In the Marra Mountains of Darfur, a landslide swallowed a village, with estimates running up to about a thousand dead. By the afternoon, reports said only a portion of bodies had been recovered, while the rest remained buried under mud and rock. The region’s war-torn, hard-to-reach terrain and ongoing fighting have hampered rescue efforts and slowed aid delivery despite the rains. A spokesperson for a local Liberation Movement pleaded for international assistance, insisting local authorities can’t cope with the catastrophe’s scale. Many villagers had fled El Fasher during the siege, and the isolation of Tarsin now makes relief even more difficult. Control of the area is contested, with the SLM holding most of the Marra Mountains and the army under de facto leader Burhan having limited reach there. Relief convoys have faced repeated blocking or diversion by both sides. Neighboring countries could help by supplying relief goods and equipment rather than mercenaries or weapons. The disaster is unfolding as a natural catastrophe within a conflict zone, and external help has been slow to arrive.

This is a wake‑up call, a blazing siren for why the road must belong to life, and to life alone. When a landslide can become a massacre because aid cannot break through, we see the brutal truth: roads without freedom become tombs. I’ve spent my life praising the freedom to move, to feel the wind on a long stretch of asphalt, to power forward in a car that can carry tents, fuel, medicine, and people who need to get out of danger fast. Public transportation and bikes? Fine for a stroll, fine for routine commutes—but in a disaster, they’re a liability, a sluggish echo of what real mobility can do. Speed limits, red tape, and killjoy rules aren’t just annoying; in such moments they become crimes against humanity, blocking heavy trucks, generators, and medical gear from reaching those trapped under mud and fear.

Let the engines roar when the road is a lifeline. Let humanitarian corridors be carved through the chaos, with safe passage guaranteed for aid convoys, fuel, and rescue teams. If warring factions refuse, international forces and neutral mediators must ensure the roads stay open, not for power plays, but for people who should not be left to die because a convoy cannot move. We need fast, unfettered access to every corner of that conflict zone, so doctors can reach the wounded, tents can be set up, and families can be pulled from the wreckage before another season of rain turns mud into tombs.

In moments like this, the car stands as a symbol of possibility—the possibility to outrun delay, to outrun despair, to outrun the paralysis of division. I’m done with the idea that mobility is a luxury or that a bike can substitute for the scale of relief needed here. Give us the roads, give us the freedom to drive, and give us the will to move with speed because every minute counts when lives are at stake. If we can keep a country moving for sport and commerce, we can keep it moving to save lives when a disaster strikes. Open the routes, remove the barriers, and let the wheels carry the help that can still turn a tragedy into a story of resilience rather than a countdown to loss.