Remembering the voices of freedom

As part of a major crackdown on all voices of dissent, the government of Isaias Afwerki on September 19, 2001 shut down all private newspapers and started arresting journalists. Five of those jailed, Yohannes Fessehaye (Joshua), Yousif Mohammed Ali, Matewos Habte'ab, Saeed Abdulqadir and Medhanie Haile, are reported dead. 12 years on, the whereabouts of the remaining journalists are still unknown.

Following is a piece I wrote in 2006 in remembrance of one of the jailed journalists, my old friend Yousif Mohammed Ali.

Five Years on: Tribute to a Pioneer Journalist  
Sept 22, 2006   (awate.com)

Eritreans who lived in Port Sudan in the late 1970s and early 80s, especially those who attended Comboni School in that city, would remember Yousif Mohammed Ali. Slightly shy and serious looking, of medium height and fairly black complexion, Yousif was recognizable by his big afro and a distinctive grin. He was also known for his football virtuosity. He was one of a number brilliant footballers in the school including Mohammed Ibrahim, Abraha zaid, the late Ibrahim Idris and Ibrahim Yassin.

Raised in Asmara, Yousif had, as a teenager, joined the tens of thousands of Eritreans who trekked to Sudan. He ended up in Port Sudan where he immediately took to national politics by joining the General Union of Eritrean Students (GUES), affiliated to the ELF. In 1978, he was elected to the leadership of the Port Sudan chapter of GUES of which he became the chairman the following year.

I remember him presiding over our weekly general meetings - his fingers unconsciously working his afro into little knots as he addressed the student body in his calm, rather deliberate, style. Yousif was an embodiment of the dedicated student activist, wholly absorbed in the national cause, that was emblematic of the era. The student movement in those days was a major platform for young Eritreans to embrace the national struggle. Thousands (from both the ELF and EPLF blocs) eventually went to the ‘field’ and many paid the ultimate price.

Naturally the student movement had its share of diverging views and disagreements on political or organizational matters. But, whether one agreed with Yousif’s views and leadership style or had differing views, one fact always remained indisputable: his decency and dedication to the national cause. Yousif was that kind of person who was incapable of staying indifferent when it came to public matters. He always cared.

And it was this predisposition to engaging in public affairs and commitment to the welfare of the Eritrean people that led him, after years of exile, to return to Eritrea in the mid-90s and embrace the then nascent independent press. He joined the editorial board of Tsigenai (which included Gebrehiwet Keleta, another disappeared journalist, and Zemenfes Haile), and soon became its chief editor. I visited him occasionally in his tea-shop, a place he had rented in the Tabba area of Asmara that also doubled as the editorial offices of Tsigenai and a meeting place for many of the young reporters and editors of the fledgling independent press – journalists full of creative energy and optimism but too poorly resourced to afford their own offices.

Given his deep conviction that a free press had a crucial role to play, it didn’t take Yousif long to assert the paper’s independence and test the Regime’s fragile façade of tolerance. When the Government’s censorship bureau (in the Ministry of Information) called to a meeting to give orders requiring advance submission of press-ready manuscripts for approval, Yousif was one of those who voiced their strong objection. He emphasized the concept of responsibility on the part the journalist as opposed to censorship by a higher authority. This is a translation (courtesy Awate Team) of a statement in one of Tsigenai’s editorials that captures the principled stand of its editors:

“The private press is governed by the press law and is, thus, operating legally. The government has responsibility for their existence. In addition, they have expectations of the government. To ensure that they fulfill their national responsibility, not only should the government co-operate with them, it should defend them as well. Eying them with suspicion because they are critical of the government not only is counterproductive but is the equivalent of the government working against the Press Law it passed.”

Tsigenai’s major journalistic breakthrough, a significant milestone in the brief history of the independent press of 1998-2001, came when it published the first interview with one of the leaders of the reform movement, the G-15. The interview with Mahmoud Sherifo opened the doors of the private media to the reformers and gave them a much-needed outlet to address the Eritrean public. More interviews followed: Mesfin Hagos, Hamid Himid, Petros Solomon ...

And ..., well, the rest is history.

Five years on, I pay tribute to all the pioneers who gave us a taste of what it is to be free in that luminous, albeit brief, spring of Eritrean freedom. I salute the editors, reporters and writers of Mestyat, Keste Debena, Setit, Tsigenai, Admas, Meqalh, Zemen, and Wintana.

Last month I read the disturbing (though unconfirmed) news of the death of some of the prominent political prisoners, including some members of the G-15 as well as some journalists, among which the name of Yousif was listed.  I don’t rule out the possibility of such gruesome act from a vicious, sadistic and corrupt system. I just hope it is not true.

A nation of perpetual sacrifices

First published November 5, 2005 on awate.com
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Clinging to the past, romantically invoking a supposedly perfect bygone era every time one is faced with real-life challenges, is a well-known syndrome. Confronted with complex present-day realities and a less-than-certain future, political parties, religious groups, or individuals occasionally resort to past glory as their hoped-for saviour. The past’s alleged virtues are quixotically appealed to as the panacea for today’s ills.

Our past can no doubt provide many useful lessons. It can be a source of inspiration and wisdom. However, expecting the ‘past’ to be our guiding light and cure-all answer is a malady. It is a malady symptomatic of ailing, hopelessly out of date minds and institutions.

The fact that the terminally archaic PFDJ has caught the disease, therefore, does not come as a surprise. It has been some years now since the onset of the illness that continues to afflict PFDJ’s crumbling body and haunt its troubled soul. In the state of delirium triggered by this deadly disorder, all contemporary challenges are conveniently explained away as consequences of ‘our deviation from the values of old-day Shaebia. Our economic woes are a direct result of our compromise on the principle of self-reliance (or the Spartan version of self-reliance, anyway) and allowing private businesses even the narrowest of margins in the economy; none of the political and diplomatic flops of recent years would have been possible had we not trusted the international community; our military failures are caused by the erosion of discipline and the spirit of selflessness among the young. If only we could stick to the puritan values of Sahel! If only we could reincarnate the discipline, the spirit of sacrifice, the total commitment! If only the good old days would return!

The deeper the PFDJ regime sunk into the abyss of its own failure and irrelevance, the more frantic it has become in its attempt to latch on to the glory of the past. That’s how we came to witness, at the age of globalisation, these hysterical attempts to breathe life into such outdated ideas as a ‘cadre school’ for political indoctrination. That is why people like Ahferom Tewelde are burdened with the unenviable task of lecturing bored young audiences about the heroic exploits of life in Mieda. In the same vein come those most bizarre Independence-day shows and parades put up by Ibrahim Akla, Solomon Drar and their friends in Bahlawi Gudayat – full of dancing tortoises, wasps, bees and giant ants (the good guys), and weeping lizards and hyenas, all embellished with North Korean antics.

‘Kbrtatna yteAkeb’ (let’s preserve our values) proclaims the new slogan - masking a deep yearning for regressing to the past.

In the realm of religion, the belief in the absolute and inflexible interpretation of scripture, in the categorical applicability of every detail of ancient religious law to all times and circumstances, the conviction that one ought to live one’s life strictly according to how one’s religious forefathers lived their lives, is called fundamentalism. Fundamentalism may be quite harmless as long as it is practiced in the confines of the personal life of its adherents. Trying to impose those strict conventions on society at large is the problem.

At a certain metaphysical level, PFDJ’s diehard, backward-looking dogma is not unlike the above-described attitude of religious fundamentalists. Indeed, this is PFDJ’s own version of political fundamentalism. In its extreme form, this mentality manifests itself in the cynically ruthless resolve by PFDJ leaders to reduce Eritrea to a nation of perpetual sacrificial lambs – that each generation should be prepared to sacrifice itself. Indeed, this dogma has become a convenient pretext for justifying the government’s failure to fulfill many a legitimate demand by the population. Today, if you voice even the faintest complaint about the current shortages of basic consumer goods, you can be certain of being silenced with a barrage of admonishments with references to how our gallant fighters endured difficult times by sharing a cup of water among them. As if our gallant fighters did not endure what they endured so that future generations would not have to go through the same suffering! As if the whole Eritrean history is reduced to a series of endless sacrifices; each generation determined to outdo its predecessor in the art of sacrifice and enduring the worst; a vicious circle of pointless, surreal episodes recurring over and over. (And there is a nonstop stream of songs too celebrating this miserable state of existence that Eritreans are supposed to embrace as their own predestined fate. ‘Gidekha arkibu’ – your time has come - shrieks a singer, sadistically heralding it is ‘payback time’ for the new generation. Get ready for the sacrificial altar. The monster in the lake is demanding fresh young blood!)

The decision to revive the ‘cadre school’ came a couple of years ago amid this retrospective frenzy. The two first sessions of political indoctrination took place in 2004 in Sawa. Nomination to participate in one of these ‘political education’ classes sends mixed signals. Whereas, officially, it is supposed to signify some form of privilege, the real (unspoken) message implies ‘political re-education’ or ‘Tehadso’, the need to firm-up the candidate’s shaky loyalty to the PFDJ.

The syllabus is, by now, a well-known routine. Zemehret Yohannes sets the tone and provides the bulk of ‘theory’ and ‘analysis’: how the EPLF successfully, against all odds, fought ‘internal and external adversaries’, how it dealt with ‘reactionary’ and ‘anarchist’ forces, and so forth. He then uses this wonderfully constructed ‘analytic framework’ to examine current affairs: If only we could muster the patience to carefully scrutinize our present-day challenges in light of our history, then everything should be easily understandable. All pieces of the puzzle would beautifully and neatly fall in place. If only we possess the wisdom to put our trust in our seasoned leadership, it will, as it did in the past, steer us through current troubles to safety and deliver the promised economic prosperity.

Other presenters show up, each tediously reciting familiar discourses on ‘our internal unity’, foreign policy (as if there is one!), our military strategy (here, Sebhat Ephrem gives his favorite sermon of “David vs Goliath”); and, finally, it is time for Hagos Kisha to shine enumerating the economic miracles of yesteryear (before our march was maliciously interrupted by Weyane).

The discussion then touches on issues of the free press and how the good intentions of the government were abused by irresponsible journalists. This topic is particularly harped on as irrefutable evidence of the government’s wisdom in pursuing a ‘slow and cautious approach’ to nation building. Here several hands would rise in the audience, in an apparently staged performance, to question the very tents of a pluralistic political system. “Nmkhuanu, ezi zeben amSe’o flsfnnatat nai beHaqi neAna yTeqmena dyu?” [Do we really need these fashionable philosophies?], snaps one of the actor-participants, to be promptly echoed from the other corner: “kdmi Hji ze’ewetena tewefainetn, sraHn, wennani nSur ra’ey zkhone mkur meriHnetnan yu. Hji wn ezi Trai yu k’Ewitena zkh’el.” [The secret of our success, in the past, was our dedication, our hard work and our experienced, visionary leadership. This is what we need now more than ever.]  And the issue would be conveniently put to rest after taking due note of the ‘resounding wish of the participants’ (read Eritrean people) not to entertain any recourse to multi-party politics or any of the ‘untimely’ and ‘disruptive’ luxuries such as press freedom.

The last day of lecturing is always reserved for Issayas. Participants are invariably struck by his stern, unsmiling face and his grumpy, irritable mood, as if he had a quarrel with every single person in the audience.  Dictatorofthemonth.com, which selected Issayas as its December choice, uses charisma, danger, oppression, longevity, economics, notoriety, extremism, progressiveness to make its assessment.  Perhaps it should create a scale for addiction to long speeches, an affliction that Ceausescu, Menghistu and current record holder, Castro, also suffered from.

This time, in the Nakfa episode that is, Issayas told his audience “I don’t want to make lengthy speeches”, but, all the same, kept rambling on for over two hours.  This is another evidence of his improving score in the scale for Dictators with Extraordinary Ability of Making Long Speeches. Usually, the man is not lost for words, but according to participants this was one of the most bizarre speeches they saw Issayas give. The best part was his car analogy in describing the EPLF. Shaebia, he said was like a good old car – reliable, strong, durable. It may need some oiling, changing of a nut here and a bolt there; it may get a dead battery and need a little pushing from time to time.  But,” he declared, “it will never be replaced”. “WE WILL NEVER BUY A NEW CAR. As far as I am concerned, Shaebia is irreplaceable.” He concluded by reiterating a slogan that’s much in fashion these days: “Tmali Shaebia, lomi Shaebia, tsibah Shaebia!" [Shaebia yesterday, shaebia today, shaebia tomorrow]. Later, one participant joked there was no need for Issayas to interrupt his busy schedule and come all the way to Nakfa to deliver his famous line. He could have instead sent Khedija Ademmai to entertain the gathering with her hit number: malë Shaebia, wo yom Shaebia, wefejir Shaebia.

Two Nights in Adi Abeito
(an eye witness report)

Originally published Jun 9, 2003 on awate.com
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On the evening of July 19, 2002, at about 8:30 pm, I was stopped on the way home and asked to show my menqesaqesi, or ‘movement permit’[1]. I showed a card that had been issued to me earlier, commonly known as shidda [so named for the watermark on the ID, a plastic sandal, shidda]. “Shidda is no longer valid; come with me”, shouted the officer who stopped me, grabbing the card and pushing me to the sidewall. He then took me to another soldier - apparently lower in rank - and ordered him to escort me to the nearest local administration office (memHdar, aka kebele) used as one of dozens of primary gathering points all around Asmara at the peak of last summer's notorious round-ups.

The soldier, who was at least 15 years my junior, was evidently uneasy about the task he had just been given. This was clear from his unusual politeness and the fact that he avoided eye contact with me in the few minutes of our company en route to the kebele office. I casually asked him why they were stopping people holding valid IDs - to which he answered in a Saho-flavoured Tigrigna: “entai feliTna ilkanna, kullu me’alti Haddish memrHi yom zewtsu’u”. [How should we know? Every day, they come up with a new directive.]

This was followed by a brief silence that seemed like eternity. A moment so brief, yet so powerful in its expression of the tragedy of the Eritrean youth in these sad times; the tragedy of the youth trapped in a cruel system that forces them to humiliate their elder brothers, sisters and mothers – an abusive military regime in which their own survival depends on acting tough.

At the kebele (which was a few blocks from the Kagnew intersection where I was stopped), we were lined up, our papers taken and, when the officers deemed a ‘truckload’ was ready, we were immediately whisked off to Adi Abeito, in the outskirts of Asmara.

Upon arrival at our destination, the giant gates of a gloomy, high-walled building opened and our truck jerked its way into the dark compound much like a hapless marine creature swallowed by a whale. As the doors slammed with a big bang behind us, I had a chilling sense of helplessness (a feeling akin to that recurring dream many of us have in which one tries to run from some kind of an approaching menace but our legs fail us).

As soon as we got off the truck, soldiers started herding us into one of several chambers, apparently built as warehouses, shouting at us and beating us indiscriminately with sticks. In a few moments we were all crammed into the big room and the heavy doors again were securely locked, leaving us in complete darkness.

The first distinct sensation that welcomed me into the room was the smell of urine. As my eyes gradually adapted to the darkness, I started discerning some of the features of the place. I soon realized that a pond had formed in an area of the floor close to the door, and it was nothing else but urine! Since, as a detainee, one is not allowed to go out to cater for the most basic of human needs (save for one brief outing at dawn), the only choice one is left with is simply releasing the contents of one’s bladder on the floor! (There was no use attempting the sliced metal barrel – a common feature in Eritrean jails - for it was already overflowing).

That night, truckload upon truckload kept coming and unloading their human cargo every half an hour or so. At about 1 a.m., the room was so packed with people those arriving in the latter batches had no place to stretch their legs let alone lie down. They had to spend the night and part of the next day standing.

How that night was survived is a chronicle of the human suffering that this wretched country is going through. Among the 700 or so souls packed in that room, there were those who kept coughing all the time (spending a few nights in that place, lying on a bare floor without proper clothing or blankets, is a sure way of catching the most horrible of ailments); those who were asthmatic and seemed on the verge of collapse; a man who was in great agony suffering under the pain of his kidney condition; one epileptic who had a sudden attack, and yes, a mentally ill young man who spent the whole night talking to himself. A whole panorama of human anguish!

When some inmates tried to plead with the guards outside to allow the person with the kidney problem to see a doctor, they received only threats that they would be severely punished if they didn’t stop those pleas (“helicopter[2] kt’essera ikhin!”). Several others never stopped cursing the perpetrators of this misery. Most of all, I can’t put out of my mind the pale, exhausted face of a frail young man, clearly asthmatic, who kept murmuring between bouts of violent coughing “aaH tetsawitomlna!” [they pulled a fast one on us!] I couldn’t help but think all night about what makes a government do all this to its own people; to lash out with such vengeful aggression, with such brutality, against the very ordinary citizens whose only crime was to submit to every demand it had been making! It was beyond any comprehension!

There were also those who took the lighter side of things and tried to entertain themselves and others by telling jokes about their own misery: Sima’ ske, overtime kihasbulna dyom? Waa’ keidekkesna’ko ina hadirna! [hey, will they pay us overtime for this? We didn't sleep all night!]

When dawn approached, writings etched or charcoal-scribbled on the walls, probably by former inmates, begun revealing themselves. “kullu neger mejemmerta allewo, kullu kh’a mewedda’ta allewo” [everything has a beginning; everything has an end] read one graffiti. “Esr bet yejegnoch sefer new” [jail is the dwelling of the brave] read another – apparently by an Eritrean amiche whose dreams of homecoming had turned sour.

The next day, I came to realize that there were people who had spent four or five nights in that place and many of them had started developing all kinds of conditions – severe cold, back pain, joint and muscle aches, stomach problems.  Some had simply collapsed under the impact of the harsh conditions, starvation and stress, hopelessly lying on the bare floor as if waiting for the inevitable. (The only daily ration was one piece of bread, a cup of water, and sometimes a cup of tea at around five in the afternoon). That day I could also see the broad spectrum of age groups that my fellow inmates represented – ranging from mere teenagers to middle aged men.

At dawn, we were escorted, one large group at a time, to the nearby field that served as an open air toilet. This business, which had to be attended to under the watchful eyes of the armed guards forming a tight cordon around us, and which began and ended on a signal from one of the guards, is one of the most demeaning experiences a detainee has to go through.

Around 9:00 a.m. that morning the big compound started humming with activity as relatives and employers poured into Adi Abeito. There was a great hustle and bustle as mothers, carrying their children’s school or medical certificates, pleaded with the commanding officers, and factory owners and managers, directors of ministries and other employers rushed in to secure the release of their employees. (Those days, all services in the city, as everywhere in the country, came almost to a standstill, as tens of thousands were rounded up or simply stayed home to avoid the round-ups. The campaign was so sweeping and indiscriminate not even off-duty policemen or government employees with so-called ‘proper’ documents were spared).

Soon after, the door of our detention chamber was slightly opened and an officer began roll-calling some names. The same routine would be repeated from time to time during the day and each time a dozen or so detainees would be released.  In this way, the day slowly went on as thousands, in our own and the other chambers, desperately tried to draw the attention of an officer that they were either over the age limit (indeed there were hundreds of detainees who looked in their forties), or that they had medical conditions and had been declared unfit for military service, etc. Occasionally, an officer would lose his temper and start lashing out at the crowds. You would see young soldiers beating up men the age of their fathers, vulgar words hurled, and decent human beings exposed to extreme forms of humiliation. This was a spectacle that had been going on for days and was repeated the next day.

I spent another night in the same conditions. I was released on the third day after my employer intervened. Those who were not lucky enough were later sent to Metkel Abeit, in the northern reaches of Gahtelai plains, where they were kept for several weeks in harsh conditions before being transferred again to various incarceration and/or forced labor camps. Several deaths were reported in the first few days of detention in Gahtelai, mainly due to the extreme heat, exhaustion and lack of food and water.

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[1] I have always been troubled, indeed tormented, by this strange notion that has become a rule in our country: in order to travel from one place to another within your own country, or even to move within the limits of the town in which you live, you need to have a PERMIT! The natural thing one would expect is for a citizen to have unrestricted freedom of movement unless one has committed an offence punishable by law that requires restricting one’s mobility. In other words, freedom is the rule and restriction the exception. What’s most disturbing is that a whole new generation is being indoctrinated to the opposite, and the entire society coerced into accepting this inverted logic: Human beings are wicked, unreliable creatures who need to be constantly kept in check. They should be allowed the right of movement only by special permits! What a sickening idea!

[2] The so-called ‘helicopter’ is a torture method used by PFDJ’s prison thugs that has left many Eritreans with paralyzed limbs.

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Another classic case of Orwellian revisionism

First published May 28, 2003 on awate.com

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In the last few weeks, Mr. Ali Abdu has been very busy performing his favorite role – idolizing Big Brother. This is a function that our ‘Minister of Truth’ has been perfecting for the last few years, reaching his peak performance during the week of Independence celebrations. ‘Qalaat bwerki qelem’ (words of gold) – archival video clips of Issayas speaking on various occasions – is the centerpiece of this parody. No other Eritrean leader, fighter, intellectual or ordinary citizen is ever smart enough to have uttered words of wisdom that qualify for this show of Ali Abdu’s. Here, praising the tegadalai[1] gives way to glamorizing the ‘Great Leader’. In a gradual and barely noticeable way history is being rewritten to fit the new PFDJ-crafted image of it. One can actually see how the threads of a false history are being woven around a single persona. It is a spectacle that’s amazing to watch.

Another favorite scene that is repeatedly shown on Eri-TV is that of Issayas dancing with young performers at Asmara Stadium to the rhythm of shamaye shama by Elsa Kidane and Abdu Yousuf – I gather on the occasion of the 1998 Independence celebrations. Now what really struck me this time was the fresh editing that has recently been done on this clip. At the end of the original video, as Issayas and his bodyguards return to the podium, while the music is doing the customary d’rrb beat, there are images of other dignitaries, including some that are now behind bars. Particularly notable was the scene of Haile Durrue playfully moving his shoulders and clapping to the tune. This clip was frequently being shown on Eritrean TV even after the jailing of the G-11[2], surely an irritating reminder of those comrades-in-arms of DIA[3] now in jail.

But not anymore! … The record has now been set straight – and this historical mistake is rectified! In the ‘corrected’ video clip the picture briefly fades into total darkness, then cuts back to the same dancing ‘Wedi Afom’[4]. In a skillful application of the surgical approach to history certain unwanted episodes have been expertly sliced out. A few problematic personalities wiped off the archives. There were no Sherifos or Durrue’s in the 1998 celebrations. In fact, those scenes are only a figment of the imagination of a few feeble souls (sympathizers of the ‘defeatists’!) whose patriotic credentials are questionable, or those who are not sophisticated enough to understand the dialectics of history. You said Petros Solomon? We never heard of him. Kekia who? We don’t know anybody by that name! ... [Pause] ... These people never existed, stupid!

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[1] Freedom fighter

[2] The 11 senior government/PFDJ leaders jailed by Issayas (part of the group of 15, or G-15, that spearheaded the 2001 reform movement)

[3] DIA - Dictator Issayas Afwerki

[4] Issayas Afwerki