Natimorto

  • Friday night friday nothing

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    Him? Was it him? The corner, the night market, the coat — no, fog, fog swallowing, swallowing everything, the mist curling, curling like memory, like smoke from a cigarette I never smoked there, never. Years. Years away. Oceans folding, folding under, under the moon, the moon like a watchful eye, is he looking? Would he? Did he ever? Did I?

    I stop. No, walk. Walk faster, slower, too slow, too fast, the street moves, they move, everyone moves, everyone except me, except the maybe, the maybe of him, the maybe of us, did we? Could we? Should we? Call out? Laugh? Pretend? Pretend we don’t remember each other? No, he remembers. Or not. Or does he? Perhaps he never even — no, no, stop.

    The rain, the rain that never fell that day, dripping, wet, soaking the coat I didn’t wear, the scarf that was never his. Heart, yes heart, slippery, twisting, twisting like the river in the letters I never sent, letters folded, unfolded, folded again, unread. Tea, cold, trembling hand, trembling thought. Did he think of me? Or not? Was I ever a thought? A maybe? A shape in the fog, the mist, the gaslight, the mist curling, curling, curling.

    I see him. Or not. The face — was it? No, just shadow, just shadow playing, playing tricks, maybe. He doesn’t know, doesn’t see, doesn’t care? Or cares too much? Or cares too little? Why didn’t he come? Did he think I wouldn’t be here? Did I think I would be? Did we both think, think, think and forget? Or forget too soon?

    The street moves on, they move on, they breathe, they laugh, they exist. I — pause. Breathe. Hesitate. Maybe. Maybe not. Memory, memory, memory folds into memory. Smell of wool, wet hair, that laugh, that smile, the way he looked — or not. Did he look? Did I look? I did, I did, and yet — gone, gone, gone, swallowed by fog, by mist, by maybe.

    Tomorrow? Maybe. Never? Perhaps. Love? Always maybe, always shadow, always hesitation, never certainty. Always the corner, the shop, the street, the fog curling, curling, curling, me, me, me, question mark, question mark, heart clenching, twisting, slippery, slippery, slippery.

  • Do you ever think about Sudan?

    Twenty-seven years ago, the United States bombed the Al-Shifa factory in Sudan, one of the largest pharmaceutical industries on the African continent. Its destruction caused a severe shortage of medicines, resulting in the deaths of thousands of people. Located in the territory that was once home to the famous kingdom of Kush, Sudan still struggles today to overcome the obstacles left behind by its colonial past. The country became independent in 1956, but was unable to overcome the serious internal divisions that led to successive civil wars.

    Political instability, sanctions and foreign intervention have always made it impossible to continue development projects. In the 1990s, Sudan was among the poorest nations in the world, with about 60% of its population living below the poverty line. In 1990, the country had one of the highest infant mortality rates on the planet and a life expectancy of 51 years. The magnitude of these challenges explains the excitement generated by the announcement that the country would be home to a large pharmaceutical industry.

    Opened in June 1997, the factory became known as the “pride of Africa.” The institution was born as one of the largest pharmaceutical companies on the continent, with modern facilities and state-of-the-art equipment. Al-Shifa Pharmaceuticals strengthened the Sudanese health system and, more than that, represented the materialisation of the dream of scientific sovereignty shared among the nations of the global south. The factory employed 360 people.

    Even though it was a private enterprise, it received strong support from the Sudanese state. The construction was financed by donations and loans from several African countries and international organisations. 

    Al-Shifa enabled Sudan to make enormous strides towards self-sufficiency in the manufacture of medicines. Domestic production rose from 3% to 50% with the industry. The factory was responsible for producing 90% of the medicines used to treat the seven leading causes of death in the country. These medicines cost 1/5 of the price of similar products manufactured in Europe and the United States. The Sudanese government distributed 15% of all production free of charge to low-income families, reaching one of the most disadvantaged populations in the world.

    In this way, the country became an exporter, supplying several African and even Asian nations. Much of the medicine consumed in Iraq during the criminal US embargo came from Sudan.

    The historic moment when the factory was inaugurated was also marked by the deterioration of US diplomatic relations with Sudan. The White House wanted to prevent Omar al-Bashir’s government from establishing closer ties with Iraq, the Palestinian resistance and other Islamic movements. Bill Clinton’s strategy was to accuse Sudan of providing logistical support and refuge to terrorist organisations such as Al-Qaeda. In December 1997, an embargo was imposed.

    The United States military launched an aerial bombardment of the Al-Shifa factory in Sudan on the 27th of March 1991. This pharmaceutical manufacturing facility was one of the largest in Africa at the time of the attack. The destruction wrought by the conflict gave rise to a severe shortage of essential medicines, with the result that thousands of lives were lost. Situated in the territory that was formerly home to the renowned kingdom of Kush, Sudan continues to grapple with the challenges emanating from its colonial past. The country gained independence in 1956, yet was incapable of surmounting the profound internal divisions that precipitated successive civil wars.

    The perpetual challenges posed by political instability, sanctions, and foreign intervention have invariably rendered the continuity of development projects unfeasible. During the 1990s, Sudan ranked among the world’s poorest nations, with approximately 60% of the population living below the poverty line. In 1990, the country exhibited one of the highest infant mortality rates globally, with a life expectancy of 51 years. The magnitude of these challenges is evidenced by the excitement generated by the announcement that the country would be home to a large pharmaceutical industry.

    The factory, which was inaugurated in June 1997, was soon distinguished by its reputation as the “pride of Africa.” The institution was established as one of the largest pharmaceutical companies on the continent, with modern facilities and state-of-the-art equipment. Al-Shifa Pharmaceuticals has been instrumental in fortifying the Sudanese health system, thereby serving as a tangible manifestation of the aspirations for scientific autonomy that are shared among the nations of the global south. The factory employed 360 people.

    Despite its status as a private enterprise, it received substantial support from the Sudanese state. The construction of the bridge was financed by donations and loans from several African countries and international organisations.

    Al-Shifa played a pivotal role in Sudan’s advancements towards self-sufficiency in the domain of pharmaceutical production. Domestic production exhibited a marked increase, rising from 3% to 50% in alignment with the industry. The factory was responsible for producing 90% of the medicines used to treat the seven leading causes of death in the country. The cost of these medicines is one-fifth of the price of similar products manufactured in Europe and the United States. The Sudanese government distributed 15% of all production free of charge to low-income families, thereby reaching one of the most economically disadvantaged populations worldwide.

    Consequently, the country became an exporter, supplying several African and even Asian nations. A significant proportion of the pharmaceuticals consumed in Iraq during the period of the US-imposed embargo were sourced from Sudan.

    The inauguration of the factory coincided with a period of deterioration in US-Sudan diplomatic relations. The administration of the White House was intent on preventing Omar al-Bashir’s government from forging closer ties with Iraq, the Palestinian resistance, and other Islamic movements. The strategy pursued by Bill Clinton entailed the accusation that Sudan had provided logistical support and refuge to terrorist organisations, including Al-Qaeda. In December 1997, an embargo was imposed.

    On 20 August 1998, the pharmaceutical factory complex was completely destroyed by 13 missiles launched by US ships in the Red Sea. The bombing was ordered by the White House in retaliation for terrorist attacks on the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania two weeks earlier. Despite the absence of any organisational claim of responsibility, the White House administration has expediently attributed the blame to Al Qaeda.

    The factory was completely destroyed, causing significant outrage among the Sudanese government and population. In the absence of any concrete evidence, any hypothesis pertaining to a potential connection between Sudan and the embassies that had been attacked must be considered as speculative. The only commonality that could be identified between the two groups was that both inhabited the same continent, which was located in the Global South.

    Clinton made a direct and unequivocal assertion that the factory had provided chemical weapons to Bin Laden and Al Qaeda. He further stated that the White House had obtained “concrete evidence” of the manufacture of lethal XV gas at the pharmaceutical factory. However, the evidence presented was limited to a sample of contaminated soil that had been collected in the vicinity of the factory. When researchers requested independent tests, the US government refused to comply with this demand. Factory officials collected soil samples, which were analysed at Boston University. The results of these tests revealed no abnormalities. In the debris, only artefacts consistent with a conventional pharmaceutical factory were found.

    The Sudanese government called for the UN Security Council to undertake an independent assessment, a proposal that was subsequently vetoed by the US government.

    The timing of the bombing was strategically aligned with the peak of the sex scandal involving Bill Clinton and his intern, Monica Lewinsky. A grand jury testimony was scheduled to take place on the exact same date as the bombing of the factory. Surveys indicated that 70% to 80% of Americans expressed approval of the bombings against the alleged “terrorists”. The violation of several conventions of international law by the US was not called into question. This is customary.

    The situation was further exacerbated by a critical shortage of essential medicines, compounded by the already dire circumstances of famine, civil war, and economic embargo. The absence of a domestic pharmaceutical manufacturing facility, which was responsible for supplying half of all medicines produced in the country, resulted in the intensification and dissemination of outbreaks and pandemics.

    In the aftermath of the criminal US bombing, a meningitis epidemic struck Sudan, which, in the absence of antibiotics, had limited capacity to protect itself. The disaster resulted in a significant loss of life, akin to the loss of lives due to the 1999 floods.

    It is estimated that tens of thousands of people died as a result of dysentery, malaria and other treatable diseases. The nation made appeals to the United Kingdom and other Western nations for assistance in procuring chloroquine for the treatment of malaria, but these requests were declined.

    Moreover, the efforts of humanitarian agencies to combat hunger were hindered by the escalation of the conflict. It is estimated that more than 70,000 Sudanese people perished as a result of starvation.

    Despite the passage of several decades, the nation continues to grapple with a persistent shortage of essential medications, a situation that has been compounded by the utilisation of a criminal bombing as a diversionary tactic in the context of an American sex scandal.

    It is evident that Sudan never received an apology from the US. Conversely, the United States government has expanded its sanctions against the country since the onset of the conflict in Darfur, and has provided financial support to a separatist movement in the southern region.

    The independence of South Sudan was proclaimed by the separatist movement with the support of the United States. This situation had repercussions for the Khartoum government, which consequently experienced a depletion of 75% of the country’s oil reserves.

    At present, the country is experiencing widespread famine, with the United Nations (UN) confirming that Sudan is currently the only place in the world where famine has been officially declared in several locations.

    An American journalist — a recurring theme in such publications — provoked controversy by publishing on the cover of The Atlantic magazine that the current war in Sudan is a war about nothing. However, the prevailing perspective within Sudanese society posits a divergent viewpoint, attributing the war to a multitude of factors. Indeed, the conflict is not merely one in nature, but rather several discrete and often concurrent struggles, each with its own unique context. These include, but are not limited to, issues of gold, identity, land for agricultural purposes, and social philosophies.

    At present, the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) exercise control over the north, north-east and the Nile River states, as well as Khartoum, Port Sudan, the Red Coast and parts of North and South Kordofan. In these areas, it operates government ministries and major ports and airports.

    The Rapid Support Forces (RSF) and allied militias have been observed to exercise control over approximately 45% of Sudan, representing a decline from 75% in the early months of the war. The aforementioned regions encompass the majority of the Darfur area, with the exception of the northern capital, El Fasher.

    In certain regions, the authority of the state is not yet fully implemented, and local leaders offer protection in exchange for wealth or resources. These leaders are not affiliated with either the SAF or the RSF.

    According to analysts, the war is now being fought over economic interests.

    The Arab emirates have been active participants in the war, seeking to protect their economic interests, primarily in the form of gold mining and arable land in the border area between Ethiopia and eastern Sudan. The RSF has been active in its role as a proxy force for the Arab Emirates, however, in recent battles, mercenaries from Niger and Colombia have superseded them. Official data demonstrate that in 2024, 100% of declared gold exports were destined for Egypt. Prior to the war, the majority of Sudan’s gold was exported to the United Arab Emirates. The war had a significant impact on mining operations in areas under the control of the RSF, particularly in regions where mining was predominantly conducted by hand.

    The Egyptian government was a beneficiary of this situation, and subsequently abolished all gold import taxes one month after the commencement of the current war in Sudan. This action resulted in Egypt becoming the primary destination for Sudanese gold, both in official and illegal contexts.

    However, it should be noted that the preeminence of gold in Sudanese politics is not a recent phenomenon. It is estimated that fifteen years ago, 90% of trade was derived from oil, which is located in the area that is now occupied by South Sudan. The loss, which was promoted by the US and its own interests, led to a situation where the population was compelled to engage in artisanal gold mining, which resulted in a significant escalation in violence. The leader of the RSF, Mohamed Hamdan Degalo, has become a billionaire warlord.

    Subsequent texts will address identity, arable land, and social philosophies.

    It is imperative to contemplate the current state of affairs in Sudan. It is imperative to closely monitor the actions and policies of the United States, as they consistently demonstrate a propensity to prioritise their own interests, often at the expense of other nations.

    Think about Sudan today. Keep an eye on the US war machine.

    Generals gathered in their masses
    Just like witches at black masses
    Evil minds that plot destruction
    Sorcerer of death’s construction

    In the fields, the bodies burning
    As the war machine keeps turning
    Death and hatred to mankind
    Poisoning their brainwashed minds

    Politicians hide themselves away
    They only started the war
    Why should they go out to fight?
    They leave that role to the poor, yeah

    Time will tell on their power minds
    Making war just for fun
    Treating people just like pawns in chess
    Wait ‘til their judgement day comes, yeah

    Now in darkness, world stops turning
    Ashes where their bodies burning
    No more war pigs have the power
    Hand of God has struck the hour

    Day of judgement, God is calling
    On their knees, the war pigs crawling
    Begging mercy for their sins
    Satan laughing, spreads his wings

    War pigs, Black Sabbath

  • Letter 10: Youth

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    There is a cruelty in looking back at youth: it appears brighter than it ever was, sharper at the edges, as though time itself has polished its fragments while leaving the present dull. I remember the days when every hour felt charged, when love seemed both inevitable and indestructible, when we believed we could hold one another outside of time. We were wrong, of course, but wrongness then carried its own intoxication.

    What strikes me most is not what we did, but how convinced we were that it mattered. Each gesture seemed final, definitive, as though the world were a stage built solely for our experiments in love and cruelty. The smallest word could pierce, the smallest kindness could redeem. Now I see those same gestures as fragile, provisional — the rehearsals of people who did not yet know their own limits.

    And yet, part of me envies that blindness. Youth allowed us to mistake intensity for permanence, desire for destiny. We lived inside a fever without recognising it as such. Perhaps that is why it glows so brightly now in memory: because we never knew we were burning out.

    There are songs that carry that illusion — the reckless belief that feeling is enough to secure a future. They played in the background then, and they still return now, in shops, in passing cars, in the shuffle of a playlist. When they arrive, I feel both a pang and a strange gratitude. For those songs remind me that once, at least once, I believed completely.

    But what is youth, if not the practice of believing too much? We handed out promises like matches, striking them against any surface, marvelling at the flame, ignoring the burn. Now I see the ashes, the charred remains of those brief infernos, and I wonder whether it was waste or necessity. Did we need to set fire to ourselves in order to learn the shape of endurance?

    I think of us then: how certain I was that your eyes held an answer, how easily I mistook silence for depth, distance for mystery. I see now that you were as uncertain as I, perhaps more so. But in my memory you remain larger than life, a figure clothed in inevitability, because memory insists on myth where reality offers only fragments.

    And yet, despite everything, I do not resent it. Youth is not meant to be wise. It is meant to wound and to dazzle, to leave behind scars we later read like scripture. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the pulse of those reckless days — wild, unmeasured, impossible. It hurts, yes. But the hurt carries its own sweetness, as though reminding me: you lived once without caution, you loved once without armour.

    Perhaps that is all youth is — not a period of time, but a texture, a rhythm of the heart that eventually breaks under its own weight. And when it breaks, it leaves behind the faint echo of a song: half triumphant, half tragic, but undeniably ours.

  • Letter 9: Hallelujah

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    The word has always unsettled me: hallelujah. A word meant to release the soul, and yet for me it has always seemed like a hand pressed firmly on the chest, both blessing and restraint. I hear it in Leonard Cohen’s voice, cracked and tender, carrying with it not triumph but surrender — not exaltation, but the quiet recognition of how little we hold.

    When I think of you, the word arrives unbidden. Not because our story was holy, but because it contained its own kind of prayer: fragile, incomplete, uttered not to the heavens but into the silence that grew between us. Every message I sent, every waiting hour, every line unsent — they were my hallelujahs, whispered not to be answered but simply to exist.

    There are loves that burn in clarity, but ours was made of shadows. You moved in and out of reach, your presence flickering like a candle in a draught. And yet, even that half-light felt sacred. It astonishes me still how little one needs in order to construct devotion: a glance, a word, a trace of warmth. From so little I built a cathedral, and now I wander inside it alone, touching the walls that echo only my own footsteps.

    I sometimes ask myself what it means to praise what wounds you. To sing hallelujah to absence, to emptiness, to the refusal of return. And yet that is what I did, and still do. Not loudly, not in joy, but in the muted tones of persistence: a faith that clings even when stripped of promise.

    The nights were the hardest. Cohen’s verses would return to me then, circling like moths: love is not a victory march. No, it is not. It is a march of silence, a procession with no destination, where every step is both necessary and futile. To love you was to walk in such a procession, knowing it led nowhere, but walking nonetheless, because the walking itself was all I had.

    Perhaps that is what hallelujah truly means: not glory, but survival. A hymn not of triumph but of endurance, the small dignity of continuing to breathe, to feel, even when the object of feeling has withdrawn.

    I wonder if you ever sensed it — that for me, even the smallest trace of you demanded reverence. A message after days of quiet, your name on a screen, the sudden return of your voice like a door opening into light. Each time I received so little, and each time I gave thanks as though it were abundance. That imbalance was my creed; I did not question it then. Only later did I see how fragile it was, how absurd to worship echoes.

    And yet, would I choose differently? I cannot say. For in that devotion, however one-sided, I felt alive. The ache was proof of life, the longing a pulse in the otherwise stagnant air. Without it, who was I? With it, at least I could sing, however cracked the song, however solitary the choir.

    So I keep the word, though it unsettles me. Hallelujah for the nights without sleep. Hallelujah for the mornings that broke me open. Hallelujah for the love that gave nothing, and in giving nothing, still gave me a reason to continue.

    And if, someday, silence deepens into forgetting, perhaps then the word will finally lose its weight. But until that day, I will carry it still — not as triumph, but as testament.

    So hum hallelujah
    Just off the key of reason
    I thought I loved you, it was just how you looked in the light
    A teenage vow in a parking lot
    ‘Til tonight do us part
    I sing the blues and swallow them too

  • Letter 8: Asleep

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    There are nights when I collapse into sleep as though falling through an unlit stairwell — not a gentle surrender but a kind of stumble, graceless and sudden. The body insists, dragging the mind behind it, though the thoughts still cling to the bannisters, reluctant to let go. On such nights, I carry you into the darkness, unwillingly, almost resentfully, as though you had taken up residence in a house I no longer control.

    I dream of you in fragments. Never whole, never the way you were. Your hands appear first — not reaching, not even moving, only suspended, as if waiting for a command that never comes. Then your voice, though the words blur like ink left out in the rain. Finally your face, but it is turned away, or obscured by shadow, as though sleep itself conspires to remind me of what I cannot have.

    Sleep, I have come to realise, is not a refuge. It is not the gentle surrender that so many speak of, but rather an interrogation, conducted in the dim light behind the eyes, where questions arrive without answers and images return without permission. To close one’s eyes is not to rest but to stand before a tribunal where the charges are never read, yet the sentence is always the same: to remember.

    Each night I fall into it reluctantly, like a prisoner returning to a cell he knows too well. The body collapses from fatigue, but the mind resists, still rehearsing your gestures, still polishing the details of your absence. And when at last it relents, you are there, not as you were, but as some distorted version, reconstructed from scraps of memory and desire. I find you in corridors that do not exist, speaking words you never said, turning your face away before I can grasp it.

    Dreams are cruel in this way: they do not bring the person back, only their outline, fragile as smoke. You lean in, but dissolve before contact. You stand close, but never turn your eyes toward me. In dreams, I am allowed proximity but denied recognition. And I wake with the weight of it — heavier than the day before — as though I had carried you across some infinite landscape, only to lose you again at dawn.

    The sheets bear no trace of you. The bed is too wide, the silence too steady. Morning insists on the emptiness of things, and yet the body remembers what the world denies. My hands ache with the phantom of your sleeve; my mouth shapes the syllables of your name as though it had been spoken aloud in sleep.

    I have wondered whether sleep is not a mirror but a trick — not revealing truth, but forcing the dreamer to repeat what the conscious mind already knows but refuses to accept: that longing has no object, that absence is more enduring than presence, that desire creates its own stage and plays out the same unfinished scenes until the curtain frays.

    And still, night after night, I submit to it. Not because I choose to, but because to live is to sleep, and to sleep is to reopen the wound. What is strange — almost consoling, almost unbearable — is that in this repetition lies a kind of faithfulness. The mind does not let you vanish. It keeps you alive in fragments, in gestures without conclusion, in words without sound. To be haunted is, at the very least, to be accompanied.

    But what kind of companionship is this? You are near, yet never mine. You stand in the doorway, always turning away. The intimacy is sharpened by impossibility; the tenderness is woven with cruelty. Perhaps this is the truth of love unreturned: that it finds its fullest form not in the warmth of presence, but in the cold precision of memory and dream, where nothing is ever resolved, and therefore nothing ever ends.

    I wake with the taste of you still in the air — not your real taste, but the ghost of it, as if the dream had pressed something into my mouth before retreating. The pillow is cool, the sheets uncreased, the bed far too wide. Morning does not comfort. It is only another witness to your absence.

    I once thought sleep could offer release, a kindness the day refuses. That perhaps unconsciousness would erase you, or fold you into some harmless symbol, stripped of weight. But no. Sleep is not an escape; it is a mirror turned inward, forcing me to watch the endless choreography of desire and loss.

    And yet, there is a strange loyalty in the way you return to me each night. You appear even when I do not want you, even when I try to banish you with exhaustion or alcohol or the distraction of late-night noise. Still, there you are, stepping out from the shadows of my mind as though bound by some silent contract neither of us ever signed.

    I cannot say whether this persistence comforts or wounds me. Perhaps both. There is a bleak intimacy in being haunted. You are nearer to me in those hours than you ever were in waking life, though even there you remain out of reach. I touch your sleeve, but it slips through me; I call your name, but no sound escapes. It is closeness without contact, love without consummation — a cruelty disguised as tenderness.

    Morning arrives regardless, and I rise into the day with its residue still clinging to me. Sleep has not cleansed; it has stained. I walk through waking hours as if carrying ash in my pockets, aware of its weight though invisible to others. And yet, perversely, I do not wish to be rid of it. For if the dreams were to cease, if sleep were to finally grow empty, what would remain of you? What would remain of me? The light insists on reality: the unshared bed, the undisturbed house, the silence that thickens as the hours crawl on. And I, still carrying the residue of dreams, walk into the day like someone half-drenched, unable to dry off.

    Sleep is not rest. It is a theatre in which the same play is staged each night, with the same ending, the same departure, the same hollow applause. I tell myself I will stop watching, that I will close my eyes differently, that I will not let you in. But the curtain rises regardless. The performance begins without my consent.

    And so I endure it. Night after night, you arrive in incomplete forms, leaving me with the ache of unfinished gestures. And day after day, I rise with the knowledge that to be haunted is still to be held, however lightly, however painfully, in the orbit of another.