A little girl, barely two years old, toddles around her mother, nibbling on a piece of watermelon. She pauses in her bright red dress, gazing quietly at the chaos around her. Then, wanting comfort, she climbs onto the bench where her mother sits. The woman pulls her close and nurses her. At first glance, the child seems like any other toddler. But nothing about this moment is normal. Her mother’s eyes are hollow - empty in a way that speaks volumes.
Day 1 We fly to Adré on a UN plane - a two-hour journey from Chad’s capital, N’Djamena - and land quite literally in the sand. Adré was once a modest town of 15,000 in eastern Chad. Today, it has swelled dramatically, absorbing more than 230,000 refugees who have crossed the border from Sudan in recent years.
The fact that only about 50 people arrive at the transit center each day might sound like good news. It isn’t. Adré is the closest crossing point for those fleeing El Fasher, a Sudanese city recently seized by the Rapid Support Forces (RSF). Thousands of families have been forced to flee - but they are not here. The road from El Fasher to Adré is perilous, littered with checkpoints and armed groups. Those who attempt it risk their lives. Many instead take longer, more treacherous routes north, each with its own dangers.
The little girl with the watermelon came from El Fasher just days ago with her parents. When we sit down together, they tell me their family is no longer whole. Not everyone made it. Her seven-year-old brother was shot and killed in El Fasher. So was the father’s brother. Their voices are barely audible as they describe passing through 40 checkpoints inside Sudan, stripped of everything - money, phones, even the few essentials they carried. Outside the transit center, I notice piles of luggage. This family has none. Their home in El Fasher was burned to the ground. There is nothing to return to.
Now, they hope to be registered as refugees in Chad - a process that is almost automatic for Sudanese arrivals, given the scale of the war. But even with refugee status, survival here will be brutally hard. Finding food, shelter, and a way to live is an enormous challenge.
Host communities are the backbone of any refugee response. I’ve spoken with Adré’s residents, local leaders, and Chad’s government, which has embraced the refugees despite staggering strain. Chad has taken in more than 800,000 Sudanese this year alone. They do so willingly, guided by a pan-African spirit: when your neighbor needs help, you help - because one day, you might need the same.
And this in a country that is among the poorest on Earth, where people already struggle for income, education, and healthcare. The question is whether this generosity will be met with global solidarity - or with moral failure. Chad’s humanitarian response plan is funded at just 17 percent. With that figure in mind, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the world’s wealthiest nations have turned their backs - precisely when humanitarian agencies brace for new waves of displacement into camps and communities already stretched to the breaking point.
This funding gap doesn’t just threaten millions of lives. It imperils the stability of an entire region.
Day 2
We leave Aboutingue refugee camp as dusk begins to settle - a sprawling settlement a few hours from Sudan’s border, home to nearly 50,000 people. We’ve spent the entire day here. Unlike the chaotic transit center in Adré, Aboutingue feels almost orderly, though its story is anything but.
This transit center camp was meant to be temporary. People were supposed to stay only briefly before moving on. Instead, they’ve been there for years - victims of shrinking global aid budgets and Chad’s limited capacity to absorb the influx. The transit center has grown like an unchecked organism, stretching beyond Adré toward Aboutingue, while thousands more live scattered outside its perimeter, without shelter, invisible to official systems.
Aboutingue itself resembles a fragile city. Homes are built from straw, their roofs patched with plastic sheets. Straight dirt roads carve the camp into neat grids. There are markets, schools, water points, and wells. Life hums here in muted tones - people walking between huts, children playing, women carrying water.
The Danish Refugee Council has worked here since 2023, helping refugees rebuild fragments of normalcy. We train shoemakers, teach women crafts like basket weaving and sewing, and support cooperatives that bake bread and cakes for the local market. We offer microloans and grants for small businesses - anything to spark an economy for those who fled with nothing when Sudan’s war erupted nearly three years ago.
Today, I sat cross-legged on mats inside countless homes, listening to stories that defy retelling. Every person I met had escaped massacres - civilians of all ages targeted in deliberate attacks. Nearly everyone had lost a loved one, often several, before or during their flight from Darfur. Their words falter under the weight of horror: humiliation, violation, the theft of their bodies, the erasure of their homes, and a crushing sense of hopelessness.
Reactions vary. Some are visibly broken, their grief raw and unyielding. Others have learned to live with sorrow, carrying it like a silent companion. Yet all cling to hope - a yearning for peace in Sudan, for the chance to return and rebuild what was stolen.
Many here were educated back home. I spoke with young men who once held jobs, some university-trained. Now, they dream of continuing their studies, of escaping the confines of camp life. Women speak of peace, of feeding their families, and – often - of education for themselves and their children. For a moment, their eyes brighten with possibility.
But life here is not safe. Girls whisper about violence and sexual assault - reports that are rising. Many families survive by gathering firewood in nearby forests, selling it at markets. But those trips are perilous; attacks are common. That’s why protection work is central to what we do, alongside psychosocial support and trauma care.
This afternoon, I joined a circle of young women, all survivors of sexual violence. They sat weaving baskets and crocheting clothes - crafts that open space for conversation about shared pain. Sexual violence is a weapon of war here, indiscriminate and devastating. Official reports barely scratch the surface; men and boys almost never speak of their own assaults, though their stories sometimes surface through women. Untreated trauma festers - manifesting as domestic violence, substance abuse, or explosive anger.
As night falls, we drive back toward Adré along sandy, rutted tracks that will be impassable when the rains come. The land feels desolate, broken only by children herding goats - a stark contrast to the crowded camps. Here, local families often live in deeper poverty than the refugees themselves. That’s why our work must serve both communities: improving roads, sharing water resources, and opening schools and clinics to all. Integration is not charity - it’s survival.
Day 3
I’m at N’Djamena airport now, waiting to leave Chad. My mind is heavy with the faces and voices of those we met - people carrying trauma so profound it seems to have settled into their bones. Even those who have lived in camps for years remain haunted by the massacres, the violence, the unspeakable acts they endured.
This demands more than tents and food. It demands deep, sustained trauma care - work we do alongside medical partners. But is it enough? Can it ever be enough when resources are vanishing and needs multiply? The Sudan crisis suffers under the weight of global indifference. Funding cuts slash even the basics: shelter, clean water, food.
I keep thinking of the little girl in the red dress - the one from Adré on our first day. Her parents’ vacant eyes haunt me. That emptiness, that shock - I’ve never seen trauma like this anywhere else. And yet, she was just a child, nibbling watermelon, wanting her mother.
Note: It is still unclear where the large group of refugees from El Fasher is located. However, Danish Refugee Council teams in central Darfur (south of El Fasher) have recorded a significant number of arrivals in recent weeks. We have established reception centers in Golo and Nertiti, and it appears that all these new arrivals are coming from El Fasher. Large groups are still expected to cross the border into Chad.
