a global campaign to end fistula, and included among these partners are a number of large international organizations that can provide significant funds for the fight against fistula. In its annual reports, for example, the Fistula Foundation indicates that it helps fund fistula surgery, surgeon training, equipment, and community outreach in Sudan24. As the reports also indicate, this support was channelled through the Women and Health Alliance International (WAHA), an NGO based in France, to support three Sudanese medical facilities: Kassala and Nyala Hospitals in an amount of 200,000 USD in 2012, and Dr Abbo’s centre in an amount of 185,800 USD in 2013 and 137,710 USD in 201125. Moreover, in 2015, the World Health Assembly launched the “G4 Alliance”, the Global Alliance for Surgical, Obstetric, Trauma, and Anaesthesia Care. This coalition of organizations, “is committed to advocating for the neglected surgical patient and is driven by a mission of providing a collective voice for increasing access to safe, essential and timely surgical, obstetric, trauma and anaesthesia care as part of universal health coverage”. This new initiative in the field of obstetric care also helps fund the fight against fistula in developing countries such as Sudan.

49 Despite the ease of attracting foreign funds, which is to be commended, one must be aware that this profusion of money can have negative reverberations. Interest on the part of international stakeholders may result in what we hypothesize to be the government unfortunately renouncing its expenditure responsibilities in support of the fight against fistula, and by so doing succeeding in saving money. This might also be motivated by the government’s interest in including fistula surgery within the private sector.

50 Whatever the reasons, a decline in government involvement as a mechanism has been observed in various sectors in other countries. In his history of the Congo, Van Reybrouck explains how in the 2000s, President Joseph Kabila was able to reduce public expenses in several areas – public health, agriculture, and education – in which international donors were particularly invested (Van Reybrouck 2012: 606). This also leads to a decline in public participation by civil society whereby the ongoing dismantling of health services is masked by the compensatory action of NGOs and foundations, and becomes invisible to the public eye.

51 Besides the two aforementioned issues of social marginalization and lack of profitability of fistula surgery, one must also stress the "gender" component of the fistula issue, as this aspect also seems to partly explain its neglect on the part of the

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government. Not only is fistula a problem that affects the female body, but it is also the result of a whole range of violent acts directed against women, such as early marriage, neglect of maternal health and female genital mutilation.

52 In the Darfur region, for example, where many women are affected by obstetric fistula, early marriage is widespread. According to the UNFPA, “field workers have expressed concern that in IDP camps mothers perceive early marriage as a means of protection. They do not want their daughters to run the risk of rape and sexual violence while conducting daily routines such as firewood collection, and then not be marriageable. They prefer to marry them off as young as possible noting that in Sudan the legal age of marriage for girls is 10 years. Poverty is another reason to marry off daughters at a young age since marriage equals income from the dowry and one mouth less to feed” (2014).

53 To conclude, it seems highly plausible that Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre was demolished because it was not used by people living in the capital, but by socially marginalized women from remote areas. Although, as in the case of the research conducted by Hind Mahmoud in 2005, many studies have shown the consequences of fistula in terms of stigmatization in sufferers’ lives, new research could usefully be conducted to investigate the role of gender inequalities, and more widely of social marginalization, in the way governments address the problem of fistula as compared to other health problems.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Scientific publications

Ahmed, E. and Marchal, R., 2007, «Soudan: Fonctionnement et pratiques du pouvoir de Khartoum; leviers d’action pour la communauté internationale. Le Parti du Congrès National à l’épreuve des urnes», EPMES, no. 108, Channel Research, p. 32.

Abusharaf, 2007, R. M., Female Circumcision: Multicultural Perspectives, Pennsylvania Studies in Human Rights.

Babiker, M., January 1996, The impact of liberalization policies on health. Some evidence from Sudan.

Boddy, J., 2007, Civilizing Women: British Crusades in Colonial Sudan, Princeton University Press.

Cowgill, K. D., Bishop, J., Norgaard, A. K., Rubens, C. E., & Gravett, M. G., 2015. Obstetric fistula in low-resource countries: an under-valued and under-studied problem – systematic review of its incidence, prevalence, and association with stillbirth. BMC Pregnancy and Childbirth, 15, 193. http://doi.org/ 10.1186/s12884-015-0592-2

El Dareer, A., 1982, “Woman, why do you weep? Circumcision and its consequences”, Zed Books Ltd.

Gruenbaum, E. 2015, "From harmful traditions” to “pathologies of power”: re-vamping the anthropology of health in Sudan, in “Fifty years of anthropology in Sudan: past, present and future”, Past, Present and Future. Fifty years of Anthropology in Sudan, CMI (Chr. Michelsen Institute).

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Khalil, A., 2011, A Review of Obstetric Fistula in Sudan, Obstetrics and Gynecology.

Mann, L., 2014, “Wasta! The Long-term Implications of Education Expansion and Economic Liberalisation on Politics in Sudan”, Review of African Political Economy 41 (142).

Toubia, N., 1994, Female Circumcision as a Public Health Issue, The New England Journal of Medicine.

Van Reybrouck, D., 2012, Congo une histoire, Actes Sud.

Wall L.L., 2012, Obstetric Fistula Is a “Neglected Tropical Disease”. PLoS Negl Trop Dis 6(8): e1769. doi: 10.1371/journal.pntd.0001769

Newspaper articles

Sudan Tribune, 9 July 2013, Khartoum State Health Minister Assaulted by Medical Doctor, http:// www.sudantribune.com/spip.php?article47239, accessed 15/05/2016.

Sudan Vision, 8 August 2013, Doctors Reject Jafar Ibn Auf Hospital Closing, http:// news.sudanvisiondaily.com/details.html?rsnpid=218084, accessed 28/06/2016.

Sudan Vision, 31 August, 2015, “UNFPA in Sudan has a Strong Partnership and Expanded Alliances with Wide Range of Stakeholders, UNFPA Representative”, http://news.sudanvisiondaily.com/details.html? rsnpid=254172, accessed 10/05/2016.

Websites

Malik, N., 2014,“Failing hospitals and private-public fiefdoms: what healthcare reveals about Sudan”, African Arguments. http://africanarguments.org/2014/11/13/failing-hospitals-and-private- public-fiefdoms-what-healthcare-reveals-about-sudan-by-nesrine-malik/, accessed 10/05/2016.

WAHA, http://www.waha-international.org/?what-we-do=1269&sudan-waha-to-partner-with- khartoum-teaching-hospital-to-increase-fistula-treatment, accessed 12/04/2016.

Fistula Foundation, https://www.fistulafoundation.org/countries-we-help/sudan/, https:// www.fistulafoundation.org/what-is-fistula/, accessed 12/04/2016.

UN/NGO/foundations reports:

Fistula Foundation, Annual Reports.

Public Health Institute, May 2014, Health financing system, Review report.

UNFPA, 2014, Fistula Prevention and Management – Darfur.

NOTES

1. Hind Mahmoud would like to thank Dr. Abbo for allowing her the recent opportunity to interview him about the dismantlement of the fistula centre that he founded. This gave her the privilege to update and revisit previous data related to the relationship of socio-economic status and its link with the occurrence of fistula. On the basis of this data the present article offers a new perspective on the link between the demolition of this centre and the state of public health services. 2. The United Nations Population Fund. 3. Fistula Foundation. 4. As Khalil writes, “Dr. Abbo Hassan Abbo is one of the leading international experts in the field (he was given a lifetime achievement award by the International Urogynecological Association in 2009), and he established this centre as an extension of Khartoum Hospital’s fistula ward in 1989.

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(…) All registrars training in obstetrics and gynecology in Sudan must work a shift at the centre” (Khalil, A., 2011). 5. As we explain further below, after its destruction, Dr Abbo’s Centre was replaced by a mere ward at Khartoum Teaching Hospital. 6. Source: WAHA. Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre also used to be one of UNFPA’s ninety-two partners in its global campaign to end fistula launched in 2003 (http://www.endfistula.org/campaign). 7. Translated from French by the authors. 8. Fistula Foundation. 9. Iatrogenic fistula can be caused by ischemic damage or injury caused during a caesarian section or an emergency hysterectomy. 10. UNFPA, 2014. 11. UNFPA’s representatives told us precisely the same thing when we interviewed them: they lack accurate data on fistula in Sudan. 12. Abusharaf, 2007; Toubia, N., 1994; Boddy, J., 2007; El Dareer, A., 1982. 13. Gruenbaum, E., 2015. 14. Khalil, A., 2011. 15. Cowgill, K. D., Bishop, J., Norgaard, A. K., Rubens, C. E., & Gravett, M. G., 2015; Wall L.L., 2012. 16. Translated from Arabic by Dr Azza Ahmed Abdel Aziz. Here is the original version of Dr Abbo’s poem: ءاثر و ىريح زكرم روسانلا كايح ايحلا *** و اقس هللا كنامز و ىعر كيف انعراص اقشلا ىف هفنع *** و هانعرص تنكف اعنصملا و كضرأب انشع انمز *** و انحسم جﻼعلاب اعمدﻻا تنكف نادوسلل ازمر و املعم *** ةراقلل ءادوسلا و ملاعلا اعمجا ىبا رزودلبلا نا ىقبت كدهعك امئاد *** و املظ حسم خيراتلا و ملعلا اعم كومده نود ةروشم ةضورفم *** ارصق امل ىف لك نييأرلا اندب اعساش ىقبيس ىدم لايجﻻا كدهع ادلاخ *** ردبلاك ىف ءاملظلا ارون اعطاس تيل ىرعش ول ناك نأشلا ىنأش *** تمقﻻ روسانلل ارصق اعسوم 17. This road now exists, at the East border of Khartoum Teaching Hospital. 18. Health financing system (PHI), 2014: 29. 19. Sudan Tribune, 9 July 2013, Khartoum State Health Minister Assaulted by Medical Doctor. 20. Sudan Vision, 2013. 21. Malik, N., 2014. 22. However, investment in it might occur if it were to fall under the umbrella of UHC universal health coverage. 23. The fistula surgery can take from 30 minutes to two hours (in the complicated cases). 24. Fistula Foundation. 25. Ibid.

ABSTRACTS

The idea for this paper was inspired by the discovery of the destruction of Dr Abbo’s Fistula Centre in 2015. Why was this centre of international renown destroyed? Our assumption was that the decision was related to dismantling processes and liberalization policies in the Sudanese

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public health services sector. The main sources for our analysis consist of various interviews conducted with health practitioners and stakeholders during February and March 2016.

La destruction, au cours de l’année 2015, du centre de traitement des fistules du Dr Abbo a constitué le point de départ de cette étude : pourquoi ce centre à la renommée internationale a-t- il été détruit ? Dans cet article, l’hypothèse défendue est que cette destruction est liée à un processus de démantèlement, dans un contexte plus large de libéralisation, des services publics de santé au Soudan. Notre analyse repose essentiellement sur une série d’entretiens menée au cours des mois de février et mars 2016, auprès de différents personnels et acteurs des services de santé soudanais.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Libéralisation, privatisation, politiques sanitaires au Soudan, Fistule, droits des femmes Keywords: Liberalization, privatization, health policies in Sudan, fistula, women’s rights

AUTHORS

HIND MAHMOUD YOUSSEF HUSSEIN Hind Mahmoud Youssef Hussein is a PhD student on Development Studies at Ahfad University for Women. She is also an associate researcher at CEDEJ and is a participant in one of CEDEJ’s research programmes entitled METRO 2 Soudan. She has a Master’s Degree in Gender Studies from Ahfad University for Women.

ALICE KOUMURIAN Alice Koumurian is currently Project Officer at CEDEJ Khartoum. She has a Master’s Degree in Public Affairs and a Bachelor’s Degree in Political Sciences from Sciences Po Paris.

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Mover and Shaker: Grace Mary Crowfoot, Intimate Conversations, and Sudanese History

Heather J. Sharkey

I would like to thank Elena Vezzadini and Elizabeth Hodgkin for their feedback on earlier drafts of this article.

Introducing Grace Mary Crowfoot and Making a Case for Intimate Exchanges

1 Grace Mary Crowfoot (1877-1957) –known as Molly to her friends –was a botanist, archaeologist, textile historian, and trained midwife. She was also the mother of four daughters, one of whom, a fellow archaeologist, published a short online biography in 2004 attesting to her accomplishments (E. Crowfoot 2004). During the early twentieth century, Grace Mary Crowfoot lived in Sudan and Egypt, and later in Palestine, where she published many articles and books, including, for example, a botanical study of the flowering plants of northern and central Sudan (Crowfoot1928), and an analysis of hand-spinning in Egypt and Sudan from ancient to modern times (Crowfoot 1931). To most historians of modern north-east African history, her works are likely to sound obscure simply because natural history (in this case, botany) and material culture (in this case, vis-à-vis textiles), have not been central concerns in the field. By contrast, Crowfoot’s publications on the plants and handcrafts of Palestine (for example, Crowfoot and Baldensperger 1932; Crowfoot 1943) continue to attract attention, perhaps because the historical patrimonies of Palestinian folklore, ecology, and textile production have become so contested (and therefore prestigious) in the post-1948 context of Israeli-Palestinian politics and rival nationalist imaginings(see, for example, Novick 2014: 37 and Weir 1989: 34, 115,etc.). Likewise, her publications on spinning remain respected works among hand-weaving enthusiasts around the world,1 while her reputation among archaeologists who specialize in textiles appears to run high as well. Indeed, in 2015, the Textile Research Centre in Leiden, the Netherlands, which recently

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acquired a “Crowfoot Collection” of spinning and weaving equipment from her grandson, called her a “Grande Dame of archaeological textiles”(Textile Research Centre 2015).

2 Grace Mary Crowfoot was in some ways a “colonial” character, because she spent her career in the British Empire, and yet as far as I know she never had a paying job, so her status was unofficial. For this reason, an historian seeking her in places like the British National Archives in London, the Sudan Archive in Durham, or the National Records Office in Khartoumis unlikely to find her, unless sources mention her in passing as the wife of John Winter Crowfoot (1873-1959). A committed archaeologist himself who, lacking independent wealth, earned an income for most of his career by holding jobs in the educational sphere, John Winter Crowfoot served with the Education Department in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan from 1903 to 1926, first as Assistant Director of Education and later as Director of Gordon College in Khartoum. He subsequently became Director of the British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem, where he investigated Iron Age ceramics and other subjects(E. Crowfoot 2004; Thornton 2011).

3 Despite her near-invisibility in official British sources, Grace Mary Crowfoot intervened in early twentieth century Sudanese history as a result of private conversations – we might call them “intimate exchanges” – that she had with men and women in northern Sudan. She had an especially striking impact on female scholarship and women’s health. Conversations were her theatre of the intimate: they were ephemeral, and left few traces in colonial archives, but left an impression on history. Studying the intimate may allow us to recover the history of this singular woman, and more broadly of Sudanese and British women in this period. At the same time, her story reveals some of the historical entanglements that have drawn places like Sudan, Britain, Egypt, and other countriestogether,whilesuggesting the role of individuals in making global history.

The Educated Female

4 I first encountered Grace Mary Crowfoot and became curious about her when I read the translated Arabic memoirs of Babikr Bedri (1856-1954), whom many Sudanese still hail as the “father” of Sudanese girls’ education. A devout Muslim, Babikr Bedri fought in the jihadist armies of the Sudanese Mahdi as a young man, but later collaborated cautiously with the British and promoted British-style “modern” education for boys and girls, adapted to Muslim culture, for example, by the inclusion of Koranic study. He founded many schools, and laid the foundations for a higher institution for females – now called Ahfad University for Women – which his children and grandchildren later developed.

5 What influenced and inspired Babikr Bedri as he became an early Sudanese champion of girls’ education? After 1900 in Sudan, he apparently saw the girls’ schools that Christian missionaries were setting up near Khartoum – for Egyptian expatriates and separatelyfor poor children of slave backgrounds – and realized their potential for local Muslim girls of distinguished families (Sharkey 2003: 55). Before Babikr Bedri, it was unthinkable for a “good” Muslim girl to attend school outside her home. His memoirs contain stories about how he had to convince his neighbours to send their daughters to school, and about the promises he made to protect the girls’ honour or to prevent male strangers from seeing them (Bedri 1980: 132, 139-40).His memoirs are equally

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remarkable for their stories about his pedagogical creativity – in spite of limited resources – as manifested, for example, in the way he decided to teach world geography to children by painting a globe onto a pumpkin, or by devising rhymes based on materials in current Arabic books as mnemonic devices (Bedri 1980: 116, 119-20).

6 Babikr Bedri included some memorable pages in his memoirs about Grace Crowfoot, who impressed him with her sharp intellect and sense of adventure (Bedri 1980: 206-8). She appears in them with a degree of specificity that no other female matches. In 1917, he wrote, Grace Crowfoot accompanied her husband on a trek to inspect government boys’ schools. In a humorous passage (which is not only funny, but which also illustrates his brilliance as a memoirist in using sharp details to conjure images), Babikr Bedri describes how Grace Crowfoot dressed like a man – confusing one Sudanese village leader who hosted them – and how she rode a camel fearlessly. During this trip, whenever they stopped for a break, Babikr Bedri helped her collect botanical specimens, record their Arabic names, and describe their life cycles, thereby supplying some of the information that later appeared in her book: indeed, she gave Babikr Bedri credit accordingly (Crowfoot 1928: Foreword). For example, he wrote: Next morning we feasted our eyes and I filled the honoured lady’s bag with all kinds of blossoms, writing their names down for her according to the varieties of trees from which they came. She was particularly delighted with a sidr [Ziziphus jujuba, or jujube] tree bearing blossoms of four other species, indarab, ‘aradayb, dabkir, and haraz. This is called ”al-qula’i”, which I explained to her in a note as follows: “Al- qula’i” is the term given to a shoot of a species of plant growing upon a branch of a different species of plant, having no stem nor root in the earth. It grows from a seed eaten by a bird and deposited in its droppings upon the branch of a different species at the beginning of the rainy season (Bedri 1980: 207).

7 We cannot know exactly what they said to each other during the trek: this is a practical problem of trying to understand an intimate and fleeting medium like conversation. What is clear, nevertheless, is that Grace Mary Crowfoot appeared in the Memoirs of Babikr Bedrias a role model: an exemplar of the dedicated modern female scholar and wife.

8 In1956, when Sudan gained independence from Britain, only an estimated 4% of Sudanese females were literate, but even this low literacy rate reflected the rapid efforts of figures like Babikr Bedri to develop girls’ schools during the first half of the twentieth century, and represented an increase over the 1% of females said to be literate in 1945 (Sharkey 2003: 68). Female illiteracy has inhibited historians, who in the Arabic-speaking regions of Sudan tend to rely on textual sources. Oral history has arguably never “taken off” as an historical method in Sudan to the degree that it has in other parts of Africa, notwithstanding a few vivid exceptions (Sharkey, Vezzadini, and Seri-Hersch 2015: 8), and therefore, for the pre-1956 period, Northern Sudanese history as written has almost exclusively been men’s history, while the responsibility for studying women has mostly fallen to anthropologists who do fieldwork. This absence of women from the historical record now makes Grace Mary Crowfoot’s scholarship on textiles – one of her other areas of expertise –even more valuable.

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Females in Scholarship: Women as Weavers and Artists

9 To write her book Methods of Hand-Spinning in Egypt and Sudan, which was published in 1931, Crowfoot used archaeological evidence from ancient Egypt and Sudan together with evidence drawn from what she observed. In Sudan, besides collecting botanical specimens during the treks she went on with her husband, Crowfoot collected information from spinners and weavers, who were almost all female. She spoke to women in villages, took photographs with her own camera, and drew– or later enlisted one of her daughters, identified as “D.”, suggesting either Dorothy (born 1910) or Diana (born 1918), to draw – detailed pictures of what spinners and weavers did and made (Crowfoot 1931: Foreword).

10 From the short biography that Crowfoot’s daughter Elizabeth published on an internet site devoted to unearthing the history of female archaeologists, we know that one day, Grace Crowfoot visited the distinguished Sudanese Muslim Sufi leader, Sherif Yusuf al- Hindi, and admired a camel-girth she saw in his tent. She was so impressed by its artistry that she asked to meet the maker, who turned out to be a woman named Sitt Zeinab (the lady Zeinab). Sitt Zeinab rode to Khartoum by camel so that she could set up her loom to teach Crowfoot how to do it (E. Crowfoot 2004).2

11 Crowfoot describedSitt Zeinabas “a famous spinner and weaver…from the Batahin of Abu Deleiq”, who made one of the finest yarns that she had ever seen. So intelligent and resourceful was this Zeinab that she included blue and red threads besides “the usual black and white ones” in her weaving, even though the colouring of wool was not practiced in Sudan. Crowfoot explained that Sitt Zeineb obtained red yarn by “unravelling certain German shawls imported into the country”, and took blue yarn from a blue fabric, a kind of serge, imported from France and sold “in traditional lengths for the native market with an unwoven portion at one end”: these unwoven threads were what she then used (Crowfoot 1931: 12; see also Plate 10). These details are valuable for two reasons: Crowfoot gives us a specific example of a mostly female art and of a single artist, Sitt Zeinab, whose work would otherwise be unknown and forgotten; and she reminds us that under British rule Sudan had trading connections – other partners in history – with places like France and Germany, too.

12 Crowfoot’s book on hand-weaving implies that the gender dynamics of spinning and weaving were in a state of flux: these arts were not “traditional” in the sense of being static. Most of the weavers and spinners she met and photographed were women or girls, and yet she did encounter a few older men, at least one of whom, from a place in the Nuba Mountains, she photographed and included in her book (Crowfoot 1931: Plates 33 and 34). The further south one went in Sudan, she noted, the more likely it was that one would meet a man who spun or wove. By contrast, the men she met in the northern regions who did spinning tended to be “old men…who are rather ashamed of it”, suggesting that in the early 1930s, Sudanese spinning and weaving were becoming increasingly “female” arts (Crowfoot 1931: 39).

13 Today, few historians of Sudan are likely to read Crowfoot’s books about textiles, botany, and even archaeology, because Sudan historians tend to write mostly about political and social history from the perspective of what educated men wrote or did. But Crowfoot’s books deserve wider attention. In their details we may be able to find

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things – as in this case, about women’s artistry, trading networks, and the history of Sudanese material culture – that we would otherwise not detect.

14 In a similar vein, her book on botany also contains useful details, because through conversation, she learned about the material culture surrounding various plants. She was able to tell us, for example, that some Sudanese people not only ate the fruit of the Zizyphus ‘spina christi’ – sidr in Arabic – but also put the branches of the tree over the doors of houses at weddings, while others favoured the branches of a particular olive, Olea chrysophilla – dadd’a in Arabic – to make walking sticks (Crowfoot 1928: Plates 96 and 112). She also hinted that plants might testify to global exchanges: for instance, she described Argemone Mexicana, the “Mexican poppy”, as “a wanderer from overseas, possibly imported [from North America] with cotton, now spread over the Sudan” (Crowfoot 1928: Plate 5).

Infibulation and the Female Genital Cutting Controversy

15 Grace Mary Crowfoot did not attend university, apparently because her parents considered it to be unnecessary for females. But she had a keen interest in medicine, and studied midwifery at the Clapham Maternity Hospital in London before her marriage, in part because she had been considering a career as a Christian medical missionary abroad. In fact, her daughter remarked, it was only when she started to become more serious about this career that John Winter Crowfoot realized that he needed to hurry and ask her to marry him or else risk losing her to medicine forever (E. Crowfoot 2004)!

16 In 1919, while she was living with her husband in Khartoum, a midwife invited herto attend a Sudanese childbirth. She came away shocked (Sharkey 2003: 57). At this birth, she saw first-hand what it meant for a Sudanese woman to be “circumcised” according to the local practice of infibulation, which entailed the excision and suturing of the external female genitalia and the near-closure of the vaginal opening. This operation had grave consequences for many women during menstruation, sexual intercourse, and, as Crowfoot realized, childbirth. It meant that to deliver a baby a Sudanese women required an incision through scar tissue, and new stitches (or re-infibulation) afterwards to close the wound.

17 It is safe to say that the British in Sudan did not consider it polite to discuss female genitalia in public, but Grace Mary Crowfoot refused to keep quiet. In 1921, at a dinner party, she sat next to the British Governor-General, Sir Lee Stack, and discussed the Sudanese practice of infibulation. We know this because years later, C.A. Willis, the British director of Sudanese intelligence, recalled in his unpublished memoirs (now preserved in the Sudan Archive at Durham University)that the Governor-General called him to the palace the next day and described his embarrassment at having to sit at the dinner party while Grace Mary Crowfoot insisted on speaking loudly about the practice (Sharkey 2003: 57)!She also asked Stack to bring British midwives to Sudan so that they could try to address, and perhaps even stop, the practice.

18 As a result of this conversation, the British colonial regime – which otherwise paid little attention to Sudanese women’s issues – agreed to start a midwifery training programme in Khartoum. The authorities hired two of Crowfoot’s friends, the British

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sisters Gertrude and Mabel Wolff, whom Crowfoot had met years before when she was studying midwifery in London. The Wolff sisters tried to encourage hygienic practices during childbirth (for example, by teaching Sudanese women how to boil knives to sterilize them), and allegedly promoted a less extreme form of infibulation. Many scholars have now written about the phenomenon of infibulation in Sudan, successive controversies that have arisen around attempts to stop the practice, and its persistence until today, despite all efforts(for example, Abusharaf 2006; and Boddy 2007).Crowfoot’s impact or legacy on the history of female circumcision and its controversies is obviously important, and yet very ambiguous. She forced British officials like the Governor-General, Sir Lee Stack, to acknowledge the practice, and to dedicate resources to Sudanese women’s maternal health. But did her efforts, and the efforts of the Wolff sisters and others, change minds and stop or even modify the practice? The jury, so to speak, is still out. What is clear is that Crowfoot’s overtures to the Governor- General helped attract funding to women’s medical care and led to the training of Sudanese midwives, including early pioneers like Batoul Muhammad ‘Isa and Sitt Gindiya Salih, who were among the first salaried female government employees in Sudan (Elhadd 2011; and Sharkey 1998: 25-28 for a biography of Batoul Muhamad ‘Isa).

Conclusion

19 Years ago, I visited the National Portrait Gallery in London, and after looking at paintings of English kings and queens – Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, and so on – I wandered into a room of twentieth-century British luminaries. I found myself facing the painting of a messy-haired female scientists eated at her desk with a sculpture of molecules. The label announced that this was Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin, winner of the 1964 Nobel Prize in chemistry, and the wife of Thomas Hodgkin, a man whose name I recognized because I had read one his books, entitled Nationalism in Colonial Africa (1956), some years before. (Thomas Hodgkin’s book, which was published in the year Sudan gained independence, took a Marxist approach, and treated African decolonization with an optimism bordering on jubilation.)“Crowfoot?”, I wondered. “Could this be a relation of Grace Mary Crowfoot?”

20 And so she was. Grace Mary Crowfoot, botanist, textile historian, archaeologist, and midwife, was the mother of Nobel Laureate Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin (1910-1994), who was only the third female after Marie Curie and Curie’s daughter Irène Joliot-Curie to win the Nobel Prize for Chemistry. Strikingly, even now, on the label attached to her portrait in the online catalogue, the National Portrait Gallery connects Dorothy to her distinguished husband, but not to her distinguished mother (National Portrait Gallery 2016)!Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin was an Oxford professor who trained a generation of chemists, including the future Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Some now say that news of Crowfoot’s winning the Nobel Prize appears to have been a turning point –and a major source of inspiration – for Thatcher in the midst of her budding political career, despite the differences in their political outlooks. Indeed, the story of their relationship became the subject of a radio play by Adam Ganz, which was broadcast by the BBC in 2014 (BBC 2014). Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin made major discoveries through X-ray crystallography, for example by finding the molecular structure of penicillin, which enabled the semi-synthetic production of antibiotics after World War II. Two of her other notable successes include discovering the structure of vitamin B12

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and insulin. I see a resemblance between the kind of high-patience, detail-oriented work that her mother applied to the study of Sudanese plants and textiles and the high- patience, detail-oriented work that her daughter applied to the chemical analysis of molecules. Strikingly, Dorothy Hodgkin’s daughter – and Grace Mary Crowfoot’s granddaughter – Elizabeth Hodgkin (b. 1941) has maintained the family connection to Sudan. She taught medieval history at the University of Khartoum in the 1970s, helped found a newsletter called Sudan Update in the 1980s (while also working for Amnesty International), and more recently served as a fellow of the Rift Valley Institute, which promotes the study of policy and action in Sudan and neighbouring countries (Rift Valley Institute 2016).According to Elizabeth Hodgkin (who wrote an email to the author in August 2016), her mother Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin traced her interest in a career in science to a trip to Sudan, in 1923, when she was thirteen years old. In particular, during herstay, she visited the Wellcome Laboratory in Khartoum and met Dr. A.J. Joseph, whose work inspired her.

21 On a whim, I conducted a Google search on Babikr Bedri and found references to Zeinab Badawi, who is one of his great-granddaughters. Zeinab Badawi is an Oxford graduate and a journalist on BBC’s World New Today programme who is based in London, where she has also served on the Board of Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery – the same museum where the painting of Grace Crowfoot’s Nobel-prize-winning daughter now hangs. UNESCO featured her for International Women’s Day in 2016, and discussed her recent commitment to the UNESCO General History of Africa programme (UNESCO 2016). As internet searches suggest, Zeinab Badawi has also founded a charity known as the Africa Medical Partnership Fund (AfriMed), which helps local medical professionals in Africa – perhaps continuing the thread of grass-roots medical care that runs through this story.

22 While preparing my paper for the REAF conference in Paris, tracing connections between people while speculating on this history of intimacy through conversation, I felt as if I were uncovering a subterranean history of illustrious women and their networks across time and place. This history connected, for example, one Zeinab – Sitt Zeinab, talented and illustrious weaver of camel girths– to Zeinab Badawi, BBC journalist; and Grace Mary Crowfoot, botanist, textile expert, and trained midwife, to Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin, Nobel-prize-winning chemist. Maybe that is one of the things that the history of intimacy can do for us: it can help us uncover histories of women that formal records otherwise ignore or hide. In the Sudan, Grace Mary Crowfoot was what a speaker of American English might call a “mover and shaker”: she initiated events and influenced people, even if she did so behind the scenes. Through the history of intimacy, perhaps we may be able to find evidence of other movers and shakers among mothers, daughters, sisters, friends, and their descendants.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abusharaf, Rogaia Mustafa (ed.). 2006. Female Circumcision: Multicultural Perspectives. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

BBC News. 2014. “Thatcher and Hodgkin: How Chemistry Overcame Politics”, 19 August 2014, consulted on 24/07/2016, URL: http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-politics-28801302

Bedri, Babikr. 1980. The Memoirs of Babikr Bedri. Trans. & Ed. Yusuf Bedri and Peter Hogg. London: Ithaca Press.

Boddy, Janice. 2007. Civilizing Women: British Crusades in Colonial Sudan. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Crowfoot, Elizabeth.2004. “Grace Mary Crowfoot (1877-1957).” In Breaking Ground: Women in Old World Archaeology, consultedon 24/07/2016, URL: http://www.brown.edu/Research/ Breaking_Ground/bios/Crowfoot_Grace.pdf

Crowfoot, Grace M. 1929. Flowering Plants of the Northern and Central Sudan. Leominster: The Orphans’ Press.

Crowfoot, Grace M. 1931. Methods of Hand-Spinning in Egypt and Sudan. Halifax: Bankfield Museum.

Crowfoot, Grace M. and Baldesperger, Louise. 1932. From Cedar to Hyssop: A Study in the Folklore of Plants in Palestine. London: The Sheldon Press.

Crowfoot, Grace M. 1943. “Handcrafts in Palestine: Primitive Weaving. Palestine Exploration Quarterly, vol. 75, no. 2: 75-88.

Elhadd, Tarik A. 2011. “On Its 90th Anniversary (1921-2011):Omdurman Midwifery Training School: A History of the Earlier Beginnings,” Sudan Medical Journal, vol. 47, no. 2: 103-10; consulted on 24/07/2016, URL: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/ 271142787_Omdurman_Midwifery_Training_school

Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Garden City, New York: Doubleday.

National Portrait Gallery (London). 2016. “Dorothy Hodgkin”, by artist Maggi Hambling, consulted on 24/07/2016, URL: http://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw07497/ Dorothy-Hodgkin

Novick, Tamar. 2014. Milk & Honey: Technologies of Plenty in the Making of a Holy Land, 1880-1960. Ph.D. dissertation (History and Sociology of Science), University of Pennsylvania.

Rift Valley Institute. 2016. “Fellows and Governance of the Rift Valley Institute”, consulted on 03/08/2016, URL: http://riftvalley.net/directors-governance

Sharkey, Heather J. 2003. “Chronicles of Progress: Northern Sudanese Women in the Era of British Imperialism,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, vol. 31, no. 1: 51-82.

Sharkey, Heather J, Vezzadini, Elena, and Seri-Hersch, Iris. 2015. “Rethinking Sudan Studies: A Post-2011 Manifesto.” Canadian Journal of African Studies/Revue canadienne des études africaines, vol.49, no. 1: 1-18.

Sharkey, Heather J. 1998. “Two Sudanese Midwives,” Sudanic Africa, 9 (1998): 19-38. Accessible for download at URL: https://www.academia.edu/25362937/Two_Sudanese_Midwives

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Stoler, Ann Laura. 2002. Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Textile Research Centre. 2015. “An Exciting Donation to the TRC’s Textile Archaeology Collection”, consulted on 24/07/2016, URL:http://www.trc-leiden.nl/index.php? option=com_content&view=article&id=430%3Aan-exciting-donation&catid=78%3Afront- page&lang=en

Thornton, Amara. 2011. “British Archaeologists, Social Networks and the Emergence of a Profession: The Social History of British Archaeology in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East, 1870-1939.” PhD thesis, University of London (University College London).

United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). “Zeinab Badawi: I See My Hyphenated Identity as an Advantage”, 4 March 2016, consulted on 25/07/2016, URL: http://en.unesco.org/news/zeinab-badawi-i-see-my-hyphenated-identity-advantage

Weir, Shelagh. 1989. Palestinian Costume. Austin: University of Texas Press.

NOTES

1. Grace Mary Crowfoot’s book on hand-spinning was re-issued in 1974, while one can buy new offprints of the original 1931 edition via online booksellers. It was also recently featured on a website called Handweaving.net which is maintained by a software engineer (and serious amateur hand-weaver) living on an island near Seattle, Washington! 2. The Sudan Archive in Durham contains photographs donated by heirs of the Crowfoot family. Among these are many photographs, taken by Grace Mary Crowfoot, of spinners, weavers, and other artisans. There are evenglass negatives of pictures showingSitt Zeinab weaving a camel girth! SAD .8/36/1-4 (J.W. and G.M. Crowfoot Collection).

ABSTRACTS

The Rationale for This Study At the fourth annual conference of African studies in France (4èmes Rencontres des Études Africaines en France [REAF]), which revolved around the broad theme of “Cosmopolitical Africas” (Afriques cosmopolitiques), several panellists considered “traces of intimacy” in African history regarding individuals and their modes of oral, literary, and artistic expression. Drawing inspiration from many scholars, including Stoler (2002), who wrote about “cross-racial” relationships in Southeast Asian colonial systems,Goffman (1959), whose sociological analysis of face-to-face “interaction rituals” is now a classic, and more, their aim was to consider close, and often idiosyncratic, exchanges –intimate encounters–in making history. I presented this study on Sudan at this conference and in this context, focusing on Grace Mary Crowfoot, a British polymath and superwoman of her era, and assessing the impact of her informal interactions with Sudanese men and women during the early twentieth century. As I tell it here, her story forms part of a collection of short biographical studies I have begun writing about figures whose lives in Sudan and Egypt transcended national and regional boundaries while producing global entanglements.

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INDEX

Keywords: Sudan, Grace Mary Crowfoot, midwifery, Babikr Bedri, textiles, botany

AUTHOR

HEATHER J. SHARKEY Heather J. Sharkey is an Associate Professor in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Pennsylvania. She holds degrees from Yale (BA), Durham(MPhil), and Princeton (PhD). She previously taught at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), and Trinity College (Connecticut). She was a Visiting Professor at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (EHESS) in Paris in 2012-13. Her books include Living with Colonialism: Nationalism and Culture in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (University of California Press, 2003); American Evangelicals in Egypt: Missionary Encounters in an Age of Empire (Princeton University Press, 2008); and A History of Muslims, Christians, and Jews in the Middle East (forthcoming from Cambridge University Press).

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Love at the Time of Independence The Debates on Romantic Love in the Sudanese Left-Wing Press of the 1950s

Elena Vezzadini

Acknowledgements: I wish to thank Heather Sharkey for her insightful comments on this paper. An earlier version was presented at a research seminar organized at the Centre on Social Sciences of the African Worlds (CESSMA) of Paris 7 and benefited from Violaine Tisseau’s and Didier Nativel’s questions and criticisms. I must also acknowledge Silvia Bruzzi for having put me on the track of ‘historical imagination’ with her own work on the Shayka Alawiyya of the Kathmiyya tariqa in Eritrea. I am very grateful to Mahasin Yusif, PhD student in history at the Khartoum University, who was the first to tell me about the “Al-Saraha” newspaper. Finally, the translations from Arabic to English are mine, but I wish to thank Muzaffar Ahmad Babikr for his linguistic consultancy

Love in Sudan

1 Love is the emotion I associate most closely with my experience of Sudan, not only because I often describe my relationship with the country as a question of love, but also – more prosaically – because love literally fills the air there. Love stories were one of the favourite topics that friends and acquaintances of all ages liked to talk to me about, but this is not merely a private matter: love is discussed on television shows and radio programmes, and is one of the most widespread subjects of music and poetry, including the music that assaults the ears of passengers using the mu‘assalat, the public transport system. Love stories make fortunes for telephone companies, as people spend hours on the phone discussing relationships (Lamoureux 2011). In the evenings at home, I used to be lulled to sleep by the soft voice of my friend talking on the phone to the man she would later marry. Of course, these many words are also spoken as a substitute for physical contact, which must remain extremely limited until marriage. In any event, perhaps to compensate, people converse about love endlessly, and however difficult their lives may be, love lies at the heart of their concerns and of their very existence.

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2 The starting point for this article is my observation that despite this widespread presence of discourses on love in Sudanese society and popular culture, research on this subject in Sudan Studies is virtually non-existent. To be fair, anthropologists are, as usual, further ahead when it comes to analysing the daily lives, problems, and interests of common people than are historians, and romantic relationships have been discussed – at least indirectly – in the context of works on gender relations, migration, kinship, and so on (see, for example, Evans-Pritchard 1951, Kenyon 1991, Boddy 2007, Willemse 2007, Abusharaf 2009). As the historian Nakanyike Musisi (2014) has argued in a survey of her own research on the history of sexuality, however, scholars have been so busy analysing the overlapping of power and sexuality (as is the case with research on HIV and female genital mutilation) that they have lost sight of people’s actual experiences, of the way they perceive, experience, and talk about sex. Musisi was limiting her discussion to sexuality, but the same argument might easily be extended to love. Recent research has signalled a new interest in this issue, however, including the pioneering work by Jennifer Cole and Lynn Taylor, Love in Africa (2009), which nevertheless mostly includes works by anthropologists.

3 If Sudan anthropologists have underplayed the role of love in their works on kinship, marriage, and so on, then historians have downright ignored it, and the history of emotions is notably absent from Sudanese historiography. This article represents a first faltering attempt to fill this gap.

4 From a methodological standpoint, how a fleeting feeling such as love can be captured has been a riddle for historians. As Rosenwein (2002, 2010) has pointed out, the experiences of a feeling on the one hand and its codified expression on the other – in songs or literature, for example – do not coincide, and choosing where to look has clear methodological implications (see also Plamper 2010). Here, I have gone for the simpler choice and opted to study the texts. During one of my most recent visits to Sudan, I discovered a column dedicated to love in al-Saraha, one of the left-wing newspapers I was collecting copies of. This column offered me a window on public discussions about love around the time of Sudan’s independence in 1956, and despite the limited number of texts – only ten – it represented a starting point for bringing emotions back into history. The texts also proved to be a prudent choice for a beginner working in a field that has been so much ignored by historians, as it allowed me to use the literary analysis tools with which I am familiar. Above all, an analysis of written discourses on love is important in dialogical terms, and love stories published in the press or broadcast over the radio informed individual experiences, offering a framework for comparing and situating personal stories.

5 While working on the protean – and sometimes obscure – field of the study of emotions and affect, I have heard on several occasions that writing a history of emotions has come into fashion. I believe, however, that it turns out to be “fashionable” in the same way the study of gender was some decades ago, in the sense that it is essential. Emotions represent a fundamental, vital, and indisputable aspect of every person’s life, and if the aim of social history is to recover all aspects of the pasts of ordinary men and women, it cannot be achieved without exploring their emotional world. As scholars of the history of emotions remind us, historians are accustomed to a type of historical writing that considers emotions to be an overspill, something that must remain outside the historical text because otherwise the historian’s objectivity would be obfuscated (Rosenwein 2002). Historians must be dispassionate, and must make the material they

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analyse ‘dispassionate’, too, in the sense that they need to extract its factual, non- emotional elements. This is a fiction, however: we stumble upon moving stories in the archives all the time, and emotions may spill out from even the driest document. This is often the way we connect with past; we are constantly being moved by fragments and shadows of past emotions that feed our historical imagination (Comaroff and Comaroff 1992).

6 Finally, I am perhaps stating the obvious when I repeat what micro-history has been telling us for decades, which is that the microscopic scale leads to a finer understanding of macro-dynamics. The love stories I have collected are a clear case in point. As we shall see, the al-Saraha column on love harbours information not only on gender relations, but also on the politics of development and nationalism, and the existential and concrete inextricability of the political, the social, and the intimate, especially at the dawn of independence.

7 This article is organized in the following manner. Considering that the main sources are semi-literary texts – newspaper articles – I shall embrace both an historical and a literary approach. I shall first place the discussions on love in the context of the history of Sudanese politics and the press in order to both contextualize and underline the specificity of al-Saraha. I shall then analyse the recurrent patterns in the description of love relationships as well as the omissions, and conclude by drawing some general conclusions about the nature of love in the left-wing press of the 1950s.

History and the Sudanese press

8 From its very beginnings, as it is well known, the press in Sudan has been connected to politics (Salih 1965, Al-Malik Babiker 1985, Muhammad Salih 1996, Galander and Starosa 1997, Sharkey 1999). In fact, the press developed with the formation of political factions after the First World War, and continued to reflect such divisions after that time. In order to give a sense to all this, however, we need to pause for a moment and provide a short outline of the political history of Sudan from the beginning of colonization.

The press and factional politics

9 In 1899, Sudan became an Anglo-Egyptian Condominium ruled by two countries, Egypt and Great Britain. Although the British-led Sudanese Government held most of the powers, Egypt had a unique impact on the political development of the country.

10 From the beginning of the 1920s until well after independence in 1956, Sudanese politics was split into two factions. The first included those who wanted full independence for the country but under the supervision of Great Britain. This group formed the Umma party in 1945 under the spiritual leadership of the Mahdi’s son sayyid ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Mahdi. The second faction claimed that Sudan was a part of Egypt and the Nile Valley, and in 1943 formed the Ashiqqa party (which was renamed the National Unionist Party in 1952), headed by Ismail al-Azhari (the first Prime Minister of Sudan) under the spiritual guidance of the Khatmiyya Sufi tariqa led by sayyid ‘Ali al- Mirghani. The NUP took a far more radical stance vis-à-vis the Sudanese government than did the Umma, and was supported by Egypt. After the Second World War, Egyptian efforts to redefine the Condominium Agreement became more focused: in 1947, Egypt

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succeeded in bringing the case of Sudan before the United Nations, and in 1951, the Egyptian parliament unilaterally repealed the Condominium Agreement. The Egyptian Free Officers coup d’état staged in 1952 unlocked the way to independence for Sudan, as Egypt dropped all claims of sovereignty over the country and requested its immediate self-government. This was ratified in the February 1953 agreement by which Egypt and Great Britain established a three-year transitional period leading to self- determination. On 1 January 1956, Sudan became the first independent country in sub- Saharan Africa (Bakheit 1965, Abu Hasabu 1985, Abdel-Rahim 1986, Beshir 1974, Daly 1991, 2000, Warburg 2003).

11 Another crucial issue in this same period was the question of the South. By its Southern Policy, the Condominium had kept the South administratively separate from the North from the mid-1920s until the Second World War. This divided the North and South into two de facto heterogeneous halves in terms of language, religion, and institutions. When talks on self-determination began, Southern politicians asked for the creation of a federal system and safeguards for the cultural specificities of the South, but none of their demands and conditions were met, and as early as 1955, a year before independence, a part of the Sudanese army stationed in Torit mutinied, the first in a series of clashes that would later escalate into civil war (Collins 1983, Poggo 2011, Rolandsen 2011, Rolandsen and Leonardi 2014).

12 The press grew and flowered in the heated climate of the years around independence. According to Galander and Starosa (1997, 211), in 1951, “a country with a literacy rate of only five per cent published seven daily and fourteen weekly Arabic newspapers, a daily and a weekly in English, and a weekly Greek paper. On the eve of independence, the country produced nine daily and seven weekly ‘intensely partisan’ newspapers.” The authors describe the press as being composed of three types of newspaper: “party- owned” papers, such as al-Umma, after the name of the Mahdi’s party, and Sawt al-Sudan for the NUP;1 party-oriented papers, including al-Sudan al-Jadid and al-Nil for the Umma party and al-Sudan al-Hadith for the Unionists; and “neutrals”, the most famous of which was the al-Ray al-‘Amm daily paper, which was mostly concerned with party politics, but carried articles from both sides.

13 Other types of paper also developed alongside those associated with factional politics. Some had entertainment or education as their main purpose, such as Hina Omdurman, which published the broadcasts of Radio Omdurman, and al-Sibiyan and Future, two magazines for young people, one aimed at a Northern public and the other at Southern readers. Another newspaper of note was Kordofan, the only regional paper of the time, which carried all sorts of local news alongside national stories. Finally, in 1956 a magazine dedicated to women’s rights, Sawt al-Maraa, began to be published.2

14 Last but not least, some newspapers were entirely dedicated to the workers’ movement. Here I must pause again, because the history of the left-wing press cannot be detached from the history of the labour movement in Sudan after the end of the Second World War.

The press and the workers’ movement

15 From the mid-1940s on, Sudan experienced a series of profound economic and social transformations that affected the lives of most Sudanese. These changes were partly triggered by the new philosophy of development adopted by London in its colonies at

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the end of the 1930s. During this period, which is often called ‘late colonialism’, Britain sought to promote social and economic advance in the colonies. The idea was to expand the competences and duties of the colonial state, creating a welfare system for colonial citizens that was able to guarantee certain basic rights, such as the right to health, decent housing, water, and education, while at the same time boosting economic development through investments in infrastructures such as an improved road system, better equipment for local industries, and rationalizing agriculture (see for example: Cooper 1996, Lewis 2000, Seekings 2011). In Sudan, notably, two five-year development plans were implemented consecutively from 1946.

16 Within this new paradigm of development, great importance was attached to the rights of workers.3 From 1946 on, various envoys were sent directly from the Ministry of Labour in London to prepare and supervise the introduction of brand new workers’ rights intended to regulate all aspect of their working lives, including the number of working hours and days off, and the right to sick leave, permits, pensions, and so on. Typical of this period is a quote from the report by the 1948 Commission on Living Standards, one of many commissions created from the late 1940s, according to which: “the whole trend of world opinion is towards raising the wages and standard of living of the worker and the Sudanese worker does not intend to be left behind in this movement…”4 Perhaps the most important of these rights in the particular economic conjuncture of the early 1950s was the right to form trade unions.

17 Sudan experienced two critical economic phenomena during and after the Second World War: first, the boom associated with the production of cotton, which was triggered by increased demands caused by the Korean War; and second, and as a consequence, very high inflation generated by the cash obtained from the sale of the raw material. It is in this context that the new labour laws, in particular the Trade Union Ordinance of 1948, sparked the unionization of the majority of urban workers. The spread of trade unions was impressive: by the end of 1952 there were as many as 99 registered trade unions including an estimated 70,000 and 120,000 workers, compared with a rough estimated total number of salaried urban workers of between 150,000 and 200,000.5

18 The years between 1948 and 1952 were ones of intense labour struggles. Waves of strikes shook the country incessantly during this period, with workers protesting for a salary level commensurate with the high cost of living. Various expert commissions were created to examine the workers’ demands. Their reports described their precarious working and living conditions, and in many respects took their side. For its part, the labour movement adopted an intensely anti-colonial language and strategy, attacking the government not only for the inadequate measures it was taking to improve their situation, but also for its “imperialism”. It should be noted that in spite of their Marxist-inspired language, the majority of union members offered scant support for the small, communist-oriented Sudan Liberation Movement party (SLM), and voted for the two factional parties (Fawzi 1957, Warburg 1978, Niblock 1987, El- Amin 1996a, 1996b, 1997, Sikainga 2002, Abd al-Wahab M. 2008, Abusharaf 2009, Tareq 2012). At the end of the 1940s, the various parties, including the formerly moderate Umma, had all adopted a radical anti-colonial lexicon. In other words, radicalism was in the air.

19 From the 1940s on, a type of left-wing press began to emerge that was ideologically close to Marxism, but politically less connected to the SLM than it was to the workers’

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movement. Among the first periodicals were al-Ummal (The Workers), of which very little is known except that it was published in Atbara in the late 1940s and was issued by the Sudan Railways Trade Union; al-Taliya‘a (The Vanguard), which was considered to be the mouthpiece of the Sudan Workers Trade Union Federation;6 al-Shaab, a bi- weekly, pro-worker, anti-imperialist, pro-Egyptian publication;7 and finally al-Saraha.8 Although censorship was applied, newspapers such as al-Shaab were able to carry slogans such as “people want freedom” (9.12.1950) and “the evacuation of the British from Sudan is our first objective” (6.1.1951). However, a number of journalists, such as Abdallah Rajab, the editor of al-Saraha, went to prison several times. For Galander and Starosa (1997, 212), this gave them great visibility and turned them into celebrities.

20 In this burgeoning press, however, only al-Sahara published a column dedicated exclusively to love, which had the emblematic title “Pure Deep Emotions” (wajad iniat sirfa). Before I explore this material, however, it is important to highlight the characteristics of al-Saraha, a newspaper that was unique in the panorama of the press at that time.

Al-Saraha

21 Al-Saraha, which means ‘Frankness’ in Arabic, was a bi-weekly newspaper founded by Abdallah Rajab in 1950. The information about the newspaper to which I could access is scarce, and it is difficult to ascertain whether its readership consisted mostly of skilled urban artisans, who were often literate, or Sudanese civil servants, or both.9

22 Abdallah Rajab was a peculiar intellectual figure. He was born in Singa in 1915, and began his life as a trader between Singa and Gedaref.10 He was self-taught and did not attend school, and yet he quickly discovered that his true vocation was journalism, and began to collaborate with the Kordofan newspaper in 1945, for which he continued writing as a correspondent even after this. Not only did he teach himself how to master writing in classical Arabic, but he also learnt English so well that he translated English novels into Arabic. He later joined other newspapers, such as Al-Sudan al-Jadid (in 1947) and al-Nil, until finally, in 1950, he decided to edit his own newspaper.

23 Al-Saraha was a peculiar journal, especially if one compares it with the most popular daily of the time, Al-Ray al-‘Amm. Although it was not an organ of the communist SLM, it was clearly Marxist, and its ideological orientation had a direct impact on the types of news it published. A rough list might include: a. News about the workers’ movement: the newspaper reported news of every strike throughout Sudan, whether small or large, of which it was given notice. It also published statements issued by various unions, the Railways Union in first place, but also unions of students, journalists, and nurses; it even re-published union statements issued to other journals (see, for example, the 8.1.1956 issue, which was a republication of a Union statement appeared in Al-Ray al-‘Amm). b. News and speeches from Soviet Russia: the newspaper regularly carried articles about life in the Soviet Union and reports of Soviet pamphlets or speeches by Lenin or Stalin (as in the issue of 3.2.1956, in which an Arabic translation of an historical speech of Lenin was published entitled “The Words of the Amazing Stalin”, with a picture of Lenin and Stalin from 1922). c. Nationalist pedagogical essays: articles such as the one published on 8.1.1956 on the responsibilities of educated people towards the country, or another in which the author discussed the Afro-Arab nature of Sudan (19.10.1956). These articles were aimed at shaping

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an informed public opinion that was aware of the national challenges ahead. This echoes what was noted already by Galander and Starosa, that a crucial function of the press in the 1950s was public education. d. The Southern question: in a similar vein, there were regular columns about the situation in the South that described the political attitudes of southerners, the economic situation, development plans, the status of infrastructures and services, and the question of education. The challenge the journal was taking up was how to modernize the South and bring it into the Sudanese nation. Al-Saraha sought to propose constructive solutions to this question by helping its readers get to know the South better, while framing this knowledge through the paradigm of development (cfr. Rolandsen and Leonardi 2014). e. Matters of general public interest: general information, usually critical in nature, on matters such as the annual budget, the country’s economic performance, agricultural output, the malfunctioning of agricultural schemes, and so on. f. The ‘powerless’: the paper was extremely attentive to voicing the grievances of various sections of Sudanese society. For instance, at the beginning of 1956, it covered a series of demonstrations by unemployed Sudanese that were repressed by the police. It reported problems relating to the provision of services such as the issue of housing or electricity. Finally, every issue carried one page dedicated to provincial news, not only from the Kordofanese cities (El Obeid, Bara, al-Nuhud), Eastern Sudan (Atbara, Port Sudan) and the Gezira (Wad Medani) but also from Darfur and South Sudan. g. Women: a special page in the newspaper was dedicated to women, including a special editorial called “Women’s World”. This page dealt mainly with women’s political rights, above all the right to vote, but it also discussed certain real or perceived problems experienced by women,11 some of which concerned female work and education (should girl wait before marrying or work after school? Is working compatible with having a family?). Missing from this section were topics covering the intimate lives of women and the question of male-female relationships.

24 It will be helpful if I briefly compare al-Saraha with another popular newspaper, al-Ray al-‘Amm. This paper was much more interested in news that was directly connected to the political life of the country and international issues, chiefly relating to Egypt. It also published news about trade unions, but limited itself to major events. Perhaps the most interesting point of comparison concerns gender relations. Al-Ray al-‘Amm also included a special column on women’s issues, and the types of topic it covered were similar to those found in al-Saraha. At the same time, it also carried criminal stories that revealed questions of intimacy. For example, one article described how a wife accused her husband of having tried to rape a 14-year-old child (14.10.1956), while in another about three cases of beating and assault, an even shorter paragraph told the story of a woman who struck the husband who had sought to kill her, and then committed suicide (4.10.1956). True, such articles were rare, the writing style was dry and concise, and nothing at all was said about the social setting of the crimes, not to mention the names of the people involved. They did, however, show intimate relationships in all their complex lights and shadows. Al-Saraha, on the other hand, was not at all the kind of newspaper that would carry such news, and generally report stories reflecting (disturbed) intimate relationships, with one exception: its column on love.

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Love in al-Saraha

25 It is not known when the column on love was first published. The first available issue dates from April 1956, and after that it came out quite randomly. Its irregular publication suggests that it might only have been published when there was space for it, and that it was not a priority for the newspaper, which was busy with the intense political life of the time.12

26 Even though al-Saraha might have been the only newspaper that dedicated a section to it, love was a hot topic in the popular culture of Sudan at the time. It was a central theme of Sudanese songs: for instance, the author of an article entitled “Love in our Songs” published in al-Ray al-‘Amm on 3 October 1956 complained about the abundance of “tears and sobs” in the songs of the time.13 Notions of romantic love were also widely disseminated in Sudanese urban centres by Hollywood and Egyptian films from the mid-1920s (Sharkey 2003, 64). Love was a central preoccupation of the press well beyond Sudan, however: we just need to think about the explosion of the subject in Western literature that marked the Romantic era, so that for the first time in history, books dedicated entirely to relationships, love, and affection – such as Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice – became international best-sellers (on Jane Austen and her impact “abroad”, see Park and Rajeswari 2015). Closer to Sudan, Qasim Amin’s Liberation of Women discussed the question of companionate marriage at length, adding to a debate that raged in Egypt after the end of the nineteenth century (Russell 2004). In short, Sudan was hit head-on by global flows of discourse on love (on love in Africa, see, for example, Hunter 2010, Prichard 2013; and on love in the Middle East, see, for example, Ze’evi 2006, Babayan and Najmabadi 2008, Peirce 2009, Stokes 2010).

27 Perhaps the most widely-studied editorial that is closest geographically and chronologically to our case is Dear Dolly. Kenda Mutongi analyses the story of this column, which appeared in the journal Drums and which was published in Cape Town but widely distributed in Anglophone Africa, in a chapter of the famous volume Love in Africa (2000). Dear Dolly was “the column that answered the courtship and sexuality questions of young men and women” (Mutongi 2000, 83-84), and readers from Ghana to South Africa sent letters adressing straight questions about issues relating to couples and sex, to which they received equally straightforward replies from a fictitious Dolly.

28 Compared to Dear Dolly, al-Saraha editorial about love was quite different. First, there were no questions and answers, but stories written by readers and addressed to a certain Muhammad al-Hassan Ahmad, who appears to have been the editor of the column. It should be noted, incidentally, that “letters to the editor” sections appeared in various newspapers, but the letters were usually written by citizens who wished to expose a certain situation or problem. In terms of content, the “wajad iniat sirfa” does not show the same feature of light entertainment that was clear in Dear Dolly. Finally, as regards style, the register of the letters was quite high; they were written in classical Arabic of varying complexity, and some were filled with metaphors, plays on words, and figures of speech, while others were written in a more simple – but still elaborate – language.

29 Dissimilar styles probably reflected differences in authorship. The editor, Muhammad al-Hassan, claimed that he published the “best stories” that were sent to him, and in one text he hinted that there was quite a long waiting list for publication (Al-Saraha 30.9.1956). He himself was the author of at least some of the stories.14 Some texts were

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published in the name of the author (although many were undistinguishable popular Sudanese names), while in other cases pseudonyms (like al-Munbathiq, or “the one who has been enlightened”) were used.15 Another important element is the gender of the authors: all but one of the texts were written from the male point of view, meaning that the problems and issues of relationships were mostly tackled from a male perspective.

30 As for their content, the most important feature is that al-Saraha love stories were not only fraught with obstacles – as are all love stories in literature – but also had all (but one) a tragic conclusion. There were three main causes for such unhappy endings: 1) social pressure; 2) “backward traditions”; and 3) the nature of love itself.

Society

31 A typical example of social pressure destroying romantic bonds is the story entitled First Love (23.11.1956). It begins with a passionate description of the love and feelings between the narrator and a girl: his happiness at their first meeting in Port Sudan, the feeling he had of being young, energetic and vigorous, with his life in front of him, and the way his vigour matched that of the girl, who was in the “spring of her age”. He then describes the girl in terms that exemplify the archetypal female ideal: she was modestly dressed, beautiful, and mysterious, “she did not speak unless she was asked to do so”, and when she did speak, her voice was like the music of the greatest composers. Echoing the narrator’s nationalist feelings, she embodied the same vitality as the young nation that had just been freed from the shackles of colonialism. And then, suddenly, their relationship ended when the narrator’s father travelled from Atbara to Port Sudan with the news that he had to marry the daughter of an aunt, and not the girl he loved. He tried to resist, but to no avail: My father threatened me with things that I don’t need to mention here, and when faced with this I could only relinquish my desire and sacrifice my happiness for the path of younger people who are in urgent need to benefit from such a sacrifice – such as my younger sister, who married the man she liked. I will not forget my first love, however, the first person to open up my heart, my virgin heart.

32 In this text, the male perspective completely erases the story of the girl: not only is she never given a name – even a fictitious one – but the reader also does not know her feelings about having been rejected and what happens to her afterwards.16

33 The second example, which is entitled Love Story (3.12.1956) and was published just ten days later, is the only text in this collection that is written from the female perspective. The events are similar to the story above, except for one significant difference – the conclusion. The female narrator met a man at a wedding party who “devoured her with his eyes”. Her eyes met his own, and “our look wrote such sinuosity of the soul we call love”, a quote that offers an example of the literary style of the text. She fell in love with the young man, who was an educated person and an artist, and her love grew daily. One day, however, somebody else asked for her hand in marriage, but she dared to refuse him. She describes this decision as a catastrophe, although she does not provide much detail, and eventually makes a choice: She kept her love for him and the pledge she made to him. She decided to devote her entire existence to this love, as she cherished her love for him above anything else. She would never change, and she would sacrifice her femininity and everything else!

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34 As is the case with other texts, not much is known about what exactly happened. What is narrated here are not events but feelings, and the story is not one of events that happened to people but a narrative sequence of emotions: love grows and is frustrated, and is then saved by the determination of the girl to dedicate herself to her love. Any contextualization seems unnecessary.17

35 The third example of obstacles associated with to society offers us one of the most tragic stories. Entitled “The End of Love” (25.6.1957) and signed by a certain A. Abdin, it is the story of a girl – Khadija – in the village of Abu ‘Arus (literally, ‘the father of the groom’), who commits suicide on the day of her marriage, at the age of 20, because her family is forcing her to marry a man she does not love. The writer comments that the family was shocked that she could carry out such an act, as arranged marriages were the norm in the village. For the people of the village, the suicide was an abnormal, excessive reaction to something that everybody endured. The narrator was of a different opinion, however: “This is truly the triumph of love in the valley of Sudan; indeed, it is the triumph of the powerless!!!”

36 The narrator then goes on to compare Khadija with a woman he himself had loved. This highly literate urban woman faced the same dilemma: “the educated girl was going to a relative who had graduated from Oxford and who owned a splendid car and lived in a house with an expensive garden in the British neighbourhood”. The educated girl “did not wish to dash the hopes of her father” by refusing the marriage. Unlike Khadija, his beloved girl did not commit suicide and accepted her fate. The author concludes bitterly: For my friend Muhammad al-Hassan [the editor], Khadija made a mistake because she ended up by committing the ugliest crime any human being could inflict on themself … However, it is my point of view that my educated girl committed a crime no less ugly than that that of Khadija, the ignorant girl from the village of Abu ‘Arus.18

37 This text launches a dual attack against a society that does not realize the tragedy of arranged marriages, and against his educated friend who agreed to comply with society’s demands. Placing the text in the context of the Arabic tradition of love as martyrdom may help us understand the narrator’s criticism. The first obvious reference is one of the most popular stories in Arabic-speaking countries, that of Majnun and Leila (Seyed-Gohrab 2003, El-Ariss 2013). In addition, Arabic versions of Shakespeare’s tragedy Romeo and Juliet – and even its original in English – were available to Sudanese readers. The Arabic version probably came to Sudan through a popular adaptation known as the “The Martyrs of Love”, which had been diffused in Egypt around the 1890s. Mark Bayer (2007) has observed that the changes to the play fitted in with the Sufi tradition of love as a feeling that requires the total annihilation of the ego. In the Egyptian version, Romeo surrenders to the emotion of love to the point of being satisfied and eager to die for it, and love is accomplished in death. One might imagine that similar ideas lay behind “The End of Love”: for the narrator, the “crime” committed by the girl who accepts what her family has imposed on her is that of not having been radical enough in her love.

38 I would make one final observation. The gender discrepancy of the ‘sacrifice’ made for love is evident: in the first story, the boy accepts his fate and marries, while in the other two the two women sacrifice themselves by renouncing the joys of companionate life or, worse, by suicide.

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Traditions

39 The texts I have discussed above do not focus on specific traditions, but rather on how families and society behave towards individuals. In a few cases, however, the stories hint more clearly at the way “backward customs” dehumanize intimate relationships and lead to tragedy. The story that most embodies this is emblematically entitled “He Paid the Price of Love with his Life” (4.6.1956). It is signed by a certain ‘Ali al-Malik, and differs from the others in that facts predominate over feelings, and names and circumstances are described more explicitly.

40 The narrator recounts the story of Kubu, a man who lives among an unidentified pastoralist group, who decides to marry. It is not specifically stated that the man is not a Muslim, but he does not have a typical Muslim name. He has to pay a dowry in cows, but that year “it was impossible to collect a cow or two”, and so the tribe offers him the alternative of killing a member of another tribe “to pay his dowry in blood”. Early one morning, therefore, he takes his spear and leaves. He travels until he reaches an army camp and decides to kill somebody there. He finds a man washing his clothes in the barracks washing area and asks him for a glass of water, and when the man bends to fill the cup, Kubu kills him. The narrator comments on the homicide thus: And this action was carried out by him without doubts or fear […] Kubu did not feel any regrets, as if he had slaughtered a chicken and not a human being with a heart and hopes and a body.19

41 The text then goes on to describe Kubu’s happiness as he returns to his village, his spear covered in blood, the celebration of the wedding, the slaughtering of a goat, and the moment when his beloved wife kisses him as her husband… “And Kubu feels at ease and […] feels that he owns the world […] and when he goes to sleep there is no discomfort and no regret” The day after, the police, who were looking for him, caught him at home. Happiness died in the eyes of his wife. He was taken to the barracks and condemned to death. Images of death mix with images of disillusioned hope: When his head was placed in the noose, he did not stop imagining his girl […] who was dreaming of his return, of her receiving his spear stained with blood and gathering the wood for the fire. The rope tightened around his neck […] and his whole body swung back and forth […], but this was not her decision.

42 By this last sentence, the author intended to underline that there is one more indirect victim of the story – Kubu’s wife – who not only had no say in the marriage, but was also trapped by destiny to live as a disgraced woman who had been married for one day to a man who was hanged for murder.

43 In this story, Kubu is described as being closer to a beast than to a human being: he is happy that it is easier to kill a man than to give two cows; he kills the man who gives him water as if he were a chicken; he feels no regret; and he is surprised when he is caught and hanged. The author is sending a clear message to his readers: “backward” customs debase human beings. The story of Kubu therefore has a pedagogical function, in line with al-Saraha’s mission to modernize people’s minds.

44 At the same time, however, the story reveals another side of the coin: the stereotypical disparaging view that educated Sudanese had of the peripheries. Fundamental social dynamics such as the question of the dowry were not taken seriously, but were depicted as caricatures revealing the backwardness of the inhabitants. Kubu was the

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antithesis of the modern man, and was described as a radical other who belonged to a world of customs where a lack of rationality meant a lack of humanity. Living at the margins implied being stuck in a world without history and religion, in a form of primitive and debased humanity.

The nature of love

45 A third type of obstacle along the path towards a happy denouement of feelings of love is fantasy and its excesses. This is an important motif that was, for instance, taken up in the discussion of “Love in Our Songs” published in Al-Ray al-‘Amm on 3.10.1956. In it, the author, a certain Muhammad “‘Ammu” (uncle), condemns love songs because they only describe forms of tragic love: “The listener considers the number of tears and sobs that abound in the love songs, so according to the laws of our love songs, people who are touched by them do not know that their feelings are not a curse.” Secondly, love songs are condemned because they treat ill-fated love as a higher form of love than orthodox, socially-sanctioned love. Instead, for the author, “normal” love is generated by marriage: “a love that has a scope, that illuminates the future, brightens life, and binds the two lovers by a sacred bond until their death”. He concludes: “So love is connected to hope, and love dies with the same death as hope”, only to grow again.20

46 A similar message is offered in a text from al-Saraha (30.9.1956) entitled “Love in our Community”, signed by Mirghani Hassan ‘Ali. This text is also the only one in which what is narrated is not a specific story, but general considerations on relationships. The problem the author seeks to solve is how to understand the conditions under which love becomes “real”: that is, feasible and possible to realize. His solution is to place the couple in an appropriate setting to allow them to get to know each other: The circumstances I am referring to are those in which the woman frequently meets the man in a productive environment or any other professional activity they carry out together that offers them the opportunity to observe each other closely. From these circumstances, and through these relationships, real love germinates: a conscious love, with no insomnia, no tears, no crying in front of ruins, because under these circumstances love will be allowed to identify its objectives clearly … to grow … to burst forth. This is how love works in countries where equality between a man and a woman is achieved, that equality that results in the woman gaining financial independence …that is to say, her participation in production, next to the man.

47 The author then compares this kind of love with that to be found “in our backward community”, which is love at first sight, “hidden love”, in a society that places “the woman in the coffin of the harem”. For the author, this is the kind of love that has the worst consequences, as amply demonstrated in popular songs: “all our songs portray our understanding of love”. For Mirghani, too, “love will be kindled … certainly it will ... through marital relations, as this is the only cradle for love in our backward community.”

48 Indeed, the question of the “limitations of love” seems to have been at the heart of a debate divided between two different concepts of it. All the authors accept that love can be a force that exceeds rationality; for some, however, love is an emotion that must be lived to its extreme consequences, whatever they may be, while for others socially unsanctioned love is to be condemned because it leads to tragedy, and because it represents a fantasy that does not match reality. This faction condemns the

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glorification of “martyr” love because it belittles the type of love that is most common among people, an ordinary love that is a consequence, and not a cause, of marriage.

Absences

49 In this section, I shall focus on the omissions that are a feature of the texts, and attempt to delineate a topography of their hills and valleys, because in actual fact, the omission of certain items of information was also a strategy for giving prominence to others, in line with the general editorial interests of the journal concerned.

50 The first type of information that is absent from the texts is any elements that might help to situate the characters in terms of origin, social background, and even class in any way. None of the texts mention the ethnic belonging, culture, or language of the people they describe. It is rare to find even a passing reference to the geographic location where a story is set, but even where there is one, as is the case with Abu ‘Arus or Port Sudan, it lacks any connotation. In those stories in which a relationship is hindered by an arranged marriage, family, ethnic, or cultural associations between the bride and groom are never mentioned directly. In other words, ethnic differences are never offered as an explanation for a failed love.

51 Instead, it is interesting to note that in the only text that makes any reference to class differences – the story of Khadija – the narrator insists (by using narrative strategies such as repetition of connotative sentences) that the two girls (the educated girl from Khartoum and the “ignorant” village girl) face precisely the same dilemma. In this way, the text underlines the fact that love makes people equal, and that one’s behaviour when one is in love does not depend on class, origin, or education, but on individual choices. Love is described as a universal and egalitarian force, in both its joy and pain.

52 The second element that is absent from these texts is an explicit connection between love and religion, and the religiosity of individuals is neither evoked nor discussed as an explicative element, in spite of the importance of the Sufi tradition in Sudan and of love in general in Islamic culture, possibly because of the paper’s left-wing slant (see, for example, Chittick and Nasr 2013). On the other hand, it is likely that this tradition influenced the literary imaginary anyway. There are implicit references, well hidden though they may be, to the civilizing power of Islam: in Kubu’s story, the victim is murdered while offering water, and in this way, Kubu breaks the basic laws of hospitality and Islamic charity.

53 The final category of absence is sexual transgression. I raise this because, as we have seen, there were passing references to it in other newspapers, which means that it was possible to talk about transgression in a public space such as the press. In al-Saraha’s love column, however, this topic is entirely absent, as is, more generally, anything pertaining to bodily or erotic love, which is is conspicuous by its absence (with one exception, a story called “Repentance without Sin” from 28.10.1956 that tells of two people who fall in love with each other’s picture, but here the only act of physical tenderness between the two, a kiss, lead the girl to fall into a depression). In these texts, transgression consists in stepping over the wishes of family and society, and involves a broad debate on the moral conflict between one’s own aspirations and those of society. This debate remains strictly within the limits of heterosexual romance, however.

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54 It is worth making a final remark, on anonymity. I mentioned earlier that the majority of the texts are more about feelings than they are about people, and so the lack of information about ethnic, class, geographical, or religious backgrounds goes hand in hand with the generally blurred image of the characters’ individual identities. True, the texts had to fit into one or two columns, and needed to be concise, but the fact remains that information of this kind was clearly not prioritized. The crucial point to underline here is that this choice allowed the text to be extremely intimate and utterly impersonal at one and the same time. Dramatic events were disclosed, but they were staged and acted out by unidentified and unidentifiable characters who sometimes more resembled caricatures. One might infer that anonymity was the only way to talk about dramatic feelings, tragic events, and intimate relationships.

55 If one compares these texts with biographies – in particular those from the literary tradition of the Tabaqat – the reason behind the anonymity strategy becomes obvious (Sharkey 1995, and one example: Wad Dayf Allah 1930). The Tabaqat were written in the form of praise for the lives of illustrious individuals (who were mostly men), and the type of information offered stressed their intellectual and/or religious achievements, which justified their inclusion in these anthologies. In the Tabaqat, intimate information of all kinds was rigorously kept outside the narrative because it was inappropriate for the genre. Intimate relationships and feelings could therefore only be revealed and discussed if they were not associated with recognizable individuals, and conversely visibility and recognisability meant that it was impossible to discuss intimate matters, and more generally to use words that might cast shadows over a person’s reputation. It did happen, of course, that politicians were attacked personally in some newspaper articles, but the intimate remained firmly out of bounds. In al- Saraha, conversely, the intimate could only be evoked in an impersonal form: stories were disembodied and individuals caricaturized, so that people could recognize themselves and feel at a comfortable distance from them at the same time.

Conclusion: Love in Sudanese society

56 In historical sociology, the classic interpretation of the rise and spread of romantic love is that it went hand in hand with the growth of individualism and the atomization of community relations, the process of rationalization of state institutions, the rise of nationalism, and the reorganization of production, which in the West meant industrialization. In short, romantic love was a synonym for modernity (Giddens 1992). While the historicity of the thesis has been much criticized, its core tenets remain unshaken (Lantz 1982). In this light, the texts I have reviewed add nuance and complexity to that interpretation.

57 The main question underlying the texts is what kind of love is more modern, in line with the newspaper’s mission to ‘awaken’ and educate people to modernity, development, and Marxism. Is it the individualistic, romantic version of socially unregulated love, or is it the love that only marriage can generate, a love as a form of sharing and community-making, sanctioned by society, but also one that is not (self-)destructive, love “without ruins” that also goes hand in hand with other form of social progress?

58 In most of the stories, the characters are caught between a desire for romantic, individualistic love and the social pressures that make it impossible. The man who has

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to leave his first love and the educated girl who agrees to marry the man who studied in Oxford both take the decision not to challenge the social order as expressed by the desires of their families. They do so because they cannot bear the break-up of social relations that rebelling against their families would entail. The price to be paid for their choice is high, however, because they lose their own integrity and suffer a spiritual death. In the highly political atmosphere of the time, and in such a clearly politically-oriented newspaper, one cannot help thinking that these two versions of love also carried a political subtext. As Jo Labanyi (2004, 234) has noted in the context of Spanish Romanticism, “Romantic love… has a combative quality, allowing it to stand for political rebellion by signifying individual free choice in a world still determined by birth rights”. In other words, romantic love bears the marks of revolution.

59 And yet these texts do not argue that people should defy social norms outright; on the contrary, those who challenge these norms must suffer even more. For instance, the girl who commits suicide has not only annihilated herself, but has also set herself outside the rationality of the community, in which everybody concludes arranged marriages. The choice of individualism always leads to disaster.

60 A person who is caught up in a romance is torn between two forms of love. The first consists in the intimacy and affection that one owes oneself in order to love the other (as in Sufism, in which God loves himself by loving the human being, so that romantic love implies a sense of love for the self), while the second is the love, intimacy, and affection owed to the other (the family, society, etc.), which is also necessary in order to love oneself. It is as if we were looking at two concepts of the theory of affect competing with each other: the Halbwachsian concept (all emotions are regulated by social norms, and we carry society within us; see Halbwachs and Granger 2014), and a more Massumi-Deluzian concept (affects are those impulses that break the structure and are uncontrollable, irrational, and illogical: see Massumi 2015).

61 The complexity of these texts lies in the way in which they reconcile the two positions rather than oppose them. Indeed, the crucial point that needs to be understood is that accepting society, or at least finding a form of compromise in relation to it, does not mean moving from a state of being in love to a state of being without it. Family and society are not described as being external to love or as lacking love, intimacy, or emotions; on the contrary, they lie at their very core. It is out of love for her father that the educated girl marries the man who studied at Oxford. A daughter who obeys her father is obeying a relationship that is invested with love and conceived as a loving rapport. It is just that the two types – love of one’s family or society and love of the man or woman of one’s choice – seem to be irreconcilable. For al-Saraha, the reason for this is to be found not so much in the nature of romantic love in itself, but rather in how society functions – or rather, malfunctions.

62 In the years when these articles were being published, Sudan had just gained independence and, as we have seen, a variety of issues was troubling the young nation. Many intellectuals believed that the most formidable challenge to modernization and nation-building consisted in entrenched social norms and ‘backward traditions’. International models of alternative gender relations were circulating widely at the time: Sudanese intellectuals were certainly heavily exposed to the global spread of romantic companionate relationships through the radio, cinema, foreign novels and so on, and this went hand in hand with models of the changing situation of women in the West that emphasised their role in economic production and how equality between

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men and women was being achieved. In addition, the Marxist ideology that inspired newspapers such al-Saraha also placed gender at the heart of its struggle, as witnessed by the number of articles in al-Saraha.

63 The editors, journalists, and readers of the paper were sharply aware of the gap between these ideals and the situation in Sudan, however: the point was not only to give women more rights; it was also to reform society so that there could be a closer match between personal freedom and social injunctions. In other words, the moral subtext of these stories was not that individuals had to disobey society, but that society as a whole had to be reformed. Only by reforming it could the two forms of love, of oneself and of others (family and society, that is), be harmonized.

64 The final point to be noted is that while individuals were waiting for society to be more in harmony with their own desires, the optimal solution suggested by the majority of these texts was neither to accept and surrender to it nor to abandon it, but rather to find a middle way by using one’s own inner freedom and intimacy to adopt what we might call adaptation by resistance. In “First Love”, for instance, the man opts for an arranged marriage, but he also decides to write his own story and make it public as a lesson for future generations (and indeed he mentions that his sister married the man she loved); similarly, the girl who renounces her femininity finds a middle way between refusing and accepting what is imposed on her, which seems to be the best possible solution for her in the end, while at the same time putting the people around her on notice that she will not bend to these social norms. In this form of semi-concealed resistance, which always implies forms of silent personal sacrifice, a person imperfectly seeks to cope with the two irreconcilable forms of love I have cited above.

65 In these texts, the thesis of the emergence of romantic love as a symbol of the atomization of society does not seem to work. The idea that they seem to be seeking to convey from a structural standpoint, in line with the pedagogical aims of the newspaper, is that the road to happiness is paved with collective effort, and that it is only by working hard to achieve progress, by sacrificing oneself in the present to focus on development and modernity, that romantic love might eventually triumph.

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NOTES

1. The NUP split in 1956 and a faction formed the People’s Democratic Party, whose newspaper was al-‘Alam. 2. Unfortunately I could not locate the first issues of that magazine in the libraries consulted in Khartoum. 3. I have discussed this question in ““An uphill job demanding limitless patience”. The Establishment of Trade Unions and the Conflicts of Development in Sudan, 1946-1952”, forthcoming in International Development Policy. 4. Report of the Independent Committee of Enquiry, Khartoum, 14.4.1948, FO 371/69235, The National Archives, London, p. 13. 5. Development of Trade Unions in Sudan, undated, unsigned, in Robertson to Allen, 1.11.1950, LAB 13/480, The National Archives, London. 6. Dhikrayat al-61 ta’asis sahifa al-Midan (Memory of the 61 foundations of al-Midan newspaper), http://www.alrakoba.net/articles-action-show-id-64020.htm, consulted on 1.5.2016. Al-Midan is a historic newspaper of the Sudanese communist party 7. It has not been possible to gather any information about this newspaper so far. It was an impressive left-wing, staunchly pro-Egyptian paper, which published also cartoons and articles on popular culture. After 1956, its focus narrowed as it covered only politics and the relations between Sudan and Egypt. 8. While al-Saraha is the main source of this work, it has also been possible to compare it with contemporaneous issues of al-Shaab and al-Ray al-‘Amm from the impressive collection of historical newspapers kept at the National Record Office of Khartoum. 9. However, a volume about the memories of Abdallah Rajab (1987) exists, which I could not locate at the time of my last fieldwork. 10. Scattered pieces of information are to be found on a web page of the city of Singa (http:// www.singacity.net/vb/showthread.php?t=2442), and here: Fi Dhikra al-Sahafi al-Mukhadram Abdullah Rajab (in memory of veteran journalist Abdullah Rajab), http://www.alrakoba.net/ articles-action-show-id-28864.htm, consulted on 1.5.2016. 11. As noted by Sharkey (2003), in 1956 one question monopolized the page: why did Sudanese men prefer foreign women to local women? It should be noted, however, that such marriages were extremely rare. 12. The dates of publication are: 6.4.1956, 30.9.1956, 28.10.1956, 2.11.1956, 12.11.1956, 23.11.1956, 3.12.156, 16.12.1956, 25.6.1957, and 9.9.1957. 13. The Sudan Radio archive is currently inaccessible, and the newspaper did not publish the lyrics of songs. A project to digitize the radio archives is under way. 14. Such as the one entitled ”Repentance without Crime”, 28.10.1956. 15. A few examples are: Muhammad Salih Ibrahim, author of “The Beloved”, al-Saraha 12.11.1956; Mirghani Hassan Ali, “Love in Our Community”, al-Saraha 3.9.1956; and al-Munbathiq, “The First Love”, al-Saraha 23.11.1956. 16. On the practice of female name avoidance, see Sharkey 2003, 70, and 1995. 17. Although this is a general tendency, the text entitled Small Happiness (9.9.1957), brought it to a head. The reader is not provided with any means of understanding what actions have triggered the feelings that are portrayed. Two people are described as becoming close to each other (as lovers? as friends?), but the feeling is a fleeting one, and it fades away as rapidly as it had appeared. The text becomes a narrative of the feeling of the ephemeral. How and why this happens remains unknown to the reader. 18. Al-Saraha 25.6.1957 NRO. 19. Al-Saraha 4.6.1956, NRO. 20. Al-Ray al-‘Amm, 3.10.1956, NRO.

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ABSTRACTS

This article explores the way in which romantic love and companionate marriage were debated in Sudan at the time of independence by analysing a small corpus of love stories published in a special column of the left-wing newspaper al-Saraha. I start by contextualizing the left-wing press at a time of tremendous political, economic, and social change in Sudan as a key to understanding the pedagogical mission of al-Saraha. I then describe the various opinions on companionate marriage discussed in these texts and analyse them structurally, highlighting both common patterns and systematic omissions. Finally, I seek to interpret the spread of the ideal of romantic love in Sudan in relation to the theory of the rise of individualism as a sign of a modern State, and to show that the solution these texts proposed was not to disconnect individuals from society, but to reform society as a whole so as to harmonize collective and individual wills.

INDEX

Keywords: Sudan, decolonization, love, history of emotions, history of the press

AUTHOR

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Revues de lecture

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David E. Mills, Dividing the Nile. Egypt’s Economic Nationalists in the Sudan, 1918-56 Cairo, New York: American University of Cairo Press, 2014

Elena Vezzadini

REFERENCES

David E. Mills, Dividing the Nile. Egypt’s Economic Nationalists in the Sudan, 1918-56, Cairo, New York: American University of Cairo Press, 2014

1 The “Unity of the Nile Valley” (wahda wadi al-nil), which was the term that evoked a popular political ideology that was widespread in Sudan and Egypt until the 1950s, described a peculiar form of nationalism. Its ideologues did not postulate that Sudan and Egypt were one nation, but that they were two halves that had been unjustly separated but were destined to be reunited. For the Egyptians, sharing the river Nile made Sudan a natural appendix of Egypt, while for many Sudanese, Egypt was a “blood brother” with which they shared a set of fundamental national traits.

2 This book makes an important contribution to the abundant literature on Sudanese and Egyptian relations in the twentieth century in two ways: first, because it covers a facet– its economic aspects – that has been systematically neglected in studies on nationalism, and second, because it goes much further than any previous research – at least any that is known to this reviewer – on how Egyptian-Sudanese economic relations functioned from an Egyptian perspective.

3 The main argument underlying this book is that Egyptian politicians failed to pass effective measures to bind the Egyptian and Sudanese economies together, and that this was one of the reasons why, despite the endless discussions and speeches on the importance of concluding the Unity of the Nile Valley, it never became a reality. Egyptian politicians were aware of the importance of creating an economic framework

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for unity, and developed strategies to make the two economies more interdependent, but their efforts came to nothing each time. The book under review recounts the story of these failed attempts. I shall first describe its content, and then move on to my analysis.

4 In the first chapter, the author addresses the question of whether the idea of “Unity of the Nile Valley” corresponded to a ‘reality’ of people who had been “ethnically and racially united for millennia” (p. 15). His answer, like that of many Sudanese nationalists, is that there were as many differences as there were affinities. The very geography of the Nile is a case in point: according to which pair of eyes is doing the looking, the Nile can be viewed as either a symbol of unity or a symbol of division. This same river that flows through the two countries is punctuated by six cataracts north of Khartoum, which make navigation difficult and dangerous.

5 The second chapter explores the various Egyptian agreements with Sudan as regards both the waters of the Nile and Sudan development projects. Although they were praised as victories for the Egyptian government and evidence of Egyptian involvement in Sudan, these agreements also fostered separation in many different ways: the 1929 agreement, for instance, authorized a separate administration of the Nile waters. Moreover, large infrastructural works (such as the Jabal Awliya dam) and development projects (such as the Lake Tana project), which were financed in large part by Egypt, fostered the expansion of a cotton monoculture, which came to compete directly with that of Egypt. Chapter 3 pursues the issues raised in Chapter 2, and describes the new phase in the financial relations between the two countries that was inaugurated by the 1936 Treaty, when the Second World War was looming and Britain had to rush to secure its position in Egypt. As a note of criticism, the two chapters would have benefited from including more background to Sudanese history. In fact, the crisis of 1924 (for the Sudanese, the Revolution of 1924), which the author only refers to, without explaining it, was a watershed in Egyptian-Sudanese relations. Prior to 1924, thousands of Egyptians worked in either the Sudanese administration or the army (Sudan did not have its own army at that time; it was created as a consequence of 1924). 1 Moreover, according to the tables on trade reported by the author in the chapters that follow, trading patterns appear to have been more in favour to Egypt than they were in subsequent decades. In any event, the majority of Egyptians were evacuated from Sudan after 1924 because they had been blamed for being primarily responsible for the 1924 Revolution. From this perspective, the 1936 Treaty represented a new beginning, and civil administration and trade were reopened to Egyptians. Egyptians politicians then sought to make up for lost time, and a series of institutions were created to foster trade with Sudan, which the author reports in detail, such as the position of Egypt’s Economic Expert and the funding of a permanent Khartoum Exhibition as a window for selected Egyptian goods. Each of these initiatives was ultimately ineffective, however.

6 Chapter 4 describes what was perhaps the main obstacle to trade: transport. In spite of the rapid construction of a railway line between Wadi Halfa and Khartoum in 1887, during the expedition against the Mahdiyya, the line was not extended any further, which meant that it ended in Wadi Halfa in Sudan and began again in Shellal, in Egypt. The movement of goods and people between these two points was a burdensome business: merchandise had to be unloaded from the train, inspected by customs, loaded on to a steamship, unloaded and inspected again, and then reloaded on to a different train, all in the terrible heat of a desert climate. Sea transportation was not always a

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feasible alternative: although the travel was certainly faster, it was much more expensive than the overland route. Besides this already formidable obstacle, Egyptian traders had to pay a multitude of fees (such as the annual fee for commercial permits or export certificates from the administration), even though the free circulation of goods (meaning tax-free) between the two countries had been established from the outset. In a similar fashion, the 1936 Treaty recognized the free circulation of Egyptian people, but they still had to obtain a visa and pay a fee to travel to Sudan.

7 Chapter 5 focuses on Egyptian investments in Sudanese agricultural land. Any efforts in this area were hindered by the fact that right from the start, the Sudanese government imposed severe restrictions on foreigners acquiring land in Sudan, making it virtually impossible to do so. The Egyptian nationalist elite thought of other ways to occupy Sudanese soil, namely by encouraging peasants to move there, partly to solve the overpopulation problem, but in spite of repeated talks, very little was actually done, in part because Sudan was not attractive to most Egyptians.

8 Chapters 6 and 7 are respectively dedicated to Egyptian exports to Sudan and to Sudanese imports to Egypt. Sudan depended on Egypt for only a few products, but none occupied a central role in the Egyptian economy. The first of these was “a cotton-silk/ artificial silk mixture produced by Egyptian artisans of Naqqada in Upper Egypt that had a well-established, exclusive market in the Sudan” (p. 192).The most important item of the Egyptian economy, cotton piece-goods, did not find a market in Sudan, on the other hand; the piece-goods sold by other international producers, first of all Japan, but also India, Italy, and Britain, were far more competitive. The second most important Egyptian export item was sugar; it was so essential to Sudanese life, however, that it quickly became a Sudan government monopoly, and was sold by the government to retailers at a much higher price than that at which Egyptians sold it to the government. Trading with Sudan was not, therefore, a lucrative business.

9 On the other hand, apart from cotton, Egypt was one of the main importers of Sudanese raw and semi-raw materials: wood, untanned hides, sesame seeds and later cotton seeds, dhurra (millet) and other grains, and last but not least, livestock. Except for livestock, however, the market was characterized by large annual fluctuations, because the two markets were not interdependent but complementary: peaks of sales occurred either when Egypt had special needs for certain Sudanese goods or when Sudan produced more than usual. In the case of livestock, however, Egypt relied almost completely on Sudanese imports. It should be emphasized that cattle was central to Sudanese economic and social life; for instance, herders preferred to keep their cattle if the sale price was too low. The cattle trade was heavily regulated by the government, however, and had to observe a number of cumbersome procedures, such as the clearance of the “certificate of purchase from a public market or a certificate of export from a provincial governor”, the use of licensed steamships on the Halfa-Shellal route, and quarantine (p. 247).

10 By the end of the volume, the reader will undoubtedly have learnt a number of important characteristics of Sudanese-Egyptian trade: both the Sudanese and Egyptian administrations prioritized policies that facilitated the expansion of international trade rather than do business with each other. “The only participant in the economy with a distinct advantage was the Sudanese Government” (p. 179), argues the author, and he explains that government strategy was twofold: to protect its citizens from foreign exploiters (by not selling lands to foreigners, including Egyptians), and to capture most

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of the benefits of import-export flows. This was the principle underlying customs policies, for instance: the Sudan government preferred to keep customs duties low (in contrast to Egyptian policy) in order to attract more foreign goods to Sudan, rather than to increase them to favour a local (Egyptian-Sudanese) market that would eventually have discouraged international investors and lowered the income from customs procedures (p. 197). Therefore, while the Sudan Government did not implement any specific measures to hamper Egyptian trade with Sudan, it did nothing to encourage or protect it either. Even though Egyptian goods circulated inside Sudan tax-free, most were not competitive enough to win Sudanese markets. On the other hand, the Egyptian government never invested in anything more substantial than feasibility studies to boost its economic partnership.

11 At a time when “slow research” is a luxury, this work is particularly praiseworthy. The author has sifted through an impressive amount of Arabic sources in the National Archives of Cairo, a site that it is usually difficult to access, including the series of journals published by various Egyptian chambers of commerce, the most important Arabic newspapers of the time, minutes of parliamentary debates, and Egyptian government reports. Similarly, the author shows an impressive command of the secondary literature in Arabic: it is quite rare in works on Middle Eastern Studies in English to find a bibliography in Arabic that is as long as the English one, as is the case here.

12 My criticism of the book must be made from the perspective of an historian of colonial Sudan. As the author himself admits when he writes “This study is ultimately a history of Egyptians” (p. 2), the book’s weak aspect is its limited use of Sudanese history and Sudanese perspectives. Although is true that it is not the author’s purpose to look at the question through Sudanese eyes, and that this is not a book on the social history of the Sudanese economy, a more intimate look at Sudan would have been beneficial. The first glaring absence is a discussion of the milestones in Sudanese history and its periodization. Sudan has experienced very different administrative phases that corresponded to very different ideas on native policies and practices, and this in turn had repercussions on the Sudanese attitude towards Egypt and Egyptians. Besides the case of 1924, which I have mentioned above, the Second World War also marked a divide in native policy between the pre-war era of Indirect Rule and the new development policies of late colonialism. Even an outline of the general framework would have helped the reader place some of the institutions and initiatives the book mentions diachronically, and given a sense of historical change. In addition, the main question asked by the book is why and how certain Egyptian economic policies did not succeed, but it does not address the question of historical change. Learning about causes and reasons, however, sometimes has the effect of flattening the phenomena being described.

13 A case in point is the discussion in the first chapter about the Unity of the Nile Valley. The author wonders whether this motto was merely a discourse or was instead something ‘real’. The problem with the answer he gives (“it was somehow unreal”) is that it does not take account of the many ways in which the idea of unity of the Nile Valley can be understood, as well as the complex relationship the Sudanese have with it. Egypt represented different things to different people at any one time: for many people, Egypt was a popular symbol of anti-colonialism, while for others it was a hated symbol of oppression, as was the case for the victims of Turco-Egyptian rule

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(1821-1885). Many looked on Egypt as a site of modernity, intellectual inspiration and learning, however, and by reading about Egypt and learning from Egyptians, the Sudanese were in a position to identify a host of stimulating techniques, from how to print a newspaper and run a radio station to how to write a novel and how to protest. Finally, for many people, Egypt represented family.

14 This is particularly evident in the case of Sudanese-Egyptian merchants. In a final important section of Chapter 7, the author examines the traders who were engaged in Egyptian-Sudanese commerce. True, the most important import-export companies were multinationals owned by foreigners, such as the Tutunji family, which was of Syrian origin, while others were Greeks, Armenians, British, Italians, Americans, Indians, and so on. According to the author, “a fair characterization of the Egyptian entrepreneur in the Sudan would be an individual most active in northern and less developed Sudanese regions, with often long-established business relations and reliant on less lucrative commercial spheres” (p. 258). On the other hand, he argues, between 1930 and 1950, new Egyptian merchants found it difficult to establish their trade in Sudan (p. 264). Several of these points are convincing, notably the fact that no new Egyptian company managed to create a fortune in Sudan after 1936. On the other hand, it is more difficult to accept the argument that this kind of less lucrative trade did not foster Nile Valley nationalism, and, second, that Sudanese-Egyptian local traders were an insignificant part of Sudan’s economy.

15 Authors such as Kapteijns and Spaulding, Ewald, Bjørkelo and Manger have described the peculiar, cosmopolitan nature of Sudanese trade at least from the nineteenth century,2 and as Mills also notes, Egyptian traders depended on the Sudanese. They did more than this, however: they also married them, and established family networks that extended between the two countries and were the artery of the Sudanese economy.3 During the first two decades of the Condominium, the label “Egyptian” defined people in an uncertain way. If one looks at the life stories of the “agitators” whom the Sudan government described as Egyptians or muwalladīn (sons of unions between an Egyptian and a Sudanese) in 1924, one discovers how changing, uncertain, and ambiguous this attribution was.4 The full story of what happened to this ‘Egyptian’ community after 1924 in terms of a change of identity, at a time when the Sudan government was putting all its effort into severing the personal and political links between the two countries, still remains to be discovered. What is certain is that what it meant to be Egyptian in Sudan must have been affected by this. Generally, the position and identity of the Egyptian trading community was transformed in accordance with policy changes. Considering all of this, it is hard to believe, as the author does, that Sudanese- Egyptian trading links were not vehicles for nationalism, or that Egyptian trade did not foster nationalistic bonds in Sudan.5

16 I would argue that the reason why the author underestimates the Egyptian-Sudanese traders has something to do with the sources he has used, which mostly consist of official documents and Egyptian press reports. From the numerous quotes he uses, it seems clear that the Egyptian state did not consider – and arguably did not “see” at all – this blurred category of small Egyptian-Sudanese traders as a potential carrier of its nationalist project. Thus, the main argument that runs throughout the book – that the failure of Egyptian economic endeavours in Sudan was one of the causes that led to the hypothesis of real political unity with Egypt being dropped so rapidly when independence came –is in my view only partially true. It is true because the efforts of

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the Egyptian State were unsuccessful, but it is not true in that many traders who had personal links with Egypt genuinely believed in the idea of unity. In Sudan today there are perhaps few social categories that have as extensive links to Egypt as the Sudanese trading community. What is clear, however, is that there was a fairly intractable gap between these Sudanese/Egyptians and the Egyptian political elite in Cairo.

17 In spite of these issues, this book is a real mine of information, and offers important pieces of the puzzle of writing a social history of trade in colonial Sudan. It is erudite and enlightening, and while not being easy reading – mostly due to the author’s dense writing style – for the breadth of the subject it covers and the amount of detail and information it includes, it is nevertheless an excellent work and rewarding reading.

NOTES

1. According to Beshir, in 1920 there were 1,795 Egyptian employees in the various government departments, compared with 1,523 Sudanese, 506 British, 166 Syrians and 102 “Others”. Beshir, M. O. 1969, Educational Development in the Sudan, 1898-1956, Oxford: Clarendon Press, p. 198. 2. Bjørkelo, A. J. 1988, Prelude to the Mahdiyya: Peasants and Traders in the Shendi Region, 1821-1885, Cambridge [England]; New York: Cambridge University Press. Ewald, J. J. 1990, Soldiers, Traders, and Slaves: State Formation and Economic Transformation in the Greater Nile Valley, 1700-1885, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Manger, L. O. 1984, Trade and Traders in the Sudan, Bergen: University of Bergen-University Book Store. Kapteijns, L. and J. Spaulding, 1982, “Precolonial Trade between States in the Eastern Sudan, ca 1700 - ca 1900”, African Economic History, no. 11: 29-62. 3. Sharkey, H. J. 2000, “The Egyptian Colonial Presence in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, 1898-1932,” in J. Spaulding and S. Beswick, White Nile, Black Blood: War, Leadership, and Ethnicity from Khartoum to Kampala, Lawrenceville, N.J.: Red Sea Press, pp. 279-314. 4. I have discussed the question of Egyptian presence in Sudan at several points here: Vezzadini, E. 2015, Lost Nationalism: Revolution, Memory and Anti-Colonial Resistance in Sudan, Woodbridge, Suffolk, (GB); Rochester, NY, (US): James Currey. 5. People whom the Sudan Government defined as muwalladīn made up a sizeable part of the revolutionary activists of 1924, including three of the five founders of the White Flag League nationalist movement.

AUTHORS

ELENA VEZZADINI Elena Vezzadini’s principal research interest is the social and political history of colonial Sudan. My research and publications have focused on nationalism, labour, slavery, race relations, and

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archival studies. My PhD, which I completed in 2008, is on the social history of early nationalism in Sudan and the 1924 Revolution. I am currently a research fellow at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique based at the University of Paris 1-Panthéon Sorbonne. I am the author of Lost Nationalism: Revolution, Memory, and Anti-Colonial Resistance in Sudan, published by James Currey in 2015.

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Barbara Casciarri, Munzoul Assal and François Ireton, Multidimensional Change in Sudan (1989-2011): Reshaping livelihoods, conflicts and identities Berghahn Oxford; 2015

Idriss El Hassan

1 This is an essential book to read as a background and springboard for delving into an extremely critical and complex period of modern Sudan (1989-2011), a period that is characterized by major, rapid, and seemingly lasting impact events and changes in the social, political, economic, and cultural fields in the country. The reviewed book poses critical queries at the levels of theory, methodology, ethnography, and empirical reality in an attempt to fathom the present socio-economic dynamics of change in Sudan. Though the book is specifically about the Sudanese case, it is quite clear that it positions itself as a part of a very broad and ambitious project on how we can document, analyse, interpret, and finally understand the processes of social change in general. The book’s excellent introduction captures all these issues eloquently, and informs the readers about how the articles fit into the designated framework of the book.

2 The introduction points out that the important changes in Sudan during the above- mentioned period took place in different spheres, through different factors, and at multiple levels : “ the reshaping of landscapes, rural as well as urban, and the redefinition of their relationships; changes in forms of livelihoods and ways of producing and reproducing economic and social life, in terms of new actors and settings, class articulation, and patterns of life and consumption; the growing complexity of the political arena and its subjects, strategies, alliances and legitimating discourses; the rise of ‘new’ conflicts and the evolution of ‘old’ conflicts with their local, national

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and international entanglements; a spiral in identity claims with their shifting boundaries and wider implications; and the simultaneous and growing intervention of outside forces in all their varieties- humanitarian aid, businessmen, ‘peace builders’ and developers.” p. 1

3 The editors are aware of the thorny issues related to conceptualizing the mutual effects of the multifarious factors and elements involved in social change and/or their dominance. Though the problematic of grasping the interlink ages among existing structures and underlying social processes is by no means recent in sociological theory, the book successfully suggests new ways of viewing it. In the case of Sudan, this is dealt within terms of conceiving the above-mentioned forces and dynamics of change as processes in different domains within periodization (time structures) by using the idea of scaling -moving from local up to global. In their discussion of these complex interlink ages, the editors explain the many types of difficulties that must be faced. For example, there are opposing perspectives on the concept of globalization (with its different dimensions) in relation to its effect on local conditions, but the question is which one of these perspectives is to be adopted. The editors have opted for Duffield’s position, which treats similar cases such as that of Sudan as ambivalent, in the sense that it is a case in which neither the logic of the interacting components nor the direction of change can be fully grasped. This position necessitates doing two things: conducting rigorous fieldwork and adopting an interdisciplinary approach towards both fieldwork and analysis. The book does not claim to have done either one or both in a comprehensive way.

4 The focus of the book and its contributions, however, are claimed to be on resource access and management, as located in the very broad manner outlined above (that is, local settings and elements, factors, processes, and domains within specific periods of time in a global context). Accordingly, the book is divided into four parts – land, water, new players (resources, social entities, and institutions), and identity and ideology – all based on interdisciplinary fieldwork studies covering different areas of Sudan. Again, neither the treatment of the cases nor the local coverage or interdisciplinary perspectives are claimed to be comprehensive; however, most of the cases discussed relate the micro-level processes to the national or even higher level, and show the dialectical relationship between them. One very good example is Assal’s paper on land grabbing in a marginal suburb of the larger Khartoum urban conurbation. He meticulously details how Al-Saliha, a group of villages, has changed from being a cohesive tribal community whose communal land was used for grazing small animals into an ethnically diversified society that has become a target for investment and capital accumulation, and that is rapidly becoming part of the larger urban/capitalist dynamics of greater Khartoum due to the new regime’s state economic, social, and political policies.

5 The book ends with an epilogue (by Marchal) which is meant to give shape to the apparently scattered topics (articles) in the book. In my opinion, however, the epilogue is one of the best summaries I have encountered. It captures and attempts to explain how the ideological orientation of the current Inqath regime in Sudan (1989-…) has been implemented under the banner of ‘civilizational project’, and why it has lasted up to now despite local, regional, and international adversity. Many of the perceptive points raised by Marchal in this regard may require extensive debate. Nonetheless, the most important of them, I think, are two interlinked ideas. First, the Islamist regime has been effective in transforming Sudanese societies to a point of no return, and

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second, the Islamists have failed to control and transform the State apparatuses in a way that matches their transformation of Sudanese society. Marchal’s explanation of the reasons behind and results of the former discrepancy is open to lengthy discussion. The writer, like the editors, is aware that there might be other important missing pieces if an analysis of Sudan’s situation is to be made fully comprehensible: these include the private sector (which is mentioned by Marchal), the army, the security apparatus, the youth and civil society organizations. Both the editors and Marchal acknowledge that there is a long way to go before we will be in a position to know the exact outcome of the ongoing processes and dynamics with regards to Sudan’s future.

6 The editors have admitted that though the book should not be viewed as being solely about the Republic of Sudan (and thus North Sudan),they have not included any articles on the Republic of South Sudan, despite the mutual effect of socio-economic dynamics in the two countries. Given the fact that many works on the impact of the separation between the two states appeared before the publication of the book, one would have expected that at least one overview study like Marchal’s would have sufficed. Also, it is not enough, in my opinion, to view the interdisciplinary approach as a simple notion of juxtaposing studies carried out in different fields and joined under a common theme or themes; in terms of theory and methodology it is more complicated than this. The book does not dwell long enough on this point. Again, in addition to the missing important aspects I have alluded to above, one can point to an extremely significant aspect without which our understanding of social change must be incomplete. Though Part Four contains two important articles on language and one on education, we need to have a background on the general ideological setting in Sudan against which the current debates on identity, ethnicity, Islamisation, modernity, and other cultural issues might be understood. In this case, a sociology of knowledge is indispensable for connecting the level of thought and practice over the recent historical epochs of Sudan’s development.

7 Even though the ambitious project the book sets out to complete cannot be presented in one volume alone, the collection under review can undoubtedly be considered as a landmark and ground-breaking contribution in recent Sudanese studies. It opens new paths for further research and analysis in the study of socio-economic change in Sudan, and as such it is a must-read for everyone who wishes to grasp what is happening in Sudan at present, especially for Africanist researchers and those engaged in postgraduate interdisciplinary programmes.

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Varia

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Marc Lavergne

1 Cet article se donne pour objectif d’éclairer l’évolution économique et sociale d’une ville moyenne d’Égypte, à travers les mutations récentes de son système de production. Il est possible que ce nouvel angle d’approche de la sphère du politique égyptien, à travers ses applications concrètes, ouvre des pistes pour comprendre le fonctionnement ou le dysfonctionnement de l’État, et les frustrations sociales qui en découlent et mettent en cause la légitimité du pouvoir, au point de se cristalliser, parfois, dans le recours à l’action subversive.

2 Le choix de Damiette n’est pas indifférent : la ville est certes, par sa localisation et son histoire, une exception. Damiette est en effet, depuis l’Antiquité une ville ouverte sur le monde ; elle a en outre bénéficié de ressources locales variées, tirées de l’agriculture et de la pêche. La combinaison de ces facteurs a engendré une citadinité affirmée, autour de producteurs et de commerçants qui ont pu jouir d’une autonomie relative, mais exceptionnelle en Égypte, dans leurs rapports avec l’État.

3 Depuis la seconde moitié du XXe siècle, la ville a connu, comme toute l’Égypte, une succession de mutations et se présente donc comme un palimpseste dont les écritures successives s’inscrivent dans le tissu économique, le paysage urbain, les mentalités et les enjeux des acteurs et des agents économiques et politiques.

4 On verra ainsi comment l’État nassérien, centralisateur et réformateur, a développé des infrastructures et des services publics, mais aussi une industrie moderne, avant de laisser la place à l’ouverture économique et au retour libéral des années Sadate ; bien que très courte, cette phase de retour à la paix et de réintégration dans le dispositif stratégique occidental, a posé les jalons d’une ville nouvelle et d’un port artificiel. Cette

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orientation a été poursuivie sous l’ère Moubarak par des projets dits « de développement », qui signent la soumission des acteurs locaux, mais aussi nationaux, à des forces et des logiques transnationales, dans un système économique globalisé.

5 En l’absence de pouvoirs locaux institutionnalisés et représentatifs, c’est la mobilisation de la population qui a pu faire entendre sa voix pour défendre ses intérêts, tandis que l’État lui-même - sous Moubarak, ou après la révolution -, a tenté de préserver sa légitimité aux yeux de la population locale ou nationale, tout en répondant aux exigences des entreprises étrangères.

6 La réponse traditionnellement violente de l’État aux revendications populaires correspond à son déficit de légitimation interne, compensé par sa dépendance envers des soutiens externes. Mais la capacité à mater les mouvements sociaux ne suffit plus : ceux-ci, comme l’a montré l’affaire Agrium, ont désormais tendance à se muer en mouvements sociétaux, dans lesquels coalescent des préoccupations multiples, identitaires, environnementales, économiques, culturelles... C’est ainsi que l’on peut lire la situation banalisée et maîtrisée de Damiette, avec sa population éduquée et intégrée à la fabrique sociale égyptienne, comme comparable à celle du Sinaï, où l’oppression de l’État à l’égard de la population bédouine a abouti à un mouvement général de dissidence et de révolte armée. Loin d’un sursaut de religiosité dépourvu de tout fondement concret, la popularité d’organisations comme les Frères Musulmans ou les diverses obédiences salafistes peuvent ainsi être comprises comme le réceptacle des frustrations créées par un mode prédateur de gestion des affaires de l’État et par une indifférence assumée à l’égard des aspirations et des besoins de la population.

7 Aujourd’hui, Damiette (206 000 habitants estimés en mars 2016, contre 215 000 recensés pour la ville et 237 000 pour l’ensemble du markaz (canton) en 20061) est le chef-lieu d’un gouvernorat de 1, 36 million d’habitants estimés en 2016 (1,1 recensé en 2006 et 0,914 en 1996). C’est, à l’échelle de l’Égypte, une ville moyenne, la vingtième du pays environ par la taille. Une ville apparemment sans histoire, dont les échos ne parviennent qu’affaiblis au Caire et dans la seconde capitale Alexandrie, où sont concentrés les hauts lieux du pouvoir et de la contestation populaire. Et pourtant, Damiette éprouve aussi, à sa manière, les grands bouleversements traversés par l’Égypte, même si l’attention des media, étrangers et même égyptiens, ne reflète que le miroir déformant de la capitale.

À la pointe est du delta du Nil, Damiette et ses extensions urbaines et industrielles récentes de part et d’autre du port

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8 Comparée à Alexandrie ou aux villes du canal, Damiette paraît donc occuper un angle mort des grandes voies de communication qui relient les centres dynamiques du nord de l’Égypte. Et pourtant, bien qu’elle tourne le dos à la vallée et au delta, c’est une ville beaucoup plus « égyptienne » que ses voisines de la Méditerranée ou du canal de Suez, créations étrangères comme Alexandrie d’un côté et Port-Saïd ou Ismailiya de l’autre longtemps peuplées de communautés allogènes.

À l’échelle égyptienne, une ville à l’écart

9 Damiette est d’autant plus à l’écart qu’elle est située à l’une des extrémités du delta, à l’embouchure de la branche orientale du Nil. Soit à environ 200 km au nord du Caire à vol d’oiseau. Mais elle est difficile d’accès : les horaires des chemins de fer indiquent un temps de trajet de 4h50, soit une vitesse moyenne théorique de 40 km/h, en réalité souvent beaucoup plus lente, étant donné les arrêts impromptus dus à la vétusté du réseau et des équipements... En voiture, le voyageur a le choix entre la route dite « agricole » qui traverse le delta du sud au nord : la plus courte en distance, la plus longue en temps de trajet2, et l’autoroute de Port-Saïd, plus longue3, mais plus rapide et plus sûre, car plus récente, plus dégagée et mieux entretenue4. Dans le premier cas, on rejoint Damiette par le sud, en longeant le Nil, bordé de vergers et de champs ; dans le second, l’entrée se fait en traversant une zone amphibie couverte de roseaux, entre lac Menzaleh et mer Méditerranée, découpée en fermes piscicoles qui s’étendent de part et d’autre jusqu’à l’horizon.

10 Damiette offre donc un double visage, terrien et aquatique, entre le fleuve, les lagunes et la mer. Les navires ancrés sur le fleuve, à l’abri des tempêtes et des courants marins, lui confèrent une vocation maritime, tandis que la campagne alentour, nourrie des limons apportés par les crues du fleuve, l’a dotée d’un riche potentiel agricole. Mais si Damiette est située à un interface, elle tourne le dos à son arrière-pays, et n’est pas

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devenue « le » port du delta : le Nil n’a jamais été une voie aisément navigable, et le delta, entrecoupé de canaux et de bras d’eau, n’a jamais été d’une traversée facile.

Depuis la haute Antiquité, une cité prospère ouverte sur l’extérieur

11 L’ouverture de la cité vers le large, depuis l’Antiquité vers la Grèce et l’Asie Mineure, puis vers les cités marchandes d’Italie dès notre Moyen-âge, l’a enrichie et a fait prospérer sa bourgeoisie5. En témoignent les nombreux bâtiments historiques, musulmans6 mais aussi chrétiens 7, une gastronomie réputée8, et le développement d’une industrie du meuble à partir de modèles occidentaux adaptés au goût oriental qui a fait sa fortune et sa réputation. C’est sans doute la raison pour laquelle la ville est à la tête d’un gouvernorat qui porte son nom, l’un des plus petits d’Égypte avec ses 1 000 km2 et ses quatre cantons (markaz) ruraux de Fariskour (200 000 habitants en 2006), Kafr Saad (291 000 hab. en 2006), Kafr el Battikh et Zarqa (123 000 hab. en 2006). Il y a là une différence frappante avec Rosette, longtemps son homologue à l’embouchure de l’autre branche du Nil, mais qui a été évincée par le développement d’Alexandrie au XIXe siècle.

12 Ainsi, la ville est plus versée dans l’artisanat et le commerce, qui y tissent les liens intenses entre générations et catégories sociales, sur fond de transmission de savoirs et de réseaux patiemment acquis, que dans les débats et les combats qui agitent l’Égypte depuis le début du XXe siècle. Terre natale de philosophes et de savants9, elle a également vu naître des journalistes, des artistes et des politiciens de renom, mais qui ont trouvé leur reconnaissance à la capitale. Son identité collective affirmée a fourni le socle à une conscience citoyenne aiguë.

13 Il y a là déjà de quoi intriguer, dans une Égypte acquise depuis les années 50 à une économie centralisée dans une perspective de développement économique et social, et depuis les années 70 à une économie rentière et consumériste dépendante de ressources extérieures. Celle-ci en effet tendu à dissoudre les solidarités locales régionales, déjà moindres en Égypte qu’ailleurs dans le monde arabe.

Damiette interface isolée mais dynamique

14 Avant l’essor d’Alexandrie et l’ouverture du canal de Suez, elle assurait cependant les relations maritimes avec les Échelles du Levant et dans une moindre mesure, avec la Méditerranée occidentale. Elle était également une étape sur la route caravanière menant du Maghreb au Machrek en longeant le littoral. Mais comme le montre l’exiguïté de son gouvernorat, sa zone d’influence est très modeste : elle est limitée au sud par Mansourah, métropole industrielle avec ses 500 000 habitants, de la grande province de Daqahliya, et à l’est par celle, plus récente, de Port-Saïd (600 000 habitants) et de ses développements industriels le long du littoral. À l’ouest, elle est isolée par la vaste bande amphibie, déserte, de l’extrême nord du delta, qui la sépare de Rosette.

15 Cet éloignement relatif du Caire et d’autres foyers de rayonnement plus récents comme Alexandrie ou le canal de Suez a sans doute joué un rôle dans le développement d’une identité damiettaine, et dans l’essor économique de la ville. Aujourd’hui encore, certes, la jeunesse estudiantine rêve du Caire, et de la liberté que laisse entrevoir la capitale, au lieu de l’atmosphère confinée de leur ville natale ; mais la population demeure fière

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de sa capacité à se mobiliser et à construire son avenir sans attendre les subsides de l’État ou la manne des touristes.

16 Aujourd’hui, cet isolement se trouve cependant relativisé par de nouveaux facteurs : la montée en puissance de la zone du canal de Suez et la saturation du port d’Alexandrie, qui imposent d’ouvrir de nouvelles facilités portuaires sur le littoral méditerranéen, et la découverte d’importants gisements gaziers au large et jusqu’à proximité des eaux territoriales chypriotes10. Ces développements ne sont, pour la première fois, pas le fait de décisions émanant des éléments dynamiques de la ville, et elle les subit plus qu’elle ne les impulse.

Une ville au défi du grand large

17 Or la ville est confrontée aujourd’hui à l’irruption de l’État, non pas comme l’acteur d’un développement destiné à améliorer le sort de la population, mais comme agent de la mondialisation néolibérale qui tend à assigner à des territoires particuliers des fonctions en rapport avec une logique supérieure qui leur échappe. À ce titre, Damiette semble acquérir une visibilité nouvelle sur la carte du monde, et se voit assigner des fonctions nouvelles. Celles-ci semblent promettre une croissance économique rapide, mais au péril de sa formation sociale, et la jettent dans des évolutions ni choisies ni maîtrisées, et, pire encore, que le gouvernement égyptien lui-même ne semble pas en mesure de maîtriser. La ville est ainsi l’objet d’attentions « modernisatrices » et en même temps fortement contraignantes, en ce qu’elles mettent en péril l’environnement, les équilibres humains, l’économie locale soudain déclassée, et l’identité qui se trouve faire place à un sentiment de dépossession et de soumission à des mécanismes globaux.

Du « souk el hisba » à la Nouvelle Damiette : le renouvellement par le haut de la fabrique urbaine

Le noyau ancien, un port et un pont au coude du fleuve

18 Damiette a d’abord été un centre d’échanges commerciaux, à la fois lieu de passage contrôlant la traversée du bras oriental du Nil, et port abrité assurant les relations maritimes entre l’Égypte et les pays du Levant, d’Asie mineure et de la Méditerranée occidentale.

19 Le centre ancien est donc né autour de l’ancien « souk el hisba » qui remonte à l’époque abbasside. Il s’étend sur la rive droite du Nil, le long du dernier coude du fleuve majestueux et calme aujourd’hui, mais qui pouvait être dévastateur lors de la crue d’été. Il s’est donc développé en retrait du fleuve, protégé par des levées. Aujourd’hui, c’est un lacis de ruelles sombres, bordées d’immeubles qui furent bourgeois, voire cossus, édifiés dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle jusqu’aux années 20. Ceux qui restent ont été transformés en ateliers de fabrication de meubles, qui débordent sur la rue et leur confèrent une animation incessante. C’est aussi le refuge de petits commerces de détail, et d’une sociabilité intense, avec une population dense native des lieux et qui continue d’habiter les immeubles vétustes ou rénovés.

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Transport traditionnel des meubles, avec en arrière-plan des hangars de stockage du bois à Shata

L’ameublement, creuset de l’identité damiettaine

Damiette est célèbre dans toute l’Égypte et dans tout l’Orient arabe, pour son industrie du meuble. Par sa technicité, par son organisation, il s’agit d’ailleurs plus d’un artisanat, ou d’un ensemble d’artisanats et de métiers, que d’une industrie au sens moderne du terme. Les ateliers implantés dans les vieux quartiers du centre y façonnent ces majestueux ensembles, déclinant à volonté salons d’apparat, chambres à coucher, bureaux et bibliothèques, qui meublent les foyers bourgeois égyptiens11. Leur style regroupé par les béotiens sous l’appellation ironique de « Louis Farouk », décrivant ainsi l’apparence de « kitsch » supposé de ces styles et donc du goût de la clientèle. Difficile de déterminer avec certitude l’origine de cette activité : le style à l’honneur réfère à l’âge d’or de l’impérialisme européen, la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle, avec l’ouverture du canal de Suez, la création de l’opéra du Caire, la création d’un centre-ville haussmannien au Caire et l’essor un peu plus tardif d’Alexandrie. À l’engouement de l’Europe pour l’Égypte pharaonique a alors répondu celui de la bourgeoisie cosmopolite pour les fastes de l’Occident. De nouvelles habitudes, de nouvelles positions du corps, un nouvel art de vivre en société, avec tables, chaises, bureaux, boudoirs et napperons, a réussi à marier le goût de parvenus pour les dorures et les moulures avec les lignes droites et les angles aigus. Mais le style Empire napoléonien avait déjà emprunté largement au mobilier découvert dans les tombeaux du Nouvel Empire...

La bourgeoisie allogène, européenne et levantine, a certes disparu avec les nationalisations de Nasser et la confrontation avec Israël ; mais ses goûts sont restés dans la psyché égyptienne, comme une nostalgie d’une époque bénie. C’est ainsi que les magasins de Damiette exposent les modèles classiques de style « Louis XIV », « Louis XV », « Louis XVI », aux côtés des modèles Art déco, Chippendale, « italien », « américain », « romain »… Et l’obligation pour tout prétendant au

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mariage d’assurer au préalable à l’élue de son cœur un logement entièrement équipé, et le plus fastueusement possible, assure à cette industrie un succès longtemps enviable : ici le mariage n’est pas un commencement, mais un aboutissement.

Cette industrie si enracinée ne remonte pas sous sa forme actuelle au-delà du début du XXe siècle, c’est-à-dire au père ou au grand-père des patriarches encore en vie12. Et c’est à l’initiative de peintres, de décorateurs ou dessinateurs qu’ont été fondées les maisons aujourd’hui en vue, c’est-à-dire que la mise de fond initiale a toujours été modeste. À l’origine de cette spécialisation, on peut suggérer la disponibilité aux alentours de bois de qualité, fourni par les nombreux arbres fruitiers, favorisés par le climat méditerranéen sec, et non pas désertique comme dans le reste de l’Égypte : ici l’hiver assure quelques pluies, et surtout un temps plus frais durant quelques mois, et d’autre part la proximité de Damiette avec le Levant, et les forêts du mont Liban ou les essences fournies par la Ghouta de Damas, à l’origine elles aussi d’une marqueterie réputée. Reste que l’accès à ces ressources ne suffit pas à expliquer l’acquisition de la maîtrise de cette industrie, ni la créativité dont ont fait preuve jusqu’à nos jours les artisans damiettains... La structure de cette industrie, qui fait vivre directement ou indirectement entre la moitié et les trois quarts de la population, est familiale. Du sciage des pièces de bois au vernissage des chaises, des tables, armoires, guéridons, coiffeuses, commodes et autres bergères, c’est toute une chaîne verticale de métiers qui se sont développés, recelant un savoir-faire et une inventivité surprenants : le cœur et l’orgueil de la société étant les dessinateurs, graveurs, sculpteurs sur bois, suivis par les peintres et les vernisseurs.

20 Mais cette activité est aujourd’hui menacée : elle subit d’un côté la concurrence de pays comme la Turquie et la Chine, qui à entendre les patrons, font du bas de gamme à bas prix, et d’un autre côté le changement de goûts des clients, ceci renforçant cela. Les nouvelles générations ont moins de moyens, habitent des appartements plus exigus, et leurs goûts se sont modifiés avec l’émigration, et avec l’ouverture au monde accélérée par Internet. Les fabricants locaux font des efforts pour s’adapter, avec de nouveaux modèles plus sobres, qui intègrent de nouveaux matériaux comme l’aluminium, l’acier ou le verre, et répondent aux besoins nés des nouveaux codes vestimentaires, et de nouveaux modes de vie. C’est à la Nouvelle Damiette que se trouve l’un des ateliers qui a tenté de relever le défi de la modernisation : le jeune héritier de la fabrique paternelle a regroupé les différents stades de la production sur un même site, dans des locaux neufs, plus éclairés et raccordés aux réseaux, donnant sur une large avenue du centre. Il a recruté de jeunes diplômé(e)s de la Faculté des Arts appliqués et acheté des machines qui remplacent la main d’œuvre pour les tâches standardisées comme la scierie et le découpage des pièces de bois. Sa production est élégante, originale, adaptée au goût moderne, et d’une finition irréprochable. Peine perdue, même si ces nouveaux modèles allient élégance et sophistication du décor avec une fonctionnalité moderne des éclairages, des tiroirs à glissière et des porte-cravate, le secteur souffre du manque d’intérêt des autorités, qui ne lui offrent aucun soutien financier ou institutionnel.

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La modernisation de l’artisanat du meuble : un salon d’exposition à la Nouvelle Damiette

21 On peut donc se demander si cette activité n’a pas correspondu à un certain âge de l’histoire de l’Égypte, où une classe moyenne ouverte sur l’Occident et en même temps fidèle à une tradition ottomane était au cœur de l’État et donnait le ton. Elle copiait en partie la grande bourgeoisie cosmopolite qu’elle avait évincée mais elle assurait, par la pérennité de ses valeurs d’accumulation et d’ostentation, ainsi que par sa fidélité à l’institution du mariage comme rite social et sociétal majeur, une clientèle stable à l’activité du meuble. Cette activité serait donc condamnée par la disparition de cette classe et de son rôle pivot, non seulement en Égypte mais dans l’ensemble du Moyen- Orient.

22 Mais la raison majeure de cette disparition programmée réside dans la nature rentière de l’État et la domination politique et économique des importateurs sur les producteurs. Ainsi nous rapporte-t-on l’exemple du grand Salon du meuble organisé chaque année à la Foire internationale de Médinet Nasr, près du Caire : les maisons de Damiette engagent de grands frais pour y présenter leurs modèles, mais les organisateurs réserveraient leurs efforts de promotion sur quelques maisons liées au pouvoir et sur les importateurs, allant jusqu’à dissuader les acheteurs venus du Golfe de s’intéresser aux exposants locaux.

23 C’est ainsi que chaque jour, de petits artisans criblés de dettes fermeraient boutique, tandis que des petits patrons, perdraient de l’argent pour ne pas licencier leur personnel, concluant amèrement qu’il vaut mieux, aujourd’hui en Égypte, placer ses économies dans l’immobilier que dans le mobilier.

La ville « moderne », siège de la domination de l’État sur la ville

24 Au XIXe siècle, lors du percement de l’isthme de Suez, la ville a été éventrée pour laisser le passage à la nouvelle route venant de Port-Saïd en direction de Mansourah et

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d’Alexandrie. L’avenue de Port-Saïd débouche aujourd’hui sur la Corniche aménagée le long du Nil et sur le grand pont qui enjambe le Nil depuis les ouvrages de contrôle du cours du fleuve entrepris depuis le milieu du XIXe siècle.

25 Le long des grandes artères qui ont éventré la ville pour faire place à la circulation automobile, bordées par de larges trottoirs non pavés qui servent de parkings, s’alignent les immeubles modernes abritant les agences bancaires, les sièges des maisons de commerce de meubles, avec leurs luxueux halls d’exposition, et de grands magasins spécialisés en articles de la vie courante. Le centre de la vie économique s’est donc développé en arc de cercle autour de la vieille ville, avec laquelle il a maintenu une symbiose et une complémentarité, celle-ci demeurant largement le lieu de la production artisanale et gardant également une fonction résidentielle pour les citadins de souche.

26 La révolution nassérienne s’est ensuite traduite par une politique d’aménagement urbain qui a consisté à affirmer une nouvelle modernité de pair avec la prééminence de l’État sur la ville. Un nouveau cœur administratif a été édifié le long de la courbe du Nil, autour du siège du gouvernorat : un immeuble moderne entouré des services techniques, des chambres de métiers, d’agences bancaires, des établissements publics, et en arrière, de la vaste usine Misr de filature et tissage, nationalisée en 1958. Il se prolonge aussi le long de la corniche aménagée vers le nord, avec le siège de la Sécurité d’État et le bâtiment de la Faculté des Arts appliqués, ainsi que des parcs d’attraction et de détente avec leurs balançoires, leurs guinguettes et leurs cafés en plein air au bord du Nil. L’ensemble affirme de manière ostentatoire et efficace une volonté de se dégager des dynamiques locales, en reproduisant un modèle mis en œuvre dans tous les chefs-lieux de gouvernorat du pays qui s’y prêtent, en profitant de la perspective majestueuse de la Corniche.

L’usine Misr de filature et tissage du coton, de la nationalisation à la privatisation et au démantèlement13

L’usine de filature et tissage occupe un vaste quadrilatère ceint de hauts murs, en retrait du fleuve, après le siège du gouvernorat. Elle se compose de longs bâtiments de briques alignés côte à côte. Depuis sa fondation il y a un siècle, par un magnat local, Ahmed Faouzi, elle a pris son extension actuelle après sa nationalisation en 1958. Elle fut longtemps la deuxième usine textile d’Égypte, après le complexe de Mehallat el Koubra. La production était de grande qualité, grâce à la fois à la longueur des fibres du coton égyptien et à la maîtrise technique acquise par le personnel, pour adapter les machines à la matière travaillée et aux demandes de la clientèle. Au vu de la lingerie fine destinée aux grands hôtels, et des coupons de tissus exportés en Italie, où le label « Damiette » était un gage de qualité. Le choix de cette implantation de l’usine a sans doute été dû au savoir- faire technique de la main d’œuvre locale, outre la disponibilité de la matière première dans l’arrière-pays, et de la présence d’un port pour l’exportation du produit fini.

L’État cherche depuis longtemps à privatiser ces entreprises publiques, dans le cadre de la « Réforme », depuis l’infitah décrétée par Anouar el Sadate en 197114. Mais l’administration se heurte à une forte résistance de la part des ouvriers, héritiers d’une tradition de lutte qui a toujours fait reculer les pouvoirs. Le pouvoir

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militaire instauré en juillet 2013 par le « maréchal » al-Sissi a repris les tentatives de démantèlement15. Le directeur n’a été nommé que depuis un an et demi, après dix ans passés à Méhallat el koubra, siège d’une lutte ouvrière obstinée (Dubosc, 2014)16 avec pour mission de « faire le ménage ». Le nombre d’ouvriers est déjà passé de 6 000 à 2 500 et l’usine ne fonctionne visiblement pas : les ouvriers vaquent par petits groupes, dans les allées entre les longs bâtiments de briques, d’où ne parvient aucun bruit.

Le démantèlement programmé de l’usine est présenté comme répondant à la nécessité de mettre au rebut une industrie obsolète ; ici comme dans l’industrie du meuble, la production ne peut faire face à la concurrence asiatique de faible qualité mais moins chère et portée par des importateurs proches du pouvoir. Il s’agit ici comme dans de multiples secteurs de promouvoir à l’échelle du pays un modèle économique rentier, et de liquider les acquis sociaux de l’ère nassérienne.

L’État a entrepris son désengagement et ne détient plus que 50 % du capital de la société ; mais la gestion en est toujours supervisée par un organisme central dépendant du ministère de l’Industrie. Celui-ci écarte en l’absence de toute représentation élue de la population, ou de dialogue avec une représentation syndicale, la prise en compte de l’intérêt local et toute tentative de développer de nouvelles techniques ou de nouveaux produits sur de nouveaux créneaux.

Des satellites aux fonctions spécialisées

Le faubourg de Shata (« le rivage ») : de l’extension administrée à la déréliction sociale

27 L’autoroute pompeusement appelée « côtière internationale », censée relier l’orient à l’occident du monde arabe, est aujourd’hui la principale voie d’entrée à Damiette.

28 Des deux côtés de la route, s’étendent à perte de vue des fermes piscicoles dont les bassins rectilignes ont été découpés dans les eaux du lac Menzaleh. Les canaux qui desservent les parcs sont sillonnés de barques à moteur, tandis que des pêcheurs tentent d’arrêter les voitures en brandissant des poissons de taille impressionnante.

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Canal de desserte des fermes piscicoles à Shata

29 Mais les abords du lac accueillent aussi les dépôts d’ordures de la ville, montagnes de déchets et de sacs plastiques qui s’y consument, escaladées par des vaches placides qui y trouvent leur pitance. Ces montagnes d’ordures à ciel ouvert polluent à la fois les eaux et l’atmosphère, couvrant la route d’une fumée irrespirable. L’incinérateur bâti à proximité, ne semble pas en état de fonctionnement.

30 Face aux fermes piscicoles et tout à côté des dépôts d’ordures s’étend la « cité » de Shata : un alignement d’immeubles ternes, le long de la route. Ceux-ci sembleraient abandonnés sans les draps et les vêtements bariolés qui pendent des fenêtres et des balcons. Ces immeubles délabrés sont séparés par des allées de terre défoncées, tantôt boueuses, tantôt poussiéreuses, domaine des chiens errants et des mécaniciens improvisés. Les habitants sont des employés et des ouvriers des fabriques et des administrations avoisinantes. Ce quartier dépourvu d’espaces de jeux pour les enfants, de commerces de proximité, d’espaces verts, est en effet entouré par des institutions officielles : le Tribunal du gouvernorat, le Collège technique, le Parc des expositions… et surtout les hangars de stockage du bois qui sert de matière première à l’industrie du meuble.

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L’entassement des déchets ménagers à Shata

31 En approchant de Damiette proprement dite, en contrebas de l’assise surélevée de la route, s’étendent de vastes étendues en voie de submersion par la mer : des carcasses de bâtiments inachevés ponctuent cette étendue, témoins de tentatives avortées de construire sur ces terrains de toute évidence inconstructibles : mystère de la construction immobilière et de sa réglementation en Égypte...

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Construction d’immeubles en zone inondable

32 Puis apparaissent, en approchant du centre de Damiette, le long de l’avenue de Port- Saïd, les bâtiments imposants des maisons de commerce de meubles, qui exposent leurs plus belles pièces derrière des vitrines propres qui font contraste avec le dénuement poussiéreux ou boueux de l’espace public. L’avenue et les rues adjacentes sont sillonnées par les camions, camionnettes, charrettes et vélomoteurs qui transportent pièces de bois ou meubles à différents stades de finition.

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Maisons de commerce et hangars

33 Le voyageur qui arrive par le train, ou par la route « agricole » de Mansourah, qui longe le Nil, découvre un tout autre visage, beaucoup plus riant, de Damiette. Il traverse une campagne prospère où les arbres fruitiers se mêlent aux champs verdoyants qui portent trèfle, fèves ou blé en hiver, coton, maïs ou riz en été. Mais là aussi il retrouve les piles de bois d’œuvre entassées le long de la route, et le ballet des mobylettes, des carrioles et des camionnettes, qui transportent les pièces de meubles, d’un atelier à l’autre. Et en s’approchant du grand pont qui donne accès à Damiette, il traverse des quartiers affairés, animés par les marchands de fruits et de légumes qui hèlent le chaland. Produits de la mer au nord, de la terre au sud, et au centre l’industrie du meuble : il a sous les yeux les principales activités qui ont fait la réputation de Damiette, en Égypte et au-delà des mers.

Deux avant-postes à l’embouchure du fleuve

34 Damiette se complète de deux avant-postes, Ezbet el Borg et Ras el Barr, qui se font face de part et d’autre à l’embouchure du Nil, et représentent deux univers aux antipodes l’un de l’autre.

35 1) Ezbet el Borg (le « hameau du fort »), à 15 km en aval, est le premier port de pêche d’Égypte, avec 60 % des prises : sur 70 000 habitants, elle compterait 10 000 pêcheurs17 ! À l’embouchure du fleuve jettent l’ancre les chalutiers de pêche au large, dont les mouvements sont rythmés par les levers et les couchers du soleil, mais aussi les barques des plus modestes qui s’aventurent en mer en vue des plages, ou parfois restent dans les eaux boueuses de l’embouchure. Cette activité alimente Le Caire en poissons frais, mais aussi l’usine locale Edfina de conditionnement de sardines, la plus importante d’Égypte. La pêche n’est pas qu’une profession, c’est aussi un « art de vivre » et une vision du monde, opposés à ceux des paysans aux horizons limités à leur

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terroir : aventureuse, incertaine, mais aussi libératrice. Aussi évoque t-on à mots couverts les activités qui viendraient compléter les revenus de la pêche : on parle de trafics de drogue, d’antiquités, qui se noueraient au large, et feraient le lien entre demande mondiale et offre en provenance de toute l’Égypte... et singulièrement de l’armée et des services de Sécurité.

36 Il est d’autre part incontesté désormais que la pêche est condamnée par la montée des eaux, les perturbations des courants marins et l’intrusion des poissons originaires de la mer Rouge18.

37 La pêche en mer est donc relayée par l’essor de la pisciculture. Celle-ci alimente massivement les marchés urbains ; mais bien qu’elle joue un rôle notable dans l’économie régionale, par l’emploi qu’elle procure, elle semble très capitalistique, donc sans doute entre les mains d’entrepreneurs extérieurs, qui obtiennent par faveur et entregent des permis de s’approprier une partie du lac Menzaleh. Elle est donc peu régulée ou valorisée sur place, et il semble impossible d’obtenir des données chiffrées sur la quantité produite.

38 D’autre part, la pisciculture ne semble pas faire l’objet de contrôles sanitaires, alors que les facteurs de pollution de ces eaux sont légion : elles sont en effet le réceptacle de tous les effluents d’amont dans le Nil, et de déversements directs des usines chimiques de Port Saïd.

39 2) Ras el Barr (la pointe du continent, ou le « finistère »), le renouveau d’une station balnéaire déchue

40 Face à ce monde voué au labeur, se dressent les villas cossues et les immeubles rococo, aux façades de blanc immaculé de Ras el Barr (12 000 hab. en 2006, 8 000 en 1996). Cette station balnéaire a été fondée ex-nihilo, vers 1900, par un promoteur pour offrir à la clientèle bourgeoise du Caire, un lieu de villégiature rafraîchi par la brise de mer. Il ne s’agissait donc pas tant de se baigner que d’échapper à la touffeur du Caire en été et d’y mener la vie sociale et mondaine de la saison : une sorte de Cabourg égyptien, loin des pressions religieuses et des conventions sociales de la société égyptienne, mais aussi des fastes tapageurs d’Alexandrie la cosmopolite.

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Immeubles de villégiature à Ras el Barr

41 Aujourd’hui, ce sont surtout les classes moyennes de Mansourah et de l’ouest du delta qui s’y retrouvent : une population rétive au dévoilement des corps, surtout féminins, qu’imposent les bains de mer et les activités associées, qui sont de règle sur la côte nord de la Méditerranée, à l’ouest d’Alexandrie, ou sur la mer Rouge. Ici l’eau est boueuse, elle charrie le limon et les pollutions chimiques et bactériennes de tout le pays en amont. Les estivants, issus de la petite bourgeoisie musulmane de province, adepte d’une sociabilité islamique stricte, passent les vacances ou les fins de semaine en famille. Ils se pressent sur la plage, à l’ombre des parasols, et autour des tables en plastique rouge vif, à manger des grillades en regardant s’ébattre les enfants dans les rouleaux des vagues.

42 Pour accéder à la station, l’automobiliste doit s’acquitter d’un modeste péage, censé être dissuasif pour le populaire, et dont l’affectation n’est pas claire. La population est uniquement constituée de vacanciers, qui résident soit dans de modestes pensions de famille, soit dans des appartements privés. Les immeubles blancs de quatre étages, entourés de gazon, sont desservis par des allées sablonneuses ; ils s’alignent le long d’une avenue majestueuse, ombragée de palmiers, respectant le plan en damier initial.

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Nouveaux lotissements à l’entrée de Ras el Barr

43 La ville s’étend en triangle entre le Nil et la mer. Elle offre, le long de la Corniche, restaurants, cafés et attractions, ainsi que promenades en bateau. Le quartier du Lisan (« la langue ») s’étend jusqu’à la pointe : face au grand large, des investisseurs saoudiens ont entrepris d’édifier un hôtel de luxe, mais le chantier est interrompu : est- ce parce que la ville est éloignée d’un aéroport international, ou bien parce que son charme ne correspond pas aux attentes de célibataires en goguette, ou de familles venues de la péninsule avec leurs cortèges de serviteurs ?, ou bien parce que la plage de limon noir ne saurait attirer les estivants fortunés ?... En tous cas, Ras el Barr reste un lieu exceptionnel en Égypte, alors que toutes les côtes ont été bétonnées depuis une vingtaine d’années par les ghettos luxueux de la côte nord et les « spots » touristiques de la mer Rouge.

44 La station qui vit au ralenti hors de la saison estivale, est pourtant de plus en plus fréquentée tout au long de l’année par une population nouvelle : Damiette est devenue une ville universitaire, avec quatre Facultés, et sa jeunesse estudiantine y trouve en dehors de la saison touristique, un havre de détente et de convivialité, loin du regard des adultes, dans les cafés qui restent ouverts. D’autre part, elle héberge de plus en plus une clientèle professionnelle de passage, attirés par les nouvelles activités qui se développent à proximité : marins en escale, techniciens et commerciaux des nouvelles usines du port et de la zone franche.

45 Les onze kilomètres qui la séparent de Damiette sont encore une campagne agricole : sous les palmiers poussent blé, légumineuses et trèfle. Mais elle est en voie d’urbanisation disparate et anarchique : des panneaux signalent dans chaque champ, le long du Nil, « terrain à vendre ». Des projets de lotissement privés pour différents niveaux de prix, des villas individuelles ou accouplées aux lotissements collectifs, poussent en bord de mer et le long des nouvelles artères en direction de la zone franche et de la Nouvelle Damiette. À terme, ces extensions devraient donner naissance à une

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conurbation aux fonctions complémentaires, entre Damiette et ces développements de la rive ouest.

Vers une conurbation extravertie

La Nouvelle Damiette, de Sadate à Moubarak, ou le paradigme néolibéral impulsé par l’État

46 Les villes nouvelles imaginées par Anouar el Sadate durant les années 70 pour décongestionner Le Caire et Alexandrie ont été multipliées à partir des années 80. Conçues initialement comme des villes modèles, intégrant et rapprochant logements et activités, elles concentrent aujourd’hui tous les efforts des autorités en matière d’aménagement urbain, au détriment du tissu originel totalement délaissé. Ce choix repose sur un constat : celui que les villes seraient « irrécupérables » (tout effort de rénovation urbaine et de renforcement des infrastructures et des services y serait du gaspillage), et sur une orientation sociale : ces villes nouvelles doivent être le creuset d’une nouvelle société, plus « productive », acquise à de nouvelles valeurs, individualistes et consommatrices. Il s’agit donc d’y remplacer mode de vie et les valeurs sociales égyptiennes, fondés sur les liens de la famille élargie, par ceux de la famille nucléaire focalisée sur le travail, la consommation et la civilisation des loisirs.

47 La Nouvelle Damiette, née au début des années 8019, se développe sur un vaste plan quadrillé, à l’urbanisation, encore très lâche, le long de larges avenues. La ville ne comptait encore que 27 000 habitants en 2006, contre 6 500 en 1996. Ce projet est en somme d’inspiration « corbusienne », à l’opposé de la vision d’un Hassan Fathy, qui cherchait à adapter les matériaux et les lignes du passé aux besoins de demain, en se référant aux conditions et à la culture locales20. L’urbanisme des villes nouvelles égyptiennes fait ainsi fi de tout souci esthétique et de toute référence culturelle ou historique.

48 Certes, les premiers ensembles, aujourd’hui très dégradés en façade, ont été construits dans l’urgence : mais il n’existe pas en Égypte de logement social locatif, et toute politique de logement vise l’accession à la propriété.

49 Jusqu’en 2009, selon nos informations, un logement de 80 m2 pouvait être acquis par un ménage aux revenus réguliers, même modestes : un premier droit d’entrée de 2 000 LE21, suivi d’un premier versement de 18 000 LE, et ensuite des versements mensuels de 350 LE, ce qui les mettait à la portée de salaires de 2 000 LE, que l« on peut considérer comme un salaire médian pour un fonctionnaire ou un employé en Égypte ».

50 Depuis cette date22, les nouveaux chantiers prévoient au contraire des appartements de 100 à 150 m2, d’un coût total de 380 à 570 000 LE, avec le versement d’un acompte de 40 000 LE à la réservation. Puis les appartements sont attribués par un système de loterie(!) : en cas de succès, le candidat doit s’acquitter d’un second versement de 38 à 76 000 LE et d’un « dépôt de maintenance » de 19 000 à 28 000 LE, et ensuite d’une prime trimestrielle de 7 500 à 10 000 LE. Il est stipulé que le candidat doit justifier d’un revenu minimum de 4 000 LE/mois, ce qui exclut les catégories modestes pour lesquelles ces programmes sont théoriquement conçus et financés par l’État.

51 Ce sont finalement des investisseurs et des spéculateurs en quête de placements sûrs qui achètent ces appartements dans des conditions très avantageuses pour eux :

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compte tenu de la méfiance des Égyptiens à l’égard des banques, l’immobilier est le placement préféré des épargnants. Mais cette épargne est stérile pour l’économie, puisque, en raison d’une législation très protectrice pour le locataire, ils sont maintenus vides en attendant leur dévolution à un descendant ou leur revente avec bénéfice futur.

52 La ville nouvelle prend cependant vie autour d’îlots commerciaux et de lieux de détente : terrains de jeux pour les enfants et cafés ou restaurants, qui paraissent néanmoins très dispersés dans ce tissu urbain très lâche, où la circulation automobile prime sur les déplacements piétons. Le zonage ne cloisonne cependant pas de façon étanche espaces résidentiels et professionnels, et de nombreux immeubles de deux ou trois étages en bordure des avenues abritent des bureaux, des magasins et des ateliers, voire de petites entreprises. On a déjà mentionné plus haut une fabrique de meubles ; mais la diversité des PME est également représentée par le cas suivant :

Une success story : l’usine d’extrusion de films et d’emballages plastiques

Cette PME a été fondée en 1983 par un homme d’affaires de Mansourah, où elle conserve son siège, malgré le transfert des sites de production à la Nouvelle Damiette, en 2000. L’usine a démarré avec la production de films plastiques pour l’agriculture, et elle a depuis lors beaucoup diversifié sa production.

Elle dispose aujourd’hui de quatre unités industrielles, dont la plus récente est consacrée à la fabrication des machines d’extrusion des films plastiques d’emballage, naguère achetées en Inde. Singulière aventure que cette croissance horizontale, avec la diversification des produits, et verticale, avec le souci de remonter la filière en fabriquant ses propres machines. L’usine garde un partenariat ancien avec ses fournisseurs allemands (Siemens), ce qui lui assure un service après-vente et un transfert de technologie ; au-delà du marché égyptien, sa brochure indique qu’elle a exporté dans 24 pays d’Europe, d’Asie et d’Afrique au cours des 25 dernières années.

53 Le choix du site de Damiette est dû initialement à l’attrait de terrains viabilisés et desservis par les réseaux d’eau et d’électricité, et par la présence d’une main d’œuvre venue s’établir à la Nouvelle Damiette depuis tout le nord du delta, ou qui fait des navettes quotidiennes par car de Port-Saïd à Kafr el Cheikh. Il ne s’agit pas ici d’une zone franche, puisque la production est principalement destinée au marché local, et la société s’acquitte des mêmes loyers, taxes et impôts que partout ailleurs. Mais il est impossible d’obtenir des précisions sur le nombre d’employés et d’ouvriers, ou la moindre indication financière23.

54 D’autres entreprises, y compris dans le secteur du meuble, ont rejoint la vaste zone industrielle qui jouxte la ville nouvelle pour y développer des ateliers industriels produisant pour l’exportation24.

La zone franche, un moteur d’expansion contesté

55 Entre la ville nouvelle et Ras el Barr s’étend la zone franche, censée être le nouveau moteur économique de la ville ; mais elle a surtout, jusqu’ici, défrayé la chronique et braqué les regards de toute l’Égypte depuis une dizaine d’années.

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56 Une brochure institutionnelle très « soviétique » d’aspect, datant de l’an 2000, apprend que la zone franche s’étend sur 1 700 feddans (900 ha), qu’elle offre l’avantage d’être mitoyenne du port, et qu’elle est bordée par le canal maritime qui relie celui-ci au Nil. La zone franche abrite actuellement quatre entreprises, dont une usine turque de denim, le tissu destiné aux jeans. Il est importé brut et façonné sur place avant d’être réexporté, profitant ainsi du bas coût de la main d’œuvre locale. Mais la pièce maîtresse de la zone est l’usine d’engrais azotés, dont l’énorme complexe de structures et de tubulures d’aluminium domine l’ensemble. Ma visite de cette zone sous haute surveillance coïncide avec celle du ministre de l’Industrie, venu inaugurer une unité de production d’ammoniac. Il s’agit dans l’esprit des autorités, de l’épilogue discret du dossier de l’usine d’Agrium, qui a provoqué une mobilisation populaire inédite depuis une dizaine d’années, et soulevé une opposition nationale et internationale sans précédent.

L'affaire Agrium une confrontation emblématique entre l'État et les citoyens

Le trust canadien Agrium, un des leaders mondiaux de la production d’engrais, avait signé en 2006 un accord avec le gouvernement égyptien pour l’installation à proximité de Damiette d’une usine d’engrais azotés. L’investissement prévu était de 1,2 milliard $US pour une capacité annuelle de 675 000 tonnes d’urée et 80 000 tonnes d’ammoniac. La construction de l’usine commence en 2008, malgré l’opposition de la population : en effet, pour les agriculteurs, pêcheurs, militants écologistes, l’usine présente un danger sanitaire, par les rejets atmosphériques et aquatiques qu’elle entraînera. Ces opposants sont rejoints par les propriétaires fonciers et les investisseurs intéressés par le développement touristique du littoral de Ras el Barr. Ce renfort attire l’attention des media et des militants de la capitale, d’autant plus qu’il reçoit le soutien des autorités locales : le gouverneur prend fait et cause pour la population, sans être démis sur le champ de ses fonctions comme on pourrait s’y attendre. Au contraire, l’affaire est portée devant le Parlement, un comité est formé qui décide de déplacer l’usine à Suez25. Mais cette solution ne convient pas à Agrium. Certes Suez est située à l’écart du delta, dans une région désertique, qui accueille déjà des industries polluantes ; mais l’emplacement à la sortie sud du canal de Suez sur la mer Rouge gênerait l’approvisionnement en gaz et les débouchés commerciaux envisagés en Europe. Finalement, le gouvernement annonce l’abandon du projet et l’attribution à Agrium, en dédommagement, de 26 % du capital de l’entreprise publique égyptienne MOPCO (Misr Oil Processing Company), spécialisée dans la fabrication d’engrais chimiques26 : une façon habile de faire disparaître le sigle Agrium, tout en privatisant en partie une entreprise étatique, comme le souhaitent les créanciers de l’Égypte et les institutions financières internationales. Et la construction redémarre en novembre 2011, sous la bannière de MOPCO, à la suite de la reprise en mains du pays par le Conseil Suprême des Forces Armées. L’entreprise annonce qu’elle va tripler la production initialement prévue, à 1,95 million de tonnes d’ammoniac et 150 000 t d’urée. Les manifestations reprennent, soutenues par des activistes venus du reste du pays ; elles sont brutalement réprimées, faisant au moins un mort27. Un comité nommé par le syndicat des professions scientifiques, soumis au pouvoir, émet rapidement l’avis

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que l’usine ne présente aucun danger, tout en rappelant hors de propos son intérêt économique crucial pour l’Égypte.

57 À la suite du coup d’État du « maréchal » Al-Sissi en juillet 2013, l’extension de l’usine a repris, et l’inauguration en catimini de la phase 3 montre à la fois la détermination du régime militaire, et son incapacité à résister aux demandes des industriels étrangers qui jettent leur dévolu sur l’Égypte. La nécessité d’attirer des capitaux étrangers28

répond à celle des pays du Nord d’exporter leurs émissions de CO2, et leurs nuisances d’une manière générale, vers les pays les plus vulnérables du Sud, pour ce conformer aux nouvelles normes internationales en termes de protection de l’environnement et de lutte contre le réchauffement climatique29. En l’espèce, les émissions permanentes de polluants de l’atmosphère et des eaux de surface et les odeurs pestilentielles portées par les vents, ne sont pas tout : cette industrie est dangereuse, comme l’ont prouvé plusieurs accidents récents aux États-Unis et au Canada ; ceux-ci ont provoqué la chute du titre Agrium et rendent indispensable le déplacement de la production dans des pays du Sud, même lorsque celle-ci ne leur est pas destinée, comme c’est le cas ici.

58 Agrium a disparu des titres de la presse égyptienne, muselée par la dictature militaire ; il n’en reste pas moins que les affections pulmonaires, les allergies et les dermatoses, ainsi que, dit-on les fausses couches se seraient multipliées ; par ailleurs les besoins en eau douce de l’usine, satisfaits à partir du canal qui la relie au Nil, provoque une pénurie d’eau pour la population et les agriculteurs. Des études scientifiques prouvent l’impact de l’usine sur son environnement, et sur l’image de la cité balnéaire de Ras el Barr. Le sujet est encore sensible auprès de la population, aucune mesure n’ayant été prise pour réduire les nuisances engendrées par cette usine, comme par l’ensemble des industries polluantes accueillies par la zone industrielle de la nouvelle Damiette ou aux alentours du nouveau port artificiel.

Auprès du port, l’avenir incertain de l’usine de gaz naturel liquéfié

Les concessions gazières égyptiennes au nord du delta, on et off-shore

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59 Avec le complexe de gaz naturel liquéfié de la SEGAS (Spanish-Egyptian Gas Company)30, on passe encore à une autre facette de l’activité économique de Damiette, mais aussi à un autre visage de l’industrialisation égyptienne. Sa localisation n’est pas liée à la ville de Damiette, mais à la proximité de gisements de gaz off-shore, dans le domaine maritime égyptien31, et à l’existence d’un port artificiel capable d’accueillir les plus grands méthaniers. Le gaz naturel devait lui être fourni par la concession West Delta Deep Marine (WDDM) à 140 km au large, exploité par EGAS (Egyptian Natural Gas Company).

60 Il s’agit d’une activité de haute technologie, dont la destination doit être arbitrée, à travers des contrats à long terme, entre la satisfaction des besoins intérieurs et ceux de clients étrangers. La capacité des autorités égyptiennes à respecter leur signature a été rapidement mise en cause, affectant la crédibilité de l’Égypte vis-à-vis des investisseurs internationaux et le gain de devises attendu de cette industrie exportatrice.

61 La décision de construire cette usine avait été prise en 2000 et le premier chargement expédié début 2005. Avec une capacité de 5 millions de tonnes/an, c’était à l’époque la plus grande unité au monde à train unique, pour un investissement d’environ 1,3 milliard USD. En 2006, les associés décidèrent de faire passer la capacité de production à 10 millions de tonnes/an. Mais le plan de développement fut remis en question par l’épuisement du gisement off-shore de Satis, fortement sollicité par la hausse de la demande domestique en Égypte.

62 Le gaz liquéfié était initialement destiné au marché espagnol, qui recevait 3,2 millions de tonnes/an, le reste étant vendu par EGAS sur le marché égyptien, le tout avec un engagement de 25 ans, signé en 2003.

63 Mais à la mi-2013, l’usine dut être fermée, faute de gaz, suite à la décision des autorités égyptiennes de privilégier la satisfaction du marché intérieur, en contravention avec les accords passés32. Le gouvernement du Président Mohamed Morsi, issu des Frères Musulmans, avait pris cette décision, à la suite de difficultés d’approvisionnement en fioul et de la multiplication des coupures de courant. SEGAS porta alors plainte le

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12 avril 2013 contre l’Égypte à Paris auprès du tribunal d’arbitrage de la Chambre de commerce Internationale. L’Égypte faisait par ailleurs face à de graves difficultés financières à la suite de la révolution de janvier 2011, et avait retardé les paiements dus aux exploitants étrangers de ses gisements de pétrole et de gaz33.

64 Ce défaut de respect d’un engagement à long terme a trouvé une solution formelle sur le plan financier à partir du coup d’État militaire de juillet 2013. Mais le nouveau régime a confirmé la priorité accordée à la satisfaction des besoins égyptiens, et l’usine n’a toujours pas repris sa production.

65 Cet incident pose donc certaines questions : certes, il manifeste ce que l’on peut considérer comme une preuve d’amateurisme du premier gouvernement démocratiquement élu d’Égypte, vis-à-vis de ses obligations internationales, mais également son souci de donner la priorité aux besoins essentiels de la population. Mais l’on peut s’interroger sur les termes du contrat passé par l’État égyptien avec ses partenaires étrangers sous l’ère Moubarak, et plus fondamentalement, sur les intérêts privés ou corporatistes (militaires) masqués derrière le statut étatique des entreprises égyptiennes concernées. On peut aussi s’interroger sur la fragilité d’une économie égyptienne reposant sur des rentes soumises aux aléas extérieurs (fuite des capitaux, arrêt des aides et des investissements étrangers, de la manne touristique, baisse des envois des émigrés, éventuellement ralentissement de la production d’hydrocarbures...).

66 Il est vrai que la demande d’électricité augmente en Égypte de 7 % par an. Le nouveau régime a donc été contraint de satisfaire en priorité cette demande intérieure au détriment des exportations, en achetant pour la première fois en 2015 des cargaisons de GNL aux compagnies étrangères. EGAS a ainsi décidé que la production du gisement géant de Zohr, dans le bloc Shorouk34, découvert par ENI, reviendrait à 65 % à l’Égypte. La mise en exploitation de ce nouveau gisement, en 2018 ou 2019, permettra de couvrir les besoins égyptiens durant au moins dix ans, et d’économiser au pays 2 milliards USD par an, avec une reprise des exportations en 2020. C’est alors que l’usine de Damiette pourrait être remise en marche. Il est d’ailleurs possible que l’usine ne soit utilisée que pour la liquéfaction du gaz en provenance du gisement israélien de Léviathan.35.

67 L’Égypte a donc toujours l’intention de devenir un hub régional du gaz naturel, grâce à ses usines de GNL et à ses gazoducs existants déjà en direction des pays voisins comme Israël et la Jordanie36. Mais à part l’arrivée temporaire de centaines d’ouvriers venus de l’extérieur pour le montage de l’usine, et l’installation à demeure de techniciens pour assurer les rotations des méthaniers, la ville et la région de Damiette ne bénéficient en rien d’une industrialisation avortée, et à laquelle ils n’ont pas été associés37.

Le port artificiel de Damiette, vers un futur hub entre la Méditerranée et l’Afrique ?

68 Le port moderne a démarré ses activités en 1986. Entièrement artificiel, il a été creusé dans les terres à 8,5 km à l’ouest de l’estuaire du Nil. Son chenal d’entrée de 11,4 km de long et 15 m de profondeur est bordé à l’entrée par deux brise-lames. Le port couvre une superficie de 11,8 km2 et comprend un quai pour porte-conteneurs et un quai de fret classique ; il est relié au Nil par un canal pour péniches de 3,5 km de long.

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69 C’est aujourd’hui la clé de la croissance économique de la ville et de la région, voire de l’Égypte, puisqu’il est destiné à prendre le relais d’Alexandrie et de Port-Saïd, saturés. Les produits traités à l’exportation sont des produits agricoles, des engrais et des meubles, et à l’importation des produits pétroliers, du ciment, des céréales, de la farine, avec une capacité totale de 5,6 millions de tonnes/an en 2007. Il a fait l’objet depuis d’un important programme de travaux (680 millions USD dont 150 millions fournis par la Banque Africaine de développement), de manière à lui permettre de recevoir les porte-conteneurs géants : il pourrait ainsi devenir l’un des principaux ports de transit de la Méditerranée38 et suscite l’intérêt des plus grandes compagnies de fret maritime, comme la GGM-CMA39. Les bénéfices mentionnés pour la région de Damiette sont la création de 1 600 emplois sur le site (mais moins de 200 qualifiés), la formation de la main d’œuvre égyptienne à la gestion d’un port moderne, et des revenus fiscaux de l’ordre de 1 % des revenus du port.

Damiette, future plate-forme internationale du commerce céréalier ?

Mais les autorités égyptiennes souhaitent aller plus loin et faire de Damiette une plate-forme internationale de stockage des céréales : « Premier importateur mondial de blé, l’Égypte veut faire de sa dépendance un atout, en jouant de sa position entre les grandes zones de production (Europe, Russie) et de consommation (Asie, Afrique) afin de devenir un pôle d’envergure internationale pour le stockage et le transport des céréales. La construction d’un centre logistique mondial de stockage de céréales en Égypte a été engagée en octobre 2014 et devrait être achevée en 2017, pour un coût total de 2 milliards de dollars (environ 1,6 milliard d’euros). Cette plateforme céréalière et agroalimentaire s’étendra sur plus de 33 km2 et pourra traiter jusqu’à 65 millions de tonnes de grains par an. Elle comprendra des silos, des quais aménagés pour accueillir de grands cargos vraquiers et cinq zones industrielles spécialisées dans la production de farine, de pâtes, d’huile et de sucre.

Depuis la fin 2014, les autorités égyptiennes démarchent en Europe, en Russie, mais aussi dans les pays voisins et auprès des investisseurs arabes afin de constituer une coalition stratégique en matière de logistique et de cotation, avec la création de Bourses spécialisées dans les produits agroalimentaires à Damiette. Ce projet, dont la vocation est aussi d’assurer la sécurité alimentaire du pays, permettrait à l’Égypte de jouer un rôle régional majeur en tant qu’exportateur.

Si certains s’interrogent sur l’intérêt, pour les producteurs, de stocker leurs céréales à Damiette avant de les exporter, évoquant des surcoûts, d’autres, notamment des entreprises russes, sont déjà prêts à y construire des silos »40.

70 On peut cependant s’interroger sur l’utilité d’un tel site de stockage : par voie de terre, Damiette demeure un cul-de-sac, la route agricole du delta étant engorgée et impraticable aux camions et la route côtière par Port-Saïd, plus dégagée, étant plus longue. À l’échelle régionale ou internationale, l’Égypte est elle-même un cul-de-sac terrestre, et par voie maritime, le choix d’un emplacement directement situé sur le canal de Suez eut été plus logique, surtout à l’heure où est mis en œuvre le doublement de la capacité du canal et où les capitaux russes sont appelés à s’investir sur ses rives.

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71 D’autre part, le secteur des céréales est un parfait exemple de la corruption généralisée qui préside à l’allocation des ressources en Égypte, avec un mélange inextricable des intérêts publics et privés, ce qui ne devrait pas inciter les acteurs économiques internationaux à investir de façon durable dans le pays41.

Conclusion

72 Ainsi s’achève un tour d’horizon rapide de la situation socio-économique d’une ville de province égyptienne à l’heure de la mondialisation. Cet exemple est à la fois un cas exceptionnel, par ce qui fait depuis des siècles le dynamisme et la prospérité non seulement matériels, mais aussi culturels, de Damiette. Mais c’est aussi un exemple parmi d’autres des bouleversements entraînés par l’insertion de l’Égypte au système économique mondial, dans une situation à la fois rentière et dominée.

73 On peut en retenir que le développement de la région se fait sur un fond de destruction des activités, des savoir-faire et des potentialités humaines locales, dans une logique prédatrice et non-renouvelable qui laisse supporter à la population toutes les externalités des projets mis en œuvre. On assiste en effet au remplacement d’une citadinité intégratrice, socialement et professionnellement, comme le montre le fonctionnement des secteurs d’activité sur le modèle antique de la hisba, par une politique de grands projets, indépendants les uns des autres, et obéissant à des logiques aux échelles globale, comme le marché des engrais ou du GNL, continentale comme la demande en céréales, ou nationale comme le délestage des ports voisins, en négligeant totalement les incidences et les potentialités locales.

74 Quant à l’aménagement du territoire, s’il a existé dans le passé comme le montre la nationalisation et le développement sous Nasser de l’usine de filature et de tissage, facteur de progrès technique et social, il est aujourd’hui remplacé par une gestion au coup par coup, dont la logique ne s’établit qu’en aval, par référence aux normes de conduite imposées aux États par la mondialisation économique. La concomitance d’activités et de projets divers, voire disparates et même antagoniques, nécessiterait pourtant un effort de concertation et de réflexion de la part de l’État et de pouvoirs locaux et régionaux représentatifs de la population, pour une meilleure intégration, qui pourrait elle-même engendrer des effets bénéfiques de valorisation et de renforcements croisés.

75 On a donc, en ce qui concerne l’aménagement de l’espace comme la gestion des activités qui s’y pratiquent, une dichotomie brutale entre zones et activités dépréciées et zones et activités privilégiées, les premières regroupant la grande majorité de la population, et les secondes une faible minorité venue de et tournée vers l’extérieur.

76 Le résultat est une véritable césure entre ces deux ensembles urbains, avec d’un côté une ville populeuse, industrieuse, mais dépourvue de toute structure édilitaire, livrée aux potentats locaux épaulés par l’État à travers la figure du gouverneur, et donc en voie de paupérisation et de déstructuration, et de l’autre des initiatives modernisatrices, obéissant à des logiques nationales voire internationales, mais elles- mêmes soumises à des aléas politiques et à des logiques de profit qui contreviennent à toute considération de développement durable, sur le plan économique, social et environnemental. On peut ainsi, par exemple, s’interroger sur la nécessité d’implanter une usine d’engrais, hautement toxique et dangereuse, à proximité d’un site

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touristique, d’une zone urbaine et d’un terroir agricole fertile, alors que 90 % du territoire égyptien est désert et bordé par des mers qui en permettent l’accès.

77 Cette absence d’une gestion cohérente au niveau de l’État relève à la fois d’une volonté délibérée et d’une incompétence. Il manque certes aux militaires au pouvoir (Le « maréchal » Al-Sissi a remplacé onze gouverneurs de province fin décembre 2015 pour les remplacer par des officiers supérieurs) le sens de la concertation, du dialogue et de la synthèse, et ils ont plaqué depuis soixante ans sur la société égyptienne le fonctionnement hiérarchique et disciplinaire propre à une armée. Et les gouverneurs, clés de voûte de l’administration au niveau régional, dépendant directement du président, n’ont pour mission que le maintien de l’ordre public et la répression de toute opposition. Mais de ce fait, l’administration elle-même est défaillante, manquant de cadres, d’efficience et de moyens, les ministres n’ayant dans un tel système qu’une fonction subalterne d’exécutants et de tuteurs de services techniques privés d’initiative.

78 Il en résulte une corruption incontrôlée à tous les niveaux de l’État, comme en témoigne l’état désastreux des routes et des autoroutes dont la construction est adjugée en fonction d’intérêts opaques, ou les multiples trafics cités plus haut, où les soutes des chalutiers et les conteneurs de meubles contiennent souvent armes, antiquités et drogues qui irriguent des réseaux mafieux, impliquant militaires et agents de la Sécurité.

79 Parallèlement, l’État ne trouve comme interlocuteurs ou partenaires aucune structure élective au niveau local : l’absence d’une municipalité se fait sentir à Damiette, la population n’étant ni consultée ni impliquée dans le devenir de sa ville ou de son gouvernorat. La planification urbaine, les services édilitaires lui échappent, comme le montrent la construction d’immeubles sur des zones inondables, la carence dans l’enlèvement et le traitement des ordures, ou une politique du logement qui ne répond pas aux besoins. Les compétences de la population ne manquent pourtant pas, ni le sentiment d’appartenance à une cité et à une société qui ont fonctionné avec succès, durant des siècles de manière autonome. Il y a là, de la part de l’État, un gaspillage désastreux de talents et d’expériences, qui condamne par avance les projets grandioses mis en œuvre sans souci d’un développement auto-reproductible et intégré.

80 L’absence de municipalité élue est déjà un handicap insurmontable pour un monstre urbain comme Le Caire, écartelé entre trois gouvernorats, mais elle est encore plus surprenante dans le cas d’une capitale provinciale et de son aire d’influence. La question devient d’autant plus cruciale que la ville, étoffée de ses deux avant-postes, dupliquée par la Nouvelle Damiette et confortée par une zone industrielle, une zone franche et un port moderne, compose progressivement une agglomération importante et complexe.

81 Actuellement, les nouveaux acteurs économiques comme l’Autorité du Port, la Ville Nouvelle, la Zone franche, mais aussi privés comme Agrium la Canadienne, SEGAS l’Espagnole, ou les Égyptiennes EGAS et MOPCO n’ont de relations que verticales, avec leurs tutelles au Caire ou leurs sièges à l’étranger : aucun mécanisme de coordination n’a été envisagé à ce jour au niveau local.

82 Quant aux corporations de métiers traditionnelles, comme les pêcheurs, les confiseurs, les fabricants de meubles, elles n’ont pas pu se structurer de manière formelle et reconnue officiellement et sont aux mains de personnalités ou de groupes parfois qualifiés, en privé, de mafieux. On comprend dès lors que la structure sociale se délite

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et que Damiette risque de devenir un havre de trafics illégaux voire criminels, pour pallier la perte de revenus et de normes sociales.

83 Le cas de Damiette donne à réfléchir, certes, sur la situation de l’Égypte et ses perspectives de développement, en écartant pour une fois et pour les besoins de l’analyse, les facteurs extérieurs : mais les facteurs internes sont-ils vraiment sans conséquence sur les risques de déstabilisation venus de l’extérieur ? Et ne sont-ils pas eux-mêmes, des pistes de réflexion pour d’autres pays et au-delà, partout où des intérêts et des centres de décision globaux ou lointains privent la population de toute prise sur son destin ?...

NOTES

1. Soit environ 1 300 hab/km2. Tous ces chiffres sont à prendre avec précaution, car ils sont basés sur des recensements effectués par le Centre Égyptien pour la Mobilisation Publique et les Statistiques (CAPMAS), l’INSEE égyptien. Celui-ci ne dispose pas des moyens techniques et financiers, ni des compétences pour établir des statistiques fiables. Dirigé par un général, il a d'abord pour mission, comme son nom l’indique, de donner une image positive de l’Égypte. http://www.citypopulation.de/php/egypt-admin.php 2. Et la plus astreignante, puisqu'elle implique de traverser les faubourgs embouteillés de Choubra el Kheima au sortir du Caire, puis d'emprunter l’autoroute vers Tanta, et de la quitter soit à Benha, soit à Tanta, pour rejoindre Mansourah par des routes encombrées, étroites et mal entretenues. 3. Elle rejoint Ismailiya avant de longer le canal de Suez, et de bifurquer à travers le lac Menzaleh pour rejoindre le cordon littoral et atteindre Damiette par le nord-est. 4. Dans un cas comme dans l'autre, l’expédition n'est pas exempte de danger, dans la mesure où les véhicules sont mal entretenus, où le code de la route comme les permis de conduite sont virtuels, et où les routes ne sont ni matérialisées ni signalisées, et où le revêtement est inégal, du fait de la corruption qui préside à l'attribution des appels d'offres et à la réalisation des chantiers de travaux publics. 5. Damiette, qui évoque le débarquement de Saint-Louis en 1249, et l’épisode de la 7e croisade, qui s'acheva par la captivité du roi défait à la bataille de Mansourah, l'année suivante, avec ses deux frères et 12 000 soldats, avait déjà été prise brièvement par les Croisés lors de la 5e croisade en 1219. La cité était pour les Croisés une base de départ pour la reconquête de Jérusalem. 6. Comme la mosquée Amr Ibn el As (Al-Fateh), du nom du conquérant arabe et musulman de l’Égypte en 640 ap. J-C. 7. La ville est le siège depuis l'Antiquité d'un évêché copte. 8. Fromage blanc « Domiati » au lait de bufflonne, bonbons, confiserie... 9. De Kamal al-Din Muhammad ibn Musa al-Damiri (1344-1405), spécialiste du droit canon musulman et naturaliste à Farag Foda, courageux défenseur de la laïcité, assassiné en 1992 par les Gam'at islamiya. 10. Mais la ville ne dispose pas d'aéroport, et dépend donc du Caire pour les vols intérieurs ou internationaux. 11. Exemples de produits et localisation des ateliers au centre de Damiette sur : https:// www.facebook.com/search/107965249231843/places-in/162845797101278/places/intersect/ ;

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https://www.facebook.com/pages/Asfour-Gallery-Elmehwar-St/287913031411443 ; http:// www.mobilusso.com/mobilusso/style.html ; etc. 12. C'est Mohamed Fahim El Guindy, né en 1872 à Damiette, qui fut le fondateur de l'industrie contemporaine du meuble en Égypte. Voir sa biographie sur : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Mohamed_Fahim_ElGindy. 13. http://www.textile-egypt.org/Company_Details.asp?ID=100 14. https://libcom.org/news/strikes-continue-egypt-despite-military-threats-21022011. Pour un arrière-plan sur la lutte des ouvriers égyptiens du textile dans la période pré-2011, voir Joel Beinin : https://libcom.org/library/militancy-mahalla-al-kubra. Sur la mobilisation sociale en Égypte face à la politique du régime militaire du président Al-Sissi, voir : http:// www.dailynewsegypt.com/2016/01/20/workers-in-2015-physical-and-economic-threats- continue/. 15. « The death of a sector: Egypt’s ageing textile industry speaks a tale of how corruption and mismanagement killed the sector, but also of mobilized industrial action », 24/09/13 : http:// www.madamasr.com/sections/politics/death-sector. 16. Sur l'histoire économique et sociale de l'usine de Mehallat el koubra, mais aussi du secteur textile d’État en Égypte, voir : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Misr_Spinning_and_Weaving_Company. 17. Source : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezbet_el-Borg. 18. « Faire face à la marée : comment protéger le littoral du delta du Nil », par Mohammed Yahia : http://www.idrc.ca/FR/Resources/Publications/Pages/ArticleDetails.aspx?PublicationID=995. 19. Voir le site officiel de la New Urban Communities Authority, dont les données contredisent les résultats du recensement fournis par le CAPMAS : http://www.newcities.gov.eg/english/ New_Communities/Damietta/default.aspx. 20. Hassan Fathy : « Construire avec le peuple ». 21. Un euro = environ 8,50 LE au moment de l'enquête (décembre 2015). 22. Peut-être en relation avec les effets de la crise des subprimes qui a frappé l’Égypte en 2008. 23. Ce qui confirme que les statistiques économiques et financières égyptiennes ne permettent pas aux autorités un pilotage informé de l’activité économique et que les instances internationales comme la Banque Mondiale ou l’OIT ne livrent comme données statistiques que celles que les autorités égyptiennes concoctent à leur intention. 24. Voir par exemple le site d'El Azab Furniture : http://www.elazab.com/main/index.php? PNAME=about. 25. Ce traitement mesuré de l'opposition montre bien l'affaiblissement du régime de Moubarak, bien avant la révolution de janvier 2011. Il est alors aux prises avec une opposition politique symbolisée par le mouvement Kefaya, et sociale avec la multiplication des conflits ouvriers et des grèves des fonctionnaires et de multiples corps de métiers. Il traite ce mécontentement populaire par un mélange de négociations et d’intimidation, plus que par la répression policière. Il doit en effet tenir compte des media, qui prennent un rôle nouveau de caisses de résonance des revendications sociales. Il est aussi sensible à son image à l'étranger, recevant en juillet 2008 la coprésidence de l'Union pour la Méditerranée et étant accueilli au sein du G-20. Il reçoit enfin un coup de semonce de Barack Obama l'enjoignant lors de son discours du Caire en juin 2009 à se démocratiser. 26. http://www.mopco-eg.com/en/mopco.php 27. http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/1/0/26595/Egypt/0/Damiettans-escalate- protests-against-environmental.aspx, 15 novembre 2011, consulté le 17 janvier 2016 ; http:// platformlondon.org/2011/11/15/mass-environmental-justice-uprising-engulfs-damietta-on- egypts-mediterranean-coast/, consulté le 17 janvier 2016. 28. Même si leur apport est sujet à caution, tant en termes d'emploi que d'impôts.

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29. Voir les différents incidents récents provoqués par la production ou le transport des produits issus des usines d’Agrium aux États-Unis et au Canada : fuite d’ammoniaque à l’usine de Borger aux États-Unis, en mai 2015 : http://www.newschannel10.com/story/29183924/update-multiple- people-injured-in-agrium-plant-accident, consulté le 17 janvier 2016 ; ainsi que la liste des incidents dans des usines chimiques aux États-Unis depuis 2013 : http:// preventchemicaldisasters.org/resources/158971-2/. 30. SEGAS est un consortium international dominé par Union Gas Fenosa (80 %), une joint- venture à égalité entre Union Fenosa (Espagne) et ENI (Italie), le reste étant partagé entre deux entreprises publiques égyptiennes, EGAS (10 %) et Egyptian Petroleum Corporation (EGPC, 10 %). http://www.hydrocarbons-technology.com/projects/seagashttps://www.eni.com/en_IT/ attachments/investorrelations/presentation/2004/Damietta_PDF_pdf. 31. L’Égypte est déjà le 2 e producteur africain de gaz naturel, derrière l'Algérie. Mais l'exportation est tombée à 4,7 millions de tonnes en 2012, alors que la capacité globale des deux usines d'Edkou et de Damiette s'élevait à 12,2 M tonnes. 32. http://www.lngworldnews.com/egypt-stops-damietta-lng-exports-to-eni/ ; http:// english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/3/12/64321/Business/Economy/Damietta-LNG-plant-idled- as-Egypt-keeps-its-gas-at.aspx (La même mésaventure est arrivée à l'entreprise britannique BG, qui opère l'autre usine géante de gaz liquéfié, à Edkou, près d'Alexandrie). 33. http://www.reuters.com/article/egypt-gas-idUSL6N0DB30820130424 34. Avec environ 30 trillions de pieds cubes de réserves, ce serait le plus important gisement découvert à ce jour en Méditerranée. http://www.egyptoil-gas.com/publications/discorde-of- the-decade-enis-new-deepwater-biggest-ever-in-egypt/ 35. http://www.2b1stconsulting.find-com/noble-to-expand-israel-tamar-to-feed-egypt- damietta-lng-terminal/ 36. http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2015-09-01/egypt-plans-to-use-natural-gas-find- for-itself-for-next-10-years 37. Cette usine n'a qu'un impact minime sur l'économie et la société locales, puisqu'elle n'engendre que 270 emplois et ne verse, sauf erreur, pas de taxes. 38. http://www.afdb.org/fileadmin/uploads/afdb/Documents/Project-andOperations/ Project_Brief_Damietta_Container_ Terminal_2007.pdf 39. http://worldmaritimenews.com/archives/131488/port-of-damietta-attracts-more-container- ships/ 40. Tiré d'un dossier de promotion institutionnelle du magazine Jeune Afrique, en date du 21 juillet 2015 : http://www.jeuneafrique.com/mag/247915/economie/egypte-quand-damiette- se-reve-en-grenier-geant/. 41. https:// www.yahoo.com/news/special-report-egypt-struggling-end-corruption- wheat-112028586.html

RÉSUMÉS

Damietta, a medium-sized city at the edge of the Nile delta, one of Egypt’s windows on the sea, enjoys a personality asserted since Ancient times. It developed varied economic ventures, such as the furniture making, which granted it well being and opening to the outside world. It is in that sense an exception in the Egyptian context; but it went since the 1952 Revolution through the

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fate of those provincial centers, faced with successive and contradictory country planning policies. The city has now become a pawn on the Egyptian and Mediterranean exchequers of global integration, at the expense of its locally rooted activities, which structure its economic and social fabric. Its new, from outside and even abroad impulsed vocations, induce the settling in its surroundings of disconnected industries, infrastructures and urban models. As a result, an unseen before mobilization has emerged against the negative effects on environment and social cohesion, pointing the State’s collusion with foreign interests. That neglect of the State regarding regional and local interests ends up in frustration and inefficiency of development policies. Those will only be solved through a free expression of the population through representative local powers.

INDEX

Keywords : Egypt, Damietta, furniture industry economic development, social crisis, nitrogen fertilizers, natural liquefied gas, environmental hazards

AUTEUR

MARC LAVERGNE Docteur en géographie, diplômé de Sciences Po Paris, licencié d’arabe moderne. Marc Lavergne est spécialiste des questions de développement économique et social, et des crises et conflits au Moyen-Orient et dans la Corne de l’Afrique. Il s’intéresse particulièrement à l’articulation entre les échelles locale, nationale et mondiale dans le contexte de la mondialisation. Il a dirigé plusieurs instituts de recherche français de recherche à l’étranger (CEDUST à Khartoum, CERMOC à Beyrouth et Amman, CEDEJ au Caire). Il est aujourd’hui directeur de recherche au CNRS (laboratoire CITERES, équipe EMAM (Monde arabe et méditerranéen) à l’Université de Tours.

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