No one owns the Darfur identity.

I want to begin with what actually happened.

In November 2025, the Darfur Diaspora Collective organized a protest followed by a public panel. During the panel, someone in the audience asked a question about the difference between Arab communities in the Sahel and those in northern Sudan. It was not a question about the RSF. It was a question about history, identity, and how different communities in Sudan have been positioned over time.

I answered the question directly. I said that many nomadic Arab tribes in Darfur and across Sudan have, for decades, been among the poorest and most neglected communities in the region. They had limited access to schools, clinics, land, and political representation. I said that in many ways, their conditions were shaped by the same state neglect that affected non Arab communities in Darfur, “just like us.”

That was the full context of what I said.

It was a historical statement. It was not about the RSF. It was not a defense of the RSF. It was not an attempt to excuse violence.

But after the panel, I was told that people were uncomfortable. I was told that some felt that by naming this history, I was expressing sympathy for the RSF. I was told that certain panelists would not have shared a stage with me had they known I would say that. I was told that my comments were unprofessional and that they reflected beliefs that the broader community rejects.

Very quickly, the conversation shifted from what was said to who I was.

I was asked to leave the organization or risk other members walking out. I was told that my beliefs were harmful, embarrassing, and incompatible with the group. I was told that focusing on historical systems and structures of oppression was itself inappropriate.

In the days that followed, the pressure continued. Two members told me directly that if I did not step down, they would leave themselves because they believed our views could never be reconciled. Eventually, several people left and formed a separate organization.

What began as a response to one sentence became a question of whether I belonged at all.
This is why I am writing this.

Because what happened to me is not just about one moment. It reflects something deeper about how we are beginning to treat identity in our community.

There is a growing belief that there is a correct way to be Darfuri. That there is a fixed narrative that must be followed. That certain histories can be spoken about, and others cannot. That if you say something that complicates the dominant narrative, you are not just wrong, you are harmful.

This is how identity becomes controlled. But Darfur has never been simple, and it has never belonged to one story.

The reality is that the RSF today is powerful, armed, and responsible for horrific violence. That truth is undeniable. At the same time, it is also true that some of the communities the state later recruited into militias were themselves shaped by long histories of poverty and neglect. Both of these things can exist at once.
If we cannot hold that complexity, we cannot understand the reality we are living in.

What is happening in Darfur today did not begin with the RSF. It did not begin in 2003. It did not begin in 2025. It is rooted in colonial borders, in systems of classification, and in decades of state policies that deepened division and inequality. Naming that history is not the same as justifying violence. It is necessary if we want to understand how that violence became possible.

But instead of engaging with that complexity, the response was to shut it down.

And there is another layer to this that must be named honestly. Some of the loudest voices calling for my removal are individuals who have previously said that women should not be involved in organizing or leadership. This raises a serious question about whether this was truly about what I said, or about the fact that I said it.

Who is allowed to speak about our history.
Who is allowed to interpret it.
Who is allowed to lead.

No one owns the Darfur identity. No one owns the right to define what can and cannot be said about our history. No one owns the right to decide who belongs based on whether they are comfortable. And no one owns the authority to reduce Darfur into a single narrative that everyone must follow.

Darfur is made up of people who have lived through different realities. It belongs to those who stayed and those who were displaced. It belongs to those who speak and those who cannot. It belongs to those who agree and those who do not.

If we start deciding that only certain voices are valid, we are not protecting our community. We are shrinking it. We are turning identity into something that excludes rather than something that holds us together.
Our community is grieving, and I understand that. I understand why emotions are high, and I sincerely apologize to anyone who felt hurt by my words. But disagreement cannot become exile. A difference in perspective cannot become a reason to erase someone’s place in the community.

We only have one community.
And no one gets to decide who belongs to it.

Darfur does not belong to a single narrative, and it cannot be reduced into one version that everyone must follow.

Yassmin Mohamed Fashir