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Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen
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In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen
In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen
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In recent years it has become increasingly common to see street traders sitting on the dusty ground along the sides of roads in Sudan’s heaving markets with a sheet of plastic spread out next to them covered in piles, tubs, tubes and small bags of so-called traditional medicine. From cancer to AIDS, and high blood pressure to impotency, the self-appointed healers shout out their wares to attract passers-by with the promise of miraculous recoveries. And because of growing economic hardship, many weary people often pause in front of the traders to discuss or buy these treatments, marvelling at their affordability compared to the cost of pharmaceutical drugs or doctors’ consultations. Even if they are not totally convinced of their efficacy, they convince themselves that they were worth a try.
This latest commercial use of traditional herbs and potions is a far cry from how these treatments used to be dispensed and administered. Mint tea for a stomach-ache, harjal (solenostemma arghel) or hilbah (fenugreek) for nausea, and a good douse of sesame oil rubbed vigorously onto the torso for chest pain. These were all part of a Sudanese mother’s ‘medicine cabinet’ located in her kitchen tied up in plastic bags nestled between jars of herbs at the back of the pantry, or beneath the slice of lime in the egg compartment of the fridge door. The knowledge of which herb, leaf, oil or smoke was necessary for dealing with which ailment was passed down from mother to daughter or among the neighbourhood’s womenfolk. During the 2019 pandemic many Sudanese resorted to burning garad pods (Acacia Arabic) as a form, they believed, of prevention and cure from the disease. This was based on the handed down wisdom that garad cured respiratory problems.
Traditional remedies are also distinct in the way they are patiently and caringly prepared and administrated which are an integral part of the whole recovery process. Thus, boiling the flowers of a hibiscus plant – warm for colds and flu, cold to lower blood pressure – or the leaves of a guava tree to stem diarrhoea, are prepared and given under the watchful eye of the mother until the child are recovers. This personalised treatment is nearly always the first resort when a child falls ill, with the opinions of doctors and hospital visits only being sought if the problem persists. Belief in the efficacy of these remedies plays an important part in the use of traditional medicines and together with the personal, caring way they are administered by mothers, it is no wonder this knowledge has endured.
Today, this knowledge of traditional medicines, that has been transmitted organically, is at risk of being lost. The mass displacement of people across Sudan means the networks of knowledge transfer may be disrupted. Furthermore, traditionally used herbs, leaves and oils may not be available in the places people have been forced to move to. However, what is certain is that the resilience of mothers means that wherever she finds herself, she will be able to adapt local natural ingredients as remedies for her children’s ailments.
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