نمشي ناكل (Dine for Sudan) | Love Starts In the Kitchen
Dine for Sudan (نمشي ناكل) served as a fundraiser for the humanitarian crisis happening in Sudan post-revolution. The event was the first experimental project under Dialogos Labs (then: zoleh events) a community initiative dedicated to organizing third space events and experiences.
We had space at an intimate cafe cooperative of 40 guests, which provided a similar feel and space for intimacy that would experience in a family’s home. Proceeds raised went directly to the Sudan Solidarity Collective.
web-app prototyping & event design for نمشي ناكل
"Food is everything we are. It's an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It's inseparable from those from the get-go.” -Anthony Bourdain
visual research and writing assets
Mama Sitana’s home kissed the outskirts of Omdurman. The year was 2003 and we drove to visit her on a day so hot sand could have burned holes through leather. The off path she lived on was washed in tones of sepia, though the golds and browns that day were vivid. Baba’s embrace at the entrance lasted the longest. When it was my turn to greet her, she palmed my cheeks in her hands.
“ya Sarah,” she greeted with a smile. Almost sixty years of life separated us. Beside her curved lips, scars covered the landscape of her cheeks. They were delicate and intricately carved, smooth transitions like the crossing waters of the white and blue Nile.
An earthy mixture of smoky incense and fuul and addas stewing in the kitchen warmed my nostrils as we walked into the living room. The architecture of Sudanese homes always meant multiple rooms for multiple beds. There wasn’t a single household that existed where less than two people dwelled.
Black tea was poured with steamed milk, served with traditional biscuits so rich they crumbled on fingers before reaching tongue. For hours, I studied her hands and gestures as she talked. Her movement regal, intonation slow and intentional. My broken Arabic barely enough to sew together the stories of life in Sudan. Most conversation left to imagination, missing pages filled by the mantras I grew up on: God willing. All praise to Allah. God is great.
In the background you could just notice the fan softly humming in and out. Married with it was the constant tick of the wall clock to remind us that the moments were constantly measured. Instantaneous, like each story that builds a lineage.
