Curator Edith Arance reflects on memory, photography, and the urgent responsibility of preserving Sudanese voices through ‘Resistance in Memory: Visions of Sudan’, an exhibition that moves beyond the headlines to foreground resilience, testimony, and the enduring power of lived experience.
17 July 2026
As war, displacement, and exile continue to reshape Sudan, ‘Resistance in Memory: Visions of Sudan’ offers an alternative to the reductive narratives that often dominate global coverage. Bringing together the work of twelve Sudanese photographers, the exhibition traces the country’s journey from the 2019 revolution to the present through deeply personal acts of witnessing, remembrance, and resistance. Edith Arance discusses the ethical responsibilities of curating an ongoing crisis, the role of photography in safeguarding collective memory, and why intimate human stories remain essential to understanding Sudan’s past, present, and future.
“I met Amani [Desire/Peace], as I metaphorically call her, during a folk festival at the Omdurman Cultural Center, where she was with her friends. She had a distinct presence; her eyes constantly sought to reflect on those of the audience. Amani and her friends are street heroes, expelled to the margins of the common narrative, yet ever-present in every corner of Khartoum, and also in Omdurman and Bahri. My ears were drawn to their conversations and antics as they rummaged through the trash in restaurants. When I spoke to them, I felt like they were pure spirits wandering the streets.
Today, thousands of miles away from Sudan, with the escalating war and destruction, I wonder: How are they? Where do they sleep? What do they eat? Are they still being cared for? Do you hear them in the streets? The sounds of bullets and bombs destroy everything, including their voices and their souls.”
— Altayeb Morhal
Suzette Bell-Roberts: ‘Resistance in Memory: Visions of Sudan’ traces the journey from the 2019 revolution to war, displacement, and exile across nine thematic sections. How did you shape that journey, and what conversations did you hope it would inspire about Sudan’s recent history?
Edith Arance: The first photographs of Sudan that caught my attention before I decided to undertake the exhibition project focused on the exile caused by the conflict and, interestingly, also on those depicting the 2019 revolution—not so much photographs of the war itself. Years earlier, I had heard the news of the popular uprising that toppled Omar al-Bashir’s government, and years later, reading about the unfolding war made me want to learn more about what had happened in that country, whose promise of a future and freedom had been so drastically cut short. The development of the exhibition’s themes largely corresponds to the way I untangled the web of events to understand what was happening, since from the beginning I noticed that the media were not telling the whole story or explaining the real background and consequences. The narrative was the usual one when discussing non-Western conflicts: warlords fighting each other, a helpless population in need of humanitarian aid, famine, genocide, so many thousands of deaths, such-and-such a city falling into the hands of a militia, a refugee crisis, total collapse.
Nothing is that simple; the war in Sudan touches on issues such as the consequences of the colonial era, the most extreme form of extractivism resulting from unchecked and amoral capitalist globalisation, geopolitics, proxy wars, climate change, desertification—in short, the world around us. That is why a section on Darfur was included, focusing first on Darfur before the current war, which sheds so much light on the present. Nor can we ignore the consequences of the 2019 revolution and the 2021 coup d’état as if they had nothing to do with what is happening now. After introducing the situation with broader events—without personal stories—I felt it was necessary to delve deeply into the lives of the photographers and how they captured what they were experiencing: stories of survival, displacement within and outside the country, visions of hope, of endless waiting, of loss, of childhoods prematurely forced into adult responsibilities, of young people pushed into armed conflict who give up their dreams, of workers or students who become photographers to document what is happening, almost as a form of catharsis. As thinking human beings, we have a responsibility to be informed, to not turn a blind eye to news stories that fade from the spotlight once they’ve passed their peak of attention, only to be replaced by others that will, in turn, be forgotten. We cannot afford to remain ignorant.
The furniture now inhabits the outdoors. Saved from fire, it serves as a throne of resilience against leaders’ neglect. The sitter is a friend, and the photographer shares his story while paying tribute to his people; this is not anonymous, nor is it photojournalism. The nobility of the rescued seat’s design clashes with the scene of disaster, speaking of dignity preserved amidst defeat.
Every day, fire is defeated in Omdurman.
Rather than focusing only on conflict, the exhibition centres memory, resilience, and the voices of Sudanese photographers. How did you ensure these stories stayed at the centre of the exhibition?
In war, I see the personal stories more immediately than general headlines that summarise the situation of a group or collective. I think those broad overviews are actually a problem when it comes to connecting with readers or those receiving the news. It is in personal experiences—even when they go hand in hand with collective ones as the story unfolds—that the true connection to and understanding of reality lie. I believed that this was how the public, no matter how distant they might be from the situation in Sudan, would connect with the story and become interested in learning more, rather than stopping at a superficial account.
Their voices are revolution; their hands are raised in victory. Four women of different ages stand next to their front door. This picture represents women’s role on the front lines, and their participation in documenting the revolution and political changes.
Six of the participating photographers live in Sudan, while others are working from exile. How did these experiences shape the exhibition and its stories?
It really wasn’t intentional that half the photographers were inside the country and the other half in exile; I simply followed the stories to complete a narrative—both visual and thematic—and the result was a balanced project. Sudan today is what people experience within its borders, but it’s also what those who have had the opportunity to leave carry with them. The country has become an abstract realm of memory and remembrance, in the absence of a tangible future within its geographical boundaries. Each photographer contributes to this idea and vision.
Despite the difficulties in communicating with people inside the country—sometimes compounded by the language barrier—I did not let this be a factor in deciding which photographers to include or exclude from the exhibition. It’s worth noting, in this regard, that the selection process was very complex, as I was able to discover the fascinating work of numerous Sudanese photographers—both professional and amateur—who captured the events in a rich and diverse manner, demonstrating a high level of both documentary and artistic merit. In the end, I decided to feature photographers who were, for the most part, lesser-known or completely unknown. Many weren’t even taking photographs to share them beyond their social media; they were doing it almost for themselves, as an exercise in reflection and memory. It was in these small projects that I found the most truth and purity.
“There must still be hope, I hold it tightly. I still look for beauty in the midst of destruction.” —Shaima Merghani
Many of these photographs record moments that might otherwise be lost. What role does photography play in preserving memory during war and displacement?
Photography is currently the most powerful form of testimony, whether in this conflict or in any contemporary situation. Today, virtually everyone has access to a camera phone, whether it’s a good one or a bad one. In the past, we could only rely on the written accounts of a few people—usually those on the winning side—and their painters, engravers, and visual chroniclers. Access to storytelling has expanded infinitely; there are millions of photographs, of which—for every topic or context—thousands are published every minute or displayed publicly in one way or another, whether officially or not. Herein lies the main problem: the endless flow of information in the form of images. Let’s not even get into the topic of AI-generated images, which would be a separate issue. That is why information must be filtered, analysed, investigated, and put into context. It is no longer true, therefore, that a picture is worth a thousand words—at least not always. If an image is not explained, the message does not get through; there is no real communication with a large audience; at best, it reaches only those who are closely connected to the context. In the case of conflicts, memory and testimony can only be preserved through preliminary work on the images in order to write about them. The possibilities are endless; that is the role of photography—to bring to light stories that were previously relegated to historical oblivion—but it must be presented in the form of exhibitions, visual chronicles and documentaries, thematic photography books, or any other format so that it can truly serve a useful purpose.
These images brought the warmth of the photographer’s family and loved ones before her eyes. She captured them in the hope of awakening that same sense of belonging in others facing the same situation.
Returning to the hopes of the 2019 revolution and to today’s realities, the exhibition presents memory as a means of resisting violence, loss, and erasure. How does it do this?
Personal and intimate perspectives are the form of resistance in this photographic exhibition—a testament to presence and existence on a human scale. Each artist’s visual language leaves a mark on the history of the conflict: a fleeting or persistent thought, a reality that transcends the vagueness of the usual generalisations used to describe a conflict, without getting caught up in political and ideological agendas that ultimately distort everything. Within this tapestry of subjectivities lie objectivity and memory—as a collective phenomenon that first passes through the individuality of each person and the way that person lives and, therefore, resists.
We must not forget that these images—now preserved after having been organised into a coherent whole, in this case as an exhibition, within a shared space and time—will remain for posterity. That is memory: ensuring that those moments immortalised by a lens are not lost, that they have been captured in an image and not merely as the abstraction of a thought from a lost past.
Taken before the war, these pictures from El Daein—the main city of the Rapid Support Forces (RSF)—show people of all backgrounds participating in community events. Once the war began, differences between groups became instrumentalized in the struggle for power.
Travelling internationally, the exhibition introduces many audiences to Sudan beyond the headlines. What responsibility do cultural institutions have when presenting stories from an ongoing crisis with limited global attention?
The first responsibility they must assume is to amplify the voice, perspective, and vision of those who are experiencing the events firsthand. That is the starting point. Then, these perspectives can be enriched by the experience and knowledge of others—whether or not they are part of the context—in fields such as communication, history, art history, the geostrategic context, journalism, anthropology, sociology, and so on. We must also always consider how the message can best be conveyed to the recipient of the information. If there is no communication—and therefore no learning and no bridge-building—then whatever any institution does to tell stories is of no use. This is where the importance of the role of exhibition curators—in my case—lies, but also that of newspaper editors, NGO directors, presidents of cultural institutions, and so on. We must take the stage second, after the local people have spoken or carried out their actions or activities, avoiding misguided intervention in the stories and, above all, avoiding a lack of dialogue.
Another essential aspect—one that should be more obvious than it is, given what we’re used to seeing—is the absolute necessity of depoliticising any event that presents these stories and of avoiding at all costs their exploitation in favour of one political agenda or another, whether international or regional.
While mothers go to look for a living, their children are left alone for some hours. Older children take care of the younger ones until their mother comes back. There are no schools anymore.
By bringing together personal stories and wider political events, the exhibition balances intimate experiences with Sudan’s broader history. How did you approach that balance in your curatorial work?
In a way, I’ve already answered this question earlier in this interview. The broader historical context is what helps put things into perspective; it’s what tells us where we are and which region or country we’re going to focus on. It helps us understand. In the exhibition held in Madrid at Galería Sura—a project that was later adapted and brought to The Africa Center—the role of the historical and political context was slightly more prominent, for example, in the introductory texts to the exhibition and during the guided tours. I needed to explain the context so that visitors could familiarise themselves with the circumstances surrounding the photographs. In New York, the exhibition was adapted to a vision that was no less interesting but more abstract in terms of specific details. In the different sections, one senses a sequence of events, but the recent past and the present are more intertwined to convey a more evocative sense of feelings—less chronological and, of course, less academic. This makes the exhibition more timeless; its central themes—what happens in a war and what happens to people in a war, wherever it may be—remain almost timeless. I would almost dare to say that—let’s be clear—it didn’t matter whether it was Sudan or anywhere else. It could happen to us, in Europe or the U.S., as early as tomorrow, and we would feel the same way; our photos would most certainly resemble theirs in the most essential ways. This is where the importance of each photographer’s personal vision comes to the fore, even when framed within broader or national events. On a subjective level, the connection and understanding between people—between artist and viewer—come into play; these are roles they temporarily adopt and could switch at any moment.
In the series ‘I Will Never Find Home’, begun in May 2023 in Um Ruwaba, Ammar Yassir captures the meaning of immigration through the harshness of internal displacement, forced migration, and the search for refuge. His work depicts a search for a state of permanence and hope for a new opportunity to finally find a place to call “home”.
“I don’t know who I am or what I feel. I carry this crazed creature inside, the most aggressive version of myself. On this journey I’ve passed through different cities, met different people. I focus on thinking about how much influence all of this had on me.” — Ammar Yassir
Reflecting on loss while remaining filled with hope and resilience, the exhibition asks what audiences take away after spending time with these photographs. What do you hope they leave with?
I always hope that visitors will leave the exhibition wanting to learn more, read more, become more aware, and—above all—that a connection will be forged between people and that they’ll feel encouraged to write to one of the photographers. I always insist that the Instagram accounts be clearly visible in the exhibition materials, and I tell them not to change them for the duration of the show. It’s perhaps more immediate than providing an email address. My hope is that visitors will write to them with comments about the images, that a dialogue will develop around the photograph that most appealed to them or moved them—beyond just saying, “Hey, I’m sorry for what you’re going through,” as if the photographer were merely a victim. I want people to talk about the situation—without ignoring it—but through art, through the decision that led them to press the shutter button, and through discussing what that photo means to them—both at the moment it was taken and now that they know it’s been exhibited, that someone thousands of kilometers away has been looking at it, that someone has paused before the window they once opened onto their life and their thoughts.
I don’t want to conclude without expressing my gratitude to The Africa Center for undoubtedly being the driving force behind this exhibition’s expansion beyond the walls of my small gallery in Madrid. I’d also like to add—if Art Africa could help us spread the word—that we’re looking for a new venue to showcase the photographs from the exhibition, which was recently taken down at TAC, whether within the U.S. or abroad, so that its message can continue to reach more viewers.
This exhibition was on view at The Africa Center in New York from 25 November 2025 until 28 June 2026.
