Sabri's Story

Sabri's Story

I left my photos album behind in Sudan when I came to the UK. At the time, I thought it would be safe, resting somewhere in the house like it always had been quiet, untouched, waiting for me. I didn’t think I was saying goodbye to it forever.

That album held my life. It began with my childhood, small moments I can barely remember now except through those pictures me standing in the sun, smiling without knowing why, surrounded by family. There were photos of my early school days, wearing uniforms that felt too big for me, standing beside friends whose names still echo in my mind. We were always laughing in those pictures, as if nothing could ever change.

As I grew older, the album grew with me. There were more faces, more places, more memories. My teenage years were there too—school events, friendships that felt unbreakable, moments that felt ordinary at the time but now seem so important. Then came university, where everything started to shift. The photos captured not just who I was, but who I was becoming. There were pictures with friends who felt like family, late days and long conversations, dreams that felt close enough to touch.

Every page of that album told a part of my story. It wasn’t just images it was proof that those moments happened, that those people were there, that I lived through all of it.

When I moved to the UK, I spoke to my family about sending it to me. I missed it more than I expected. I wanted to hold it again, to flip through the pages and feel connected to everything I had left behind. But then they told me the house had burned down because of the war.

I didn’t know what to say. I kept thinking about the album where it might have been, what it looked like in its final moments, whether any part of it survived. It felt like losing something twice. First, I left it behind. Then, it was gone.

Now, I don’t have those photos anymore. I can’t turn the pages or point to a moment and say, “This was me.” But the memories still live somewhere inside me, even if they feel more distant now. I try to remember the faces, the places, the feeling of those days. Sometimes they come back clearly. Sometimes they don’t.

I realize now that the album was never just an object. It was my history, my connection to a life that changed too quickly. And even though it’s gone, I’m still here, carrying those pieces with me, trying not to forget.