Sudan's Doctors Bear Brunt of War as Healthcare Falls Apart

(FILES) A Sudanese army soldier mans a machine gun on top of a military pickup truck outside a hospital in Omdurman - AFP
(FILES) A Sudanese army soldier mans a machine gun on top of a military pickup truck outside a hospital in Omdurman - AFP
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Sudan's Doctors Bear Brunt of War as Healthcare Falls Apart

(FILES) A Sudanese army soldier mans a machine gun on top of a military pickup truck outside a hospital in Omdurman - AFP
(FILES) A Sudanese army soldier mans a machine gun on top of a military pickup truck outside a hospital in Omdurman - AFP

Sudanese doctor Mohamed Moussa has grown so accustomed to the constant sound of gunfire and shelling near his hospital that it no longer startles him. Instead, he simply continues attending to his patients.

"The bombing has numbed us," the 30-year-old general practitioner told AFP by phone from Al-Nao hospital, one of the last functioning medical facilities in Omdurman, part of greater Khartoum.

Gunfire rattles in the distance, warplanes roar overhead and nearby shelling makes the ground tremble, more than a year and a half into a grinding war between rival Sudanese generals.

Embattled health workers "have no choice but to continue", said Moussa.
Since April 2023, Sudan has been torn apart by a war between army chief Abdel Fattah al-Burhan and his former deputy Mohamed Hamdan Daglo, leader of the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).

The war has killed tens of thousands and uprooted 12 million people, creating what the International Rescue Committee aid group has called the "biggest humanitarian crisis ever recorded".

The violence has turned the country's hospitals into battlegrounds, placing health workers like Moussa on the frontlines.

Inside Al-Nao's overwhelmed wards, the conflict's toll is staggering.

Doctors say they tend to a harrowing array of injuries: gunshot wounds to the head, chest and abdomen, severe burns, shattered bones and amputations -- even among children as young as four months.

The hospital itself has not been spared.

Deadly shelling has repeatedly hit its premises, according to medical charity Doctors Without Borders (MSF) which has supported the Al-Nao hospital.

Elsewhere, the situation is just as dire. In North Darfur, a recent drone attack killed nine at the state capital's main hospital, while shelling forced MSF to evacuate its field hospital in a famine-hit refugee camp.

- Medics targeted -

Sudan's healthcare system, already struggling before the war, has now all but crumbled.

Of the 87 hospitals in Khartoum state, nearly half suffered visible damage between the start of the war and August 26 this year, according to satellite imagery provided and analysed by Yale University's Humanitarian Research Lab and the Sudanese American Physicians Association.

As of October, the World Health Organization had documented 119 confirmed attacks on healthcare facilities across Sudan.

"There is a complete disregard for civilian protection," said Kyle McNally, MSF's humanitarian affairs advisor.

He told AFP that an ongoing "broad-spectrum attack on healthcare" includes "widespread physical destruction, which then reduces services to the floor -- literally and figuratively".

The national doctors' union estimates that in conflict zones across Sudan, up to 90 percent of medical facilities have been forced shut, leaving millions without access to essential care.

Both sides of the conflict have been implicated in attacks on healthcare facilities.

The medical union said that 78 health workers have been killed since the war began, by gunfire or shelling at their workplaces or homes.

"Both sides believe that medical staff are cooperating with the opposing faction, which leads to their targeting," union spokesperson Sayed Mohamed Abdullah told AFP.

"There is no justification for targeting hospitals or medical personnel. Doctors... make no distinction between one patient and another."

- Starvation -

According to the doctors' union, the RSF has raided hospitals to treat their wounded or search for enemies, while the army has conducted air strikes on medical facilities across the country.

On November 11, MSF suspended most activities at Bashair Hospital, one of South Khartoum's few functioning hospitals, after fighters stormed the facility and shot dead another fighter being treated there.

MSF officials say they believe the fighters to be RSF combatants.

In addition to the endless stream of war casualties, Sudan's doctors scramble to respond to another threat: mass starvation.

In a paediatric hospital in Omdurman, across the Nile from Khartoum, malnourished children arrive in droves.

Between mid-August and late October, the small hospital was receiving up to 40 children a day, many in critical condition, according to one doctor.

"Every day, three or four of them would die because their cases were very late stage and complicated, or due to a shortage of essential medicines," said the physician, requesting anonymity for safety concerns.

Sudan has for months teetered on the edge of famine, with nearly 26 million people -- more than half the population -- facing acute hunger, according to the UN.

Adnan Hezam, a spokesman for the International Committee of the Red Cross, said there must be "immediate support in terms of supplies and human resources to medical facilities".

Without it, "we fear a rapid deterioration" in already limited services, he told AFP.

To Moussa, the doctor, some days feel "unbearable".

"But we can't stop," he said.

"We owe it to the people who depend on us."



The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
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The Border Zone with Lebanon: A Refuge for Syrians Fearing ‘Change’

The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).
The Jdeidet Yabous Syrian border crossing, where images of Assad and his father appear to have been defaced (Asharq Al-Awsat).

The road from Beirut to Damascus is now lined with unfamiliar scenes. In just a few days, everything has changed for those traveling to the Syrian capital by land from Lebanon. Once an economic lifeline for Damascus, the route bustled with visitors—Syrians and Lebanese alike—and large trucks carried goods from Beirut’s port to Syria, a necessity brought on by international sanctions that have forced the country to rely on this corridor.

The journey to Damascus via Lebanon begins at the Masnaa border crossing, which, during the early days of Syria’s upheaval, saw unprecedented traffic heading into Syria. While outbound traffic has returned to normal—or even declined—inbound activity has surged again. Hundreds of Syrian families line up at the border, hoping for “humanitarian exceptions” to enter Lebanon. However, the influx has clogged the route for everyone, even those eligible for entry. For days, the road was virtually impassable until Lebanese authorities intervened to reopen it. Still, complaints from Syrians about alleged abuses at the border prompted General Security chief Major General Elias al-Baysari to launch an investigation into these violations, followed by measures to reduce the number of entries to just a few hundred.

Some Syrians leave after being denied entry, only for others to arrive, clinging to the hope that Lebanon might eventually open its doors. Entry is now restricted to those with valid residency, travelers transiting through Beirut’s airport, or individuals with official documentation.

Families wait in cars, with children and women inside while men gather around fires outside. Ayman, a man in his fifties from rural Damascus, anxiously waits for permission to cross after being denied entry by the checkpoint. He mentions receiving a promise that his case will be reviewed. “We are in danger. I won’t take my children back to die,” he says, refusing to elaborate on the exact threat. Determined, he vows to remain in the deserted zone indefinitely if necessary.

Despite no reports of targeted violence against former regime supporters or religious minorities—especially Shiites—fear remains pervasive. Bilal, a Syrian from the predominantly Shiite town of Zahraa near Aleppo, recounts how a relative was killed and claims that his name is on a wanted list. “I’ll never go back,” he says firmly.

The scene repeats itself just past the first opposition-held checkpoint, opposite the abandoned Syrian passport office. Crossing is straightforward and no longer requires ID for Lebanese citizens, unlike in the past. A friendly greeting and a wave from the armed guards suffice, often accompanied by a smile and “Welcome!” This is a stark contrast to the past, when multiple military checkpoints, infamous for soliciting bribes in the form of bread, cigarettes, or cash, made travel cumbersome.

Now, entering and exiting Syria via land is remarkably easy—no paperwork, no questions, and no inspections.

Near a victory arch along the road, adorned with images of deposed Syrian President Bashar al-Assad and his late father Hafez, stands a young man. His old car is parked nearby, with his wife and three children—all under ten years old—waiting inside. Hesitantly, he approaches a Lebanese traveler, asking whether he can enter Lebanon without the “yellow card” once issued by Syrian authorities for outgoing vehicles. Syrian border guards had turned him away, warning that Lebanese authorities might confiscate his car.

The man, from the Shiite-majority village of Foua near Idlib, is determined to reach Lebanon. “I’ve arranged for work with someone there, and I need to leave as soon as possible,” he explains nervously. Though he insists no one has harmed him, his unease is evident as he prepares to leave.

The Assads’ towering portraits remain intact, likely due to their height, while those at ground level have been torn down or trampled. Military checkpoints have been vandalized or destroyed.

Abandoned vehicles litter the roadside, some still smoldering, while others have been stripped of all valuables—tires, parts, and accessories. Military vehicles, tanks, and armored carriers, some still loaded with ammunition, lie deserted along the route from the border to Damascus. These remnants tell the story of a collapsed regime and an uncertain future.

Scattered among the wreckage are vehicles destroyed by Israeli missile strikes targeting Syrian air defense systems, including anti-aircraft launchers mounted on military trucks.

The stretch of abandoned military hardware extends from the Syrian border to the outskirts of Damascus. These vehicles were once meant to defend the capital but now lie powerless, deserted by soldiers who left their uniforms discarded along the roadside as they fled. The old Syrian flag lies tattered and forgotten in multiple locations, untouched—neither reclaimed nor mourned.