How Maya Gadir, a Leading Voice in Sudanese Radio, Became a Refugee
Once a prominent woman in media, she tells OkayAfrica how she went from hosting state ceremonies in Sudan to working as a cleaner and caregiver in South London.
"Two years ago today, during Ramadan, my son woke up terrified to the loud sound of bombings and explosions just outside our building, which I thought was a random sound of an accident nearby. Little did I know back then, my son and I were witnessing the beginning of the Sudan war (armed conflict between rival militaries) on April 15, 2023," reads Maya Gadir's Instagram post.
The war didn't knock. It kicked down the door.
On April 15, 2023, the first Saturday of Ramadan, Gadir was home in Aramat, Khartoum, an eighth-floor apartment, not far from the airport that the RSF first targeted and took over. It was early morning when the windows began to shake. First, a dull thud. Then a louder blast. Then silence — the kind that suffocates.
"We didn't even know it was war," she tells OkayAfrica. "We thought maybe it was an accident nearby, until the second explosion hit harder. Then it didn't stop."
Gadir is Sudan's first woman English-language radio broadcaster and a well-known figure at Capital Radio 91.6 FM. She made history hosting the nation's Independence Day celebration in 2019, which was broadcast live to 17 international news outlets. She presented presidential ceremonies for heads of state like Rwanda's president, Paul Kagame, and Ethiopia's prime minister, Abiy Ahmed, at the Republican Palace in Khartoum. She built a network that spanned borders and led a women's initiative called The Circle.
Yet, when war broke out two years ago, none of that protected her.
She lived with her 11-year-old son, who has cerebral palsy and uses a wheelchair. When the city exploded into chaos, they became trapped. No electricity. No food. No way out.
"We lived in Amarat area on the 8th floor, so every time an explosion took place at the airport or around our area, our windows shook violently to the extent that out of utter fear for my son's life, I went knocking on my neighbours' door, crying my eyes out, asking them to give us refuge."
For almost two weeks, Gadir and her son lived with neighbours on the safer side of the building — in defiance of everything she'd grown up practicing. "It was Ramadan. Men and women aren't meant to mix like that,” she explains. “But this was war. Protocol didn't matter anymore. My son's safety did."
Outside, Khartoum burned. The RSF, Sudan's paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, moved into neighbourhoods, looting shops, and taking over buildings. From their windows, they watched trucks roll past with mounted machine guns. They watched the city implode. Bullets zipped by the alleyways, cracking into their building's walls.
On days when the power would flicker on and off like a stubborn lighter, Gadir would access the outside world through her phone. "Although my family, who were all living outside Khartoum and Sudan at that time, kept calling me to boost my morale, it was difficult to see an escape route with my son because our area was among the worst hit as the RSF were in it."
She began preparing for the worst. "I told my son, we might die. We need to accept death. It will be over soon, and we will be okay. We should be happy — we're going to meet Allah."
The boy began sleeping with headphones on, trying to drown out the whine of warplanes. The sound of explosions was constant — some far, some terrifyingly near. "He was always scared," Gadir says. "I tried to act strong for him, but inside, I felt like a failure. I wasn't the protector I was supposed to be."
"Just a few days into the war, my only brother escaped the danger zone with his family, leaving me and my son behind. My aunt lost her life as a result of an explosion. My friends started leaving the city due to the increased bombings and shootings around heavily populated areas."
Gadir stayed in Khartoum for two weeks after the war broke out. There was no electricity, no phone signal, just the sound of shelling and the long, unspoken fear that came with every new day. But sometimes, by chance, the power would return. When it did, she would quickly check WhatsApp, those quiet digital corridors where strangers turned into guides. People shared information on where to find food, where to obtain medicine, and how to escape. It was in one of those groups that she first saw the message: evacuations were happening for British nationals.
Her son was born in the UK. His passport had expired, but he was a child with special needs. She called the number in the message. The woman on the line listened, then said gently, "Your son is a high priority. However, I can't help you reach the base. You'll have to find your way."
The base was three hours away in Omdurman.
A friend at the Egyptian border gave Gadir the number of a man with a minibus. He asked for $200. She didn't have it. But a neighbour, someone also trying to escape, lent her the money. That's how people survived back then. Through grace. Through each other.
She packed one backpack. Her son. His medicine and wheelchair. Nothing else. The driver arrived, and they left.
What should have taken three hours took six. The main roads were no longer safe, as they were overtaken by the RSF. They wound through back routes, bumping along unfamiliar ground, flinching at every distant blast. From the van window, Gadir saw her city unraveling. Shops she once knew, now gutted. Apartment buildings were crumbling. Cars were burnt to their frames. Homes emptied of life.
"I didn't want this to be my last memory of Khartoum," she says. "But it was. And it still is."
At a military checkpoint, the Sudanese army waved them through. A few kilometres later, they met the RSF. Guns raised. Orders shouted. "Everyone out!" Maya didn't move. "My son can't walk," she said. There was a tense silence, a pause where anything could have happened. Then, quietly, they were allowed to pass.
At the evacuation point, she found the line for British nationals. When they saw her son, they moved her forward, giving her emergency priority.
They were given food, blankets, and a moment to breathe. She thought they were being flown to Egypt. But when the plane landed, it was in Cyprus. Then, the UK. The Red Cross received them upon arrival, took them to a processing hall, and provided them with aid. Then they were moved to a hotel where they stayed for three weeks before being placed in a small flat in south London. Her son's condition meant the state prioritised their case. She was given a three-month visa. Later, refugee status.
They survived on state funds, food banks, and small amounts of money from families in Egypt. But the process was heavy. "You're treated like you've done something wrong," she says. "There's no kindness in it. Not like how refugees from Europe are treated. It's as if we're expected to suffer."
She remembers the day she broke. Endless appointments. Long waits. Being sent from one office to another for stamps and signatures. No explanations. No eye contact. Just that quiet erasure. She raised her voice — not in rage, but in exhaustion. It wasn't about paperwork anymore. It was about everything she'd lost. Her land. Her work. Her name. Her voice.
Since being granted refugee status, some things have settled. Their rent is covered. Her son's education and healthcare are provided for. But the toll remains. "Living on handouts humbles you," she says. "The only jobs I can get now are cleaning or caregiving. I used to host state events. Now, no one even asks what I used to do."
She often sits in silence. Not because she has nothing to say, but because there's no one to speak to.
"That first bomb in April 2023, that's the last clear image I have of Sudan. Before that, it was vibrant. Loud. Full of life. Now, it's a blur of rubble and checkpoints."
She misses the smell of rain. The noise of the street. The sense of belonging. "I feel invisible here. I feel constantly out of place. And the way people look at me sometimes confirms it. Like, I don't belong. Like I never could."
She no longer has a passport. She can't leave. She can't go back. "I'm just another refugee," she says. "That's what the papers say." But that's not who she is. She's learning to live with it. Not to accept it, but to hold it gently. "I don't want being a refugee to be the last sentence in my story."
The war in Sudan rarely makes headlines. It's quiet now, not because the violence has stopped, but because the world has turned its eyes elsewhere.
"When African countries are at war, it's treated like background noise. It doesn't trend. It doesn't stay in the news cycle. It's as if people expect Africans to suffer and be at war. So when we flee, we're not seen as survivors. Just bodies. Illegal. Other."
Maya says it softly. No bitterness.
"People forget that refugees had lives. Full, rich lives. Sometimes better than the lives of those watching from the outside." Counselling has helped. So has stillness and time. She's learning to carry both grief and hope. Every day, she wakes up not knowing what the future holds, but she is determined not to be defined by what she has lost.
Maya's journey lays bare the brutal truth: war not only displaces the poor or the forgotten. It reduces even the celebrated and accomplished to struggle, survival, and silence.
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