‘I lost my home twice’: Sudanese mothers caught between two wars

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Around her, damp clothes flutter from railings and plastic chairs, while children weave between piles of mattresses and laundry baskets. Their laughter occasionally echoes through the church grounds before being drowned out by the murmur of conversations and the scrape of chairs across stone floors. Ahmad squirms beneath his swaddling blanket, a small tuft of dark hair poking out from under the fabric. Rufaida barely takes her eyes off him. She looks exhausted. Dark circles sit beneath her eyes, and she speaks in the weary cadence of someone surviving on only a few hours' sleep. “The baby is crying a lot. I don't sleep. He wakes everyone up, so I leave the dormitory and come walking outside so no one is disturbed,” she says. But despite all this, "I am very happy," she says, her eyes fixed on Ahmad. "Every time I am stressed, I look at the baby and he gives me some relief. I can forget about the war for a second.” Rufaida, who fled to Lebanon from Sudan one year ago, sits alongside her husband, Mohammad, 39, in an exterior gallery of St Joseph's. Soft-spoken and reserved, he listens carefully as she speaks, his hands clasped together on his lap. They share the makeshift shelter with about 250 other displaced migrant workers, the majority of whom are Sudanese, alongside a smaller number of men, women and children from Bangladesh, Pakistan and other parts of South Asia. Since the renewed conflict between Hezbollah and Israel began on March 2, 1.5 million people have been internally displaced in Lebanon, including members of the country’s large migrant worker community. For Rufaida, this is not the first war to uproot her life. Crossing a country at war, Rufaida searched for a future beyond the fighting. In Khartoum, fighting in Sudan’s ongoing civil war destroyed her family home and killed her father. Her mother had died before the conflict began, leaving her to move in with her paternal uncle, the only close family member she had left. It was through him that she met Mohammad. By then, Mohammad had already spent eight years in Lebanon. The pair got to know each other through months of phone calls and text messages, speaking across hundreds of miles as war engulfed Sudan. As their relationship deepened and talk turned to marriage, Rufaida made a promise: she would complete her pharmaceutical studies at the University of Khartoum before joining him in Lebanon to start a new life. Getting there proved far harder than either of them anticipated. To reach Beirut, Rufaida spent three months navigating a country fractured by conflict, travelling between cities in search of the documents and permissions she needed to leave. “My process was very difficult because of the war. I had to go to many cities to try and arrange my papers and my passport,” she told Al Jazeera. At the time, the military-led government had relocated its administration to the eastern city of Port Sudan, located by the Red Sea, due to the heavy fighting in the country’s capital, Khartoum. “I went to different places, because on the road that led me to the Red Sea, there were a lot of militias, so I travelled using an indirect way to avoid it.” Eventually, she made it to Dongola Airport in Sudan's Northern state, and boarded a flight to Beirut’s Rafic Hariri International Airport, arriving on a one-month tourist visa. That visa has long since expired. If caught overstaying, she could face deportation to Sudan and restrictions on future travel. Once in Lebanon, Rufaida was united with Mohammad in Bint Jbeil, a city in the country’s deep south. There, they married in a simple ceremony and began building a life together. Mohammad worked as a concierge in a residential building, a job that came with a small private room where the couple could live. The income was modest but steady, allowing him to regularly send money home to relatives in Khartoum. For the first time in years, life seemed to be settling into a routine. Rufaida’s plans to work in a pharmacy were temporarily put on hold by her pregnancy, and the couple started to look ahead to the future and prepare for the arrival of their first child. For three years I have been witnessing war in Sudan, I lost my house, and now I am seeing it all over again. Bint Jbeil was home, we started a family, we had a room. by RUFAIDA, DISPLACED SUDANESE MOTHER When the war reached southern Lebanon, nearby air strikes shattered the night's silence and forced the young family from their home. The building where they lived has since been destroyed as part of Israel's campaign of domicide in south Lebanon. "For three years I have been witnessing war in Sudan, I lost my house, and now I am seeing it all over again. Bint Jbeil was home, we started a family, we had a room,” Rufaida says. She delivers her words calmly, as though the repetition of loss has become difficult to react to. On the night of the attack, with highways clogged by thousands of people fleeing north, Mohammad and Rufaida managed to secure seats in a van bound for Raouche in west Beirut. They arrived carrying only a small bag containing clothes for their unborn baby, family keepsakes from Sudan and their passports. Unable to find shelter, they spent the night sleeping on the waterfront. But with Rufaida eight months pregnant, it quickly became clear that they could not remain there. Unable to find a taxi, the couple set off on foot, embarking on a gruelling 12-hour journey across Beirut in search of somewhere safe to stay. When they eventually reached a shelter run by the humanitarian organisation Offre Joie in Karantina in northeastern Beirut, they say they were refused accommodation because they were not Lebanese. Offre Joie had not responded to requests for comment by the time of publication. The refusal appeared to contradict a directive issued by Lebanon's Ministry of Social Affairs on April 16 stating that shelters should be open to "individuals and families of all nationalities". Mohammad and Rufaida then recalled what a friend told them regarding a church that was running shelters just for migrants, where they were finally admitted. For families like theirs, St Joseph Church has become a refuge, a community centre and, for many displaced migrant workers, one of the few places in Beirut where they know they will be welcomed. The church's role as a sanctuary for migrants, however, stretches back decades. Long before war arrived, this was where migrant workers found community. Built in 1875 and modelled on the Chapelle Saint-Marc in Lyon, the church was originally intended to be the chapel for St Joseph University, which was opened by French Jesuits as part of France’s colonial-era “civilising mission”. Its pale stone facade rises above a busy Beirut street. Today, it remains under Jesuit stewardship, with Father Michael Petro leading the parish. “It’s an interesting space, because it is on the edge of Ashrafieh, a predominantly Christian, francophone area, which has plenty of wealthy Lebanese people living in it. But it also has their domestic workers. From the start of the first waves of migrants in the 70s, this place became known as a place for them,” he tells Al Jazeera. Every Sunday, during peacetime, the gravel car park is transformed into a cricket ground. Indian and Pakistani migrant workers play softball cricket while families sit on the sidelines sharing home-cooked food, catching up with friends and enjoying one of their few days away from work. Today, the atmosphere is very different. Instead of the crack of a plastic bat and Bollywood music spilling across the church grounds, rows of mattresses line the floors, and laundry hangs from railings. Men slouch on plastic chairs littered around the church, scrolling through their phones. Women carry blankets and washed clothes in plastic tubs. Only the children seem able to break the subdued mood, darting between adults and filling the space with bursts of laughter. “When the war escalated, we immediately had large groups of Sudanese and South Sudanese come here,” Father Michael says. “They showed up because they would ask community leaders what to do, and were told to come here, as it is the first place they trusted. "On one hand, that's very beautiful, because people thought they would be welcome here, and they were." However, the strain of being a first port of call for so many displaced migrants is beginning to show. Supplies are low, and tensions occasionally flare among those sheltering at the church. Father Michael says the church reached its capacity of 250 people on just the second day of the war. "We've turned away more than 100 people in the last few days,” he says. “It's a disaster.” Mohammad says daily life has become increasingly difficult, particularly since the arrival of their son. “We do not have enough clothes, especially now that the baby is growing. Also, my wife's nutrition is not great. Sometimes she gets constipated, and then the baby becomes ill. We need more protein and vegetables. The diet is a huge concern.” Living in crowded conditions, surrounded by uncertainty, has taken a toll on people’s mental wellbeing, Rufaida says. “Because of the atmosphere and mental health problems, small problems become big ones. I said good morning to someone, and they didn’t like it. There are no big fights, but there is an underlying tension.” Both say they understand why tempers sometimes fray. Many of those sheltering at the church have fled war, lost homes and spent months or years living with uncertainty. Small problems become big ones. by RUFAIDA, DISPLACED SUDANESE MOTHER Their gratitude is rooted partly in what happened when Rufaida sought maternity care. At Karatina Hospital, they say they were repeatedly overlooked by doctors in favour of Lebanese patients. “We were there to get papers so she could give birth in that hospital, but we were ignored, and Lebanese people were allowed into consultations first,” Mohammad says. After waiting for three hours, a worker from the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS), who had accompanied them to the hospital, intervened and helped ensure they were seen. Through support coordinated by JRS and partner organisations, the entire cost of Rufaida’s pregnancy was covered, including prenatal care, the cesarean delivery and Ahmad’s vaccinations. “It gave me comfort and peace that I was able to deliver in a safe environment,” Rufaida says. Their experience is increasingly common among Sudanese migrants in Lebanon, many of whom have found themselves uprooted more than once — first by war in Sudan and then by conflict in Lebanon. Rufaida’s story is far from unique. According to figures published by the International Organization for Migration (IOM) in August 2025, there are 164,097 migrants living in Lebanon, of which 14,854 are Sudanese nationals. That number represents only a small fraction of the 4.4 million Sudanese who have fled their country since the outbreak of civil war in April 2023. Some, like Rufaida, arrived on tourist visas. Others found jobs as concierges or domestic workers, under Lebanon's kafala sponsorship system, which ties a migrant worker's legal residency to their employer. Human Rights Watch has described the system as, at its worst, a form of modern slavery. About 3,800 Sudanese have also found asylum in Lebanon as registered refugees with the UN Refugee Agency. For refugees in Lebanon, a UNHCR registration card can mean far more than a piece of paper. It offers a measure of protection from detention or deportation, can unlock access to aid and education where services exist, and, for many, represents their best hope of one day being resettled in another country. Among them is 30-year-old Roudaina Mustafa. Without secure legal status, even the hope of rebuilding a life remains uncertain. She arrived at St Joseph’s with her husband, Saif al-Din Mustafa, and their four children after renewed fighting forced them from a shared room in Dahiyeh, Beirut's southern suburbs. At the time, she was eight months pregnant. She cradles her newborn daughter, Yana, while keeping watch over her four older children, who dart through the church grounds. With her husband spending his days searching for work, much of the responsibility for holding the family together falls to her. Much of Roudaina’s attention is focused on her eldest daughter, Tebyan. The eight-year-old was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome in Lebanon and had been attending a specialised education centre. Since the latest conflict, however, the annual cost of care has risen from $2000 to $6000 a year – far beyond what the family can afford. Roudaina also says Tebyan experienced racism from other students at the centre, Dar al-Ahlam, or House of Dreams. "They told her things like, 'You're ugly', 'You're Black' and 'You should go back to your country'." Dar al-Ahlam did not respond to requests for comment at the time of publication. The effects of the war have lingered in other ways, too. Tebyan struggled during the 2024 conflict, Roudaina says, and remains highly sensitive to loud noises. "She used to scream and cry loudly whenever there was a bomb nearby, and now, if there is ever a loud noise, it triggers screaming and panic.” Roudaina recounts this matter-of-factly, as though years of conflict and displacement have made such stories painfully familiar. Like Rufaida, she gave birth while sheltering at St Joseph's. One night in April, her water broke at 5am in the dormitory she shared with dozens of other women. The costs of her pregnancy were covered by the church and an NGO called Assameh. But the family’s legal problems remained. Despite being registered as a refugee, Roudaina says her legal status in Lebanon remains precarious because her Sudanese passport has expired. She claims the Sudanese embassy has refused to renew it. She fears deportation more than anything. Returning to Sudan is not an option, she says. Her husband refused military conscription in 2008, was subsequently imprisoned and later escaped custody. Going back, she believes, would place him in serious danger. The lack of documentation has also affected her children. "None of my children, except Tebyan, have up-to-date documents, so I cannot enrol them in public schools," she says. For many refugee families in Lebanon, access to education is often shaped as much by paperwork as by the availability of school places. According to UNHCR figures, only about half of refugee children of primary school age are enrolled in school. Non-Lebanese students enrolling in afternoon "second shift" classes — sessions created to accommodate large numbers of refugee students — are generally required to present valid residency documents or UNHCR-issued identification. Despite the obstacles, Roudaina still hopes her family might one day be resettled in a third country. Such opportunities are increasingly rare. According to this year’s UNHCR Global Trends report, fewer than 82,000 refugees were resettled worldwide last year, despite nearly 2.9 million being identified as in need of resettlement. UNHCR says resettlement remains a “limited protection tool” reserved for refugees “facing acute protection risks,” and depends on the willingness of third countries to agree on accepting refugees. Wherever her family ends up, Roudaina’s hopes remain simple. “All I want is for my daughters to grow up without the fear of being hurt,” she says. “Tebyan deserves better than this.” Both mothers have also found solace in their newborns. “I regained strength while giving birth. The whole process has kept me going,” Rufaida says. Mohammad is now searching for work in Beirut, though hampered by chronic damage to his Achilles tendon, worn down by years of manual labour. The persistent pain has left him limping. “I have to do surgery on my ankle but I cannot because of the situation. It is preventing me from working. My foot is swollen, and the doctor said I have to refrain from certain work, like manual labour, and this is affecting my chances of getting a job.” After having lost his home and work in Bint Jbeil, he has wanted to find daywork to help support his family. Now he sighs as he points to the swelling in his heel, seemingly overwhelmed by his fate. Even so, he still imagines a different future for his son. “We want him to pursue a career and an education, and grow up in a safe environment. Our child will not live a life like ours.” At the mere mention of Ahmad, a gentle smile returns to Rufaida’s face. Her tired eyes drift back to her son, fast asleep in her arms. For a few brief seconds, the wars that have followed her across two countries seem far away. *Editor's note: Rufaida and her family are identified by their first names only to protect their identities. 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