Summary of this article
Against a backdrop of constant shelling, Nazar Mohamed became a familiar sight on his bicycle, pedalling through the danger to ensure the hospital’s lifelines remained intact.
The medical landscape in Sudan is a shell of its former self, with nearly 40% of the nation’s hospitals now out of commission.
Dr. Jamal Eltaeb was honoured with the Aurora Prize for Awakening Humanity, a $1 million award dedicated to those who risk their lives to preserve the lives of others.
For three years, Dr. Jamal Eltaeb lived in a world of impossible trade-offs. He was forced to decide which patients were beyond saving, whether to perform risky surgeries in the absence of essential drugs, and how to source the fuel required to prevent his hospital from falling into total darkness. While the nation descended into chaos, his professional path remained clear which was to stay and serve.
As the struggle for Khartoum intensified, Al Nao Hospital sat precariously on the edge of the conflict. The orthopaedic surgeon watched as the borders blurred between the national army and paramilitary forces, bringing a tide of casualties that overwhelmed the facility. Faced with the encroaching violence and the sheer scale of the crisis, many of the hospital's medical team reached their breaking point and fled.
While the walls shook from repeated bombings and the pharmacy shelves went bare, Eltaeb’s presence remained the hospital’s only constant. In a candid conversation with Associated Press, Jamal Eltaeb reflected on the internal struggle that preceded his decision to stay. For him, the choice was not between life and death, but between personal survival and professional obligation. He ultimately concluded that his specialised skills belonged to the patients who had no one else, choosing the operating room over the relative safety of an exit from the war zone.
While international headlines are dominated by wars in Ukraine and West Asia, Dr. Eltaeb stands among the many Sudanese citizens filling the void left by a distracted world. He doesn't just read the staggering death toll or the United Nations warnings of a total medical shutdown; he lives them. To him, the "near collapse" of the health system isn't a future threat—it is the daily reality of counting the victims that arrive at his door.
The medical landscape in Sudan is a shell of its former self, with nearly 40% of the nation’s hospitals now out of commission. Many of these facilities have been systematically looted for equipment or converted into military outposts by combatants. Although the military has regained control of the capital, Al Nao Hospital stands as a rare and critical exception, serving as one of the last bastions of care in the conflict zone.
Against all odds
The lack of space and equipment meant that life-saving surgeries were frequently performed on the bare ground. Dr. Eltaeb points out the specific coordinates of the hospital's survival: a window frame mangled by an explosion that killed a visiting relative, and a lone, weathered tent in the yard. That tent is the last survivor of a sea of canvas that once covered the grounds, erected in desperation to house the endless stream of mass casualties when the building itself could hold no more.
“We were working everywhere, in tents, outside, on the floor, doing everything to save patients’ lives,” he claimed.
For his unwavering commitment to his patients, Dr. Jamal Eltaeb was honoured with the Aurora Prize for Awakening Humanity, a $1 million award dedicated to those who risk their lives to preserve the lives of others. True to the selfless nature that kept him at his post during the height of the conflict, he did not keep the windfall for himself. Instead, he channelled a significant portion of the funds back into the global medical community, distributing the money to various humanitarian groups to help alleviate suffering far beyond the walls of his own hospital.
The medical team at Al Nao remembers a time when the facility was nearly dormant, with its 100 beds often sitting empty. That era of calm vanished as paramilitary fighters tightened their grip on the capital. Almost overnight, the hospital was transformed from a quiet neighbourhood clinic into a frantic front-line trauma centre, struggling to house the influx of war-wounded.
The closure of his original hospital in April 2023 was only the beginning; by July, Eltaeb was the last man standing at Al Nao, thrust into leadership after a mass exodus of staff. With the majority of the staff gone, Dr. Jamal Eltaeb was left to anchor a skeleton crew of dedicated employees and volunteers fighting for the hospital’s survival. Their daily reality was one of profound scarcity; electricity became a luxury, with the facility plunged into darkness for weeks at a time while they waited on the military to deliver fuel for their aging generators. As the siege tightened, the pharmacy shelves were stripped bare, leaving the team to face the trauma of the front line without the basic relief of painkillers or the protection of antibiotics.
In August, a month after Eltaeb came into charge, the hospital was hit for the first time. “From that moment, we knew that we are a target ... And from that time, they didn’t stop targeting us,” he said. The RSF later struck the hospital three more times.
As the familiar world dissolved into conflict, the surgeon found a strange new rhythm: managing a desperate medical facility while handing out sweets to those seeking a moment of his time. The burden of choice became unbearable on a grim afternoon in late 2024, when a market strike sent a tidal wave of 100 casualties to the hospital, leaving the team to mourn the eight they could not save.
“You choose ... as if you can choose who is going to live and who is going to die,” he said.
With time running out and patients bleeding out on the floor, the surgeon was forced to bypass the operating room, taking a blade to children using only local numbing agents. The surgery was a visceral nightmare: Eltaeb used local numbing agents to remove the limbs of two young siblings, an 11-year-old girl and her 9-year-old brother. He carries the evidence of the war’s brutality in his pocket, scrolling through graphic photos of surgery to bridge the gap between his reality and a world that won't look. While the visit was conducted under the eye of military personnel, the resulting narrative was shaped solely by Associated Press journalists without outside interference.
In a remarkable display of grassroots cooperation, pharmacists responded to the hospital’s online pleas by granting volunteers unfettered access to their shuttered stores, donating life-saving medicine without asking for a cent. Against a backdrop of constant shelling, Nazar Mohamed became a familiar sight on his bicycle, pedalling through the danger to ensure the hospital’s lifelines remained intact.
Other donations came from organizations and individuals abroad. A network of Sudanese doctors overseas provided remote advice on coping with mass casualties or what to do when antibiotics or anaesthesia ran low. When medical grade supplies vanished, the staff turned to basic carpentry and sewing, carving crutches from raw wood and repurposing everyday clothing to bind wounds.
As the centre of the conflict moves away from Khartoum, the hospital faces a new crisis: the departure of aid groups whose dwindling budgets are now focused on more active combat zones. The hospital is currently operating on borrowed time; while funds will cover expenses through June, a monthly influx of $40,000 is vital to prevent a total shutdown.
Despite international pledges for reconstruction, there is a growing fear that escalating tensions with Iran will overshadow Sudan’s needs, drawing critical attention and funding away from the African continent. In another part of the city, Dr Osman of Al Shaabi Hospital characterized the government’s recent injection of several hundred thousand dollars as a "drop in the bucket" compared to the true cost of restoration. The facility remains a hollowed-out shell of its former self, where millions of dollars in life-saving technology now sit as scrap metal amidst the rubble of the RSF occupation.
Rehabilitating a hospital in ruins within a matter of weeks may seem improbable, but for Eltaeb and his team, the "impossible" has become a daily standard of care.
I believe I did my best as a doctor as a Sudanese," the surgeon said.
Throughout the crisis, Eltaeb claimed that his duty was clear, choosing the safety of his patients over his own.
