In a country where the simple act of helping others can be a death sentence, a silent army has emerged. Across Sudan, shattered by a brutal conflict, ordinary citizens are operating a vast, clandestine network to deliver food, medicine, and hope to millions abandoned by the state and out of reach of international aid.
These volunteers, part of a grassroots movement known as Emergency Response Rooms (ERRs), navigate a landscape of profound danger. They move in secret, often keeping their lifesaving work hidden from their own families to protect them from retaliation. The warring factions—the national army and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF)—view their neutrality with deep suspicion. Volunteers report routine interrogation, arbitrary detention, torture, and execution. More than 145 are believed to have been killed.
“You risk anything from intimidation to death. Torture, disappearance—anything in between,” said one volunteer, who spoke on condition of anonymity for safety reasons. He recounted the death of a close friend in South Kordofan, who was detained and tortured to death in prison simply for his humanitarian work.
Despite the omnipresent threat, the network has swelled to an estimated 26,000 members, operating in 96 districts. They have become the de facto state, providing a critical lifeline in the world’s largest humanitarian crisis, where over 21 million people face acute hunger. Their effectiveness, however, has made them a target. Both warring sides are reportedly envious of the deep community trust the ERRs have earned, a trust that transcends the ethnic and regional divides fueling the conflict.
This community bond is often the volunteers’ only shield. One volunteer described how a mass mobilization by local residents secured his release after he was arrested and tortured while distributing food. “Most of the protection we get emanates from the community itself,” he said.
Yet, the future of this indispensable network is precarious. Operating with a staggering 77% funding deficit, the ERRs have been forced to scale back operations and close hundreds of community kitchens. They have received less than 1% of all international aid for Sudan, despite an unparalleled ability to deliver assistance directly and at a fraction of the cost of larger agencies.
While recent diplomatic engagements have yielded pledges for more direct support, the current funding is only sufficient for a few more months. For the volunteers, international recognition is seen not as an accolade but as a potential layer of protection for their perilous work.
The volunteers’ motivation remains starkly simple. “We only want to help,” said one. Another, a woman who provides counselling to survivors of sexual violence in North Kordofan, explained her decision to finally tell her family about her secret crossings of the frontline. “I started being more open with my mother about what I was really doing,” she said. “To my relief, she was 100% supportive. She could not be more proud.”
In a nation torn apart, these individuals are weaving a fragile thread of humanity, proving that even amidst utter collapse, the will to care for one another endures. Their silent work is not just delivering aid today; it is planting the seeds for any possible future peace.