The fall of Sudanese newspaper

Before the war erupted in Khartoum, the morning routine was a familiar, comforting scene: the newspaper vendor unfurling his papers on the sidewalk, surrounded by a crowd of office workers and students. Someone would quickly grab their favorite copy, another would skim the pages before paying. Even in the popular cafés, newspapers lay on tables for communal reading, one person commenting on a political headline, another on a sports column, while a third group debated a cultural article. The paper wasn't just ink and pulp; it was a daily ritual, a cornerstone of a collective memory.

This scene vanished with the outbreak of war between the Sudanese Army and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) on April 15, 2023. Print newspapers ceased publication overnight, and they haven't returned, as the war displaced millions and froze public life. The sudden disappearance of the print newspapers wasn't merely the shutdown of a media outlet; it created a profound human and cultural void for a society that relied on it as a daily fixture and a forum for exchanging ideas.

Jamal Abdullah, 53, told Geeska that most people have turned to their phones, following news on apps and social media. “We miss all the details,” he said, “the feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, the slow pace of browsing, and how you fold it up when you're done.”

Abdullah added that the paper provided a sense of trust and sobriety in information that's lacking in the rumor-filled social media landscape. Although most people now use platforms like Facebook, WhatsApp, X, and various websites, the digital experience is not the same. Digital scrolling is fast and fragmented, while the newspaper offered well-organized, summarized content. Instead of a person holding a paper and sharing a story with those nearby, they now send a link or a screenshot in a private group. News travels faster, but with less scrutiny, which has fueled the spread of misinformation.

For decades, print newspapers in Sudan were part of the collective memory. They weren’t just carriers of news; they were schools of literacy and arenas for cultural and social debate. Many readers first learned to read from the papers their parents brought home — among them the poet and writer Mohamed Ibrahim Sa’adallah, who told Geeska that the newsstand “was a known social hub in any city,” where newspapers encouraged gatherings and sparked discussions about what was written the day before. “They represented immense cultural, social, and economic value.”

Sa’adallah stressed that the print newspapers absence has been damaging, noting that they were accountable for every word they publish. In contrast, information on social media is often unchecked, leading to increasingly polarized views, even in sports, where fanaticism has intensified. “Ideas have become more extreme,” he said, arguing that society has lost its compass for moderate public debate. While other nations have shifted to digital-only formats, in Sudan, even electronic publishing often halted with the war, making the vacuum double.

The Sudanese newspaper was an open notebook of life, a meeting point in neighborhoods and cities. With its disappearance, the community lost not just a media tool, but a fundamental instrument for shaping intellectual balance and regulating the pace of public discourse. Now, intolerance has run rampant, devolving into unprecedented noise on social media platforms.

The void left by the disappearance of cultural supplements in newspapers is significant. Cultural journalism in Sudan was a vital window for writers and intellectuals, spotlighting new voices and creative output. It acted as a cultural authority, anyone who wanted their art or writing to reach others had to pass through its pages.

While often treated as secondary, the print newspapers role of cultural supplements was immense. Although their influence began to wane with the rise of the internet, their total cessation due to the war means the loss of an essential component for managing cultural dialogue and a key tool for forming collective memory. Today, the dominant voices are hate speech and shouting on social media. What's needed are serious cultural platforms to restore balance. Although the world is moving toward e-journalism, there still remains a strong desire for the print media to return, even if in a magazine format.

Young journalist Ma'ab El-Merghani described the war as a massive shock. “As soon as the first shots were fired, print papers stopped.” The halt affected not only journalists but also administrative staff, printers, and the advertising market. Her newspaper had about 15 journalists and an equal number of administrators and printers; some have yet to recover professionally, some took other jobs, and others are sidelined by health issues.

She lamented the loss of the daily, direct forum for communicating with readers and the editorial environment that fostered skill development. New generations also lost the opportunity for professional training within institutions. She has tried working as a freelancer on digital platforms, finding the income minimal but considering it "a way to stay relevant as a journalist." While this experience granted her flexibility and the motivation to gain new skills, the absence of the newspaper was more than just a lost job; it was "a loss of a part of her daily identity."

Osman Mirghani, Editor-in-Chief of Al-Tayar, noted that the decline of print preceded the war, with sales and ad revenues collapsing since 2018. The war merely finished what the crisis began: presses stopped, and RSF forces looted newspaper houses. Yet he continues publishing electronically and hopes to resume print before the year’s end, believing that journalism still shapes public life despite polarization.

Former Minister of Information Faisal Mohamed Salih called the war “the final bullet.” Print journalism, he said, was vital for shaping public consciousness, and its loss has hurt journalists, readers, and society alike. Digital journalism has tried to fill the gap, but largely through individual, limited, or politically-funded efforts, leaving independent endeavors small and under-resourced.

Thus, the disappearance of print newspapers in Sudan is more than an industry collapse — it is a cultural rupture. Society lost a space for shared reflection, and journalism lost its tactile ritual of paper and ink. Yet amid displacement and uncertainty, many still cling to the hope that the newspaper, in some new form, will return as memory, conscience, and public sphere.