The BBC goes inside burnt-out shell of capital

The battered heart of Khartoum lies eerily quiet now, after weeks of intense urban combat in the Sudanese capital.

We entered the city just days after Sudan’s army recaptured it from the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the culmination of a six-month offensive through the central part of the country.

Once the commercial heart and seat of Sudan’s government, Khartoum is now a burnt-out shell.

Taking back the capital was a turning point in the two-year civil war, which erupted out of a power struggle between the army and the RSF.

But it is not clear what direction the conflict will take now.

We drove first to the presidential palace, which the RSF occupied early in the war.

It was an important base for the paramilitary fighters.

The floors are covered with debris and broken glass.

Cushioned chairs once used for official functions stand covered with dust, a few paintings still hang on the walls, ragged chandeliers dangle from the ceilings.

But almost everything else had been looted – even the electrical cables were yanked out of the walls.

The worst damage is at the front of the building, which was struck by RSF drones shortly after the army seized the palace.

The main entrance is wrecked, dried blood still visible on the stairs, the windows now gaping holes looking out over the River Nile.

“I was really very excited to be in the Republican palace,” one soldier told me as we walked down the grimy red carpet.

“It’s my first time in this place and I waited for this place [like] the Sudanese in general. They wanted it to be free. It is symbol of our dignity.”

It is also an important symbol of power for the army.

Soldiers sang and danced, their jubilation erupting as the Muslim Eid holiday began.

A local restaurant delivered a feast for them, hailed as heroes by many in the capital.

But their victory was won at enormous cost.

The level of destruction in central Khartoum is stunning: government ministries, banks and towering office blocks stand blackened and burned.

The tarmac at the international airport is a graveyard of smashed planes, its passport and check-in counters covered in ashes.

We drove slowly, weaving around unexploded ordnance in the road.

At one intersection body parts were in a heap, two skulls clearly visible. About 100m (328ft) down the road, a body lay in front of a damaged car.

A stop at St Matthew’s Cathedral, built by the British in 1908 and a place of worship for the country’s minority Christian population, was a welcome reprieve.

The beautifully painted ceiling is intact.

A hole high in one wall showed where a shell had crashed through, a cross had fallen down.

But it looked much better than many of the buildings we had seen.

A soldier cleaning up rubble on the floor told us that most of the damage was caused by shrapnel from shelling around the church.

No-one destroyed the “house of God”, he said, but the RSF fighters desecrated the building by defecating in it.

He said his son was born on the first day of the war, but because of the non-stop fighting he had still not had a chance to go home and see the child.

The paramilitaries also occupied the areas where diplomatic missions are located.

When the fighting began, countries and companies scrambled to evacuate staff.

At the entrance of the British embassy, an RSF slogan is scrawled on the wall.

The bullet-proof glass of the building largely held, but it is pockmarked with many signs of impact.

In the car park at the back, a fleet of vehicles stands destroyed.

Across the street, a UK flag hung over the staircase of a battered building, crumpled and dirty.

This is Sudan’s third civil war in 70 years, and in some ways, it is worse than any of the others – as previous conflicts were fought in other parts of the country.

But this one has torn through the core of Sudan, hardening divisions and threatening to split the nation.

Further away from the combat zone, scattered celebrations for Eid spilled into the street.

For people here the war is over, even though it continues elsewhere.

The army has been accused of atrocities, and reports say tens of thousands fled the fighting in recent days. But in Khartoum, people celebrated the end of the brutal RSF occupation.

The mood was also buoyant at a communal kitchen in the neighbourhood of al-Jeraif West.

“I feel like I’ve been re-created,” said Osman al-Bashir, his eyes lighting up with the new reality after citing a list of the war’s hardships. He told me he had learned his English from the BBC World Service.

Duaa Tariq is a pro-democracy activist, part of the movement that in 2019 toppled military leader Omar al-Bashir, whose authoritarian rule had lasted nearly three decades.

She has been focusing on helping her neighbourhood survive the war.

“We’re celebrating Eid for the first time in two years,” she said.

“Everybody’s dressing up, including myself! I’m overwhelmed with a lot of emotions, just like trying to learn how to live again. We feel free, we feel light, even the air smells different.”

Ms Tariq struggled to keep the kitchens running during the war as food ran out, the city looted by the RSF, under siege by the army and US aid cut.

Food is still scarce, but there is hope now.

“I’m feeling wonderful. I feel safe. I feel great, even though I’m hungry,” said an elderly man, Kasim Agra.

“You know, it doesn’t matter. Freedom is what’s important.

“As you see, I carry a mobile,” he said, pointing to a phone in his pocket.

“You couldn’t carry a mobile about two weeks ago.”

That is something many people in different parts of Khartoum have said to me – mobile telephones were a lifeline to the outside world, and a prime target for theft by RSF fighters.

Mr Agra was optimistic that Khartoum, and the country, could recover.

“I think the government is going to bring investors: Americans, Saudis, Canadians, Chinese, they’re going to rebuild this country, I believe.”

Even if such massive reconstruction takes place, it is hard to imagine Khartoum retaining its distinct cultural and architectural features.

Several of the women also echoed something I have repeatedly heard elsewhere – they can finally sleep again, after lying awake nights afraid that RSF looters would break in.

The weight of fear and loss is heavy: so many stories of abuse, of life endangered and disrupted.

“Our children are traumatised,” says Najwa Ibrahim.

“They need psychiatrists to help them. My sister’s a teacher and tried to work with the children, but it’s not enough.”

Ms Tariq also has questions about the impact of the war: “When will the city be accessible again, open again?

“And another personal question as an activist, what will happen to all the freedoms and rights that we gained over the past five years of revolution?” she asked, referring to the years that followed the ousting of Bashir when a joint civilian-military government had been working towards a return to civilian rule.

“How will it be again for civil society, actors, for activists, for freedom fighters? I’m not sure of our future now.”

No-one is sure of Sudan’s future.

“We pray for the people of Darfur,” 16-year-old Hawaa Abdulshafiea said, referring to the western stronghold of the RSF, where the humanitarian crisis has been worst, and where the focus of the war is expected to shift.

“May God protect them.”