In the dusty makeshift camps of Tawila, North Darfur, displaced residents cling to a fragile connection to the outside world: Starlink satellite internet. For thousands fleeing the violence that erupted in El Fasher, where the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) seized control, the service offers a tenuous lifeline amid widespread communication blackouts.
Inside a traditional “rakuba” shelter, families huddle around phones, waiting for the green Wi-Fi signal to flicker on from a nearby Starlink terminal. “Without Starlink, we would be in the Stone Age,” said Abubakr Adam, a displaced man from El Fasher. For weeks, he has had no news of his family trapped in the besieged city. The satellite connection allows him to send short voice messages, even if they come after minutes of anxious waiting.
Since the RSF takeover, Sudan’s four telecom operators — Zain, MTN, Sudani, and Canar — have ceased operations across Darfur. Destruction of towers, fuel shortages, and areas falling outside government control have left hundreds of thousands isolated. Starlink, operated by Elon Musk’s SpaceX, has emerged as the sole means of maintaining contact, enabling communication, documentation, and digital reporting from the conflict zone.
The service comes at a steep cost. A small handwritten sign outside one shelter notes that Starlink access is 1,000 Sudanese pounds per hour, roughly equivalent to $2, a high price in a region where the currency has collapsed. Shelter operators like Saleh Yaqoub, who imports the devices from Libya and Chad, try to keep rates manageable while covering subscription fees and connectivity costs. Many displaced residents queue for hours to send a brief message or make a call to loved ones still trapped in El Fasher.
The stakes are not only economic but also security-related. Starlink relies on satellites and ground stations outside Sudan, making communications theoretically observable by parties with technical surveillance capabilities. Network engineer Osama Hassan, himself displaced to Tawila, warns that geolocation data can be life-threatening in conflict zones, citing reports of users receiving threats after online communications. Despite these dangers, the service remains critical for activists and journalists documenting abuses inside El Fasher, from cholera outbreaks to summary executions.
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Starlink has become a conduit for urgent humanitarian communication. Testimonies, photos of casualties, and video evidence of violence are transmitted to the outside world, often serving as the only record of atrocities. Yet access remains limited, as most displaced people cannot afford the service or lack modern smartphones to use it.
Humanitarian conditions in Tawila remain dire. More than 25,000 people have fled the city, joining thousands in camps lacking clean water, food, medicine, and adequate shelter. Despite the severe shortages, residents prioritize maintaining contact with those left behind, highlighting the role of digital connectivity as a lifeline in the absence of physical aid.
Aid coordinators warn that Starlink is not a solution but a temporary reprieve. “People are dying of hunger and disease. Most do not even have the price of half an hour of internet,” said one coordinator, emphasizing the growing humanitarian crisis.
In the makeshift shelters of Tawila, families wait, pray, and stare at the sky for a signal. Starlink devices have become more than a technical tool; they are messages in bottles, carrying the last words and hopes of survivors across an ocean of suffering. In Darfur, they offer a slender thread connecting the displaced to the world beyond the violence, a digital lifeline in the midst of despair.
