Farewell, brother.

Tonight I prayed hard and cried harder. Every time I have you in my prayers, I always ask for you to be safe. How strange, dear friend, that this time I have to pray for myself. I have to pray that I get the strength to accept the painful truth that my messages will forever remain unread, that your stories won’t ever grace my IG feed again, that we shall never meet each other in a free Sudan. 

There is a difference between not expecting someone to be on the news and hoping that someone will never be on the news. And for me, in the last seven years, that someone is you. From being detained during the Sudanese Revolution to protesting the military-backed government to fleeing the civil war, you have always been the one I worry about most.

My beloved Hamid… as I was reading our online correspondence, I realized that our messages have been less frequent since 2023. That was when you moved to Manchester for your PhD. I understand it now, and I regret it the same, that I felt less inclined to reach out because in my mind, I thought “ah, finally, Hamid is back in the UK. He’s finally safe. I don’t need to worry about him anymore.” 

Hamid, ya Hamid. My brother. The thing I feared so much has come true.

Your loss is felt in multitudes. I see half the world mourning you and I thought, oh how many are the lives you have touched. I read eulogies grieving the loss of Sudan’s son and I nod my head in agreement, because yes, my dear Hamid had always fought for his homeland. And as the messages of sympathy come in, I am reminded once more how one of a kind and humble you truly are. I realized that the grief was immense because you are Hamid of the Al-Mahdi family.

But to us, you are just Hamid. Our Hamid. Our dear friend, so humble and pure and kind. You did not tell us about your background but none of it even matters because who you are shines through. You have a kind heart, a brilliant mind, and genuine love for your country. Ryadh said he didn’t know you much, except that you are a good person. All we know about you is that you are good and I think just with that, we already know all about you. How rare—to possess all the great qualities of intelligence, charm, and courage—and yet be fondly remembered first as kind.  

Hamid, my dear brother. I was told I must not mourn your death; but to celebrate your life. Indeed, what a life it has been. But what a loss, what a loss!

I will do my best, but I cannot promise that it will be easy. When I close my eyes, I can still see you smiling. I can still hear your happy yells. A part of me imagines that you are simply off-grid—chilling in Zanzibar with your current favorite book. 

I am grateful that I have never once refrained myself from showering you with words of affection; and yet, it hurts to know that this time, there won’t be any response.

My dear friend, Hamid. I know you’re reading this from somewhere. My brother, my beloved, I have said this time and time again and I will keep on living by it: I love you so much and I look forward to the day we see each other again.