Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  Wondwossen and I set out hiking to the mountains and other far-off places we had been advised never to set foot in, dodging the scattered fire of Somali nomads, never imagining that we would later fight side by side with them.

  Wondwossen and I did things together with so little forethought that we would be hard-pressed to say which of us had initiated any particular action. The decision to join the front, however, was both conscious and simultaneous. We both believed that we were doing the right thing. Wondwossen, unlike me, had a lot to lose. His father had been one of the few high-ranking military officers spared by the junta, and by the logic of the new regime the father could be held responsible for the crimes of his son. Wondwossen joined the war because he firmly believed that by doing so he could make a difference in the lives of many people, especially those who had been forgotten by the government and the world.

  Once we decided to enlist with the guerrillas, we had to figure out how to raise enough money for the task ahead without alerting anyone. We needed a sizeable sum to pay the smugglers for safe transport to the insurgents. We also had to buy some items for personal use—sleeping bags, canteens and the like. Wondwossen sold his Seiko watch for one hundred and fifty birr (about seventy dollars), a little over half the original price. His gold necklace fetched a little more than two hundred birr. I sold my Peugeot bicycle for seventy-five birr and some auto parts for fifty-four birr. We gave the two smugglers a hundred birr per head, which left us with two hundred birr altogether.

  We did not have many supplies to purchase, only a sleeping bag, a water canteen, a few bags of sugar and a pair of sandals that the smugglers insisted we purchase. Although the journey would take place after sunset, and our trek was to take us through the territory of several warring tribes, the smugglers did not want to take any chances. The sandals, they assured us, would make it impossible for anyone to follow us.

  The sandals were manufactured locally out of old car tires. The design of the shoes was ingenious. One could not tell, from the imprints on the ground, which was the front and which the rear of the shoe. Merely by coming upon our prints, a hostile tribe could not tell whether we were coming or going. To perfect the deception, we were instructed on the proper use of the sandals.

  To an experienced tracker, footprints are personal diaries. The tracker can read the age, gender, living conditions and other particulars of an individual merely by examining the trails left behind: a steady stride distinguishes the young man from the old, who leaves behind faltering footsteps; the feminine footprint is delicate; a city dweller tends to walk with his toes turned outwards, because of the stiff leather shoes that deform his feet; running leaves a deeper toe print, and a hurried gait leaves a prominent heel stamp; a bulky person, as well as someone carrying a heavy load, leaves deep footprints, but the load carrier is distinguished by the occasional criss-crossing of the left and right tracks—zigzagging under a heavy burden can cause the individual’s left foot to fall to the right of his other footprint.

  We would be trained to lift our feet neatly above the ground, without dragging our heels, and land each squarely on the ground. Wherever possible, we were to cover our tracks by walking on rocks and weeds.

  In addition, I brought along a few bundles of herbal medicines from Mam’s treasured collection. Whenever she visited her relations in the highlands, Mam brought home a supply of roots, bruised leaves and ground seeds. Her uncle was a medicine man who carried in his memory generations of knowledge about the medicinal properties of herbs and roots. The knowledge had been passed from the father to the eldest son throughout time. Mam’s uncle would later initiate his son, who would in his turn initiate his son, as soon as he felt the premonition of death.

  As a young boy, I was fascinated by the strange behaviour of my mother’s uncle and his eldest son as they set out for parts unknown in the small hours of the morning completely naked. They always came back before sunrise with full bags, but I was never able to discover the kinds of plants that they gathered, as they would bruise the roots and leaves before they returned, rendering them unrecognizable.

  Once, when I was a little older, though still a boy, I mustered my courage and asked the old man why it was necessary for him to go out naked when he collected the herbs. He answered that you have to be one with nature before you can earn her trust enough that she’ll let you in on her secrets. He reflected for a moment longer. “It’s like nursing an infant. The only way for a mother to share a soul with her baby is to cuddle the naked soft skin of her young against her own flesh as she breast-feeds him. Otherwise, how is she different from a feeding bottle?”

  * * *

  THROUGHOUT THE LAST day I spent with my family I was agitated and uncommunicative. Mam was quick to notice that I did not eat much of my meal and that I paced up and down like a caged tiger. On the afternoon of my departure I could not meet anyone’s eyes. Just to keep myself from tears took all the energy I possessed. At one point Mam asked what was bothering me and I nearly vomited. An inexplicable sense of guilt had risen up in me suddenly. In the end I left home without saying goodbye. I knew full well that I might never see my family again, but I reasoned that if I stayed home it would not be long before I had joined those beneath the sod. The revolution was eating Ethiopia’s children at an alarming rate.

  A RELUCTANT GUERRILLA

  THE TRAIL the smugglers chose for us was a familiar one. Wondwossen and I had spent many Saturdays running up and down this beaten track in search of adventure, but the oppressive darkness, the twin, blinking lights that sprang up all around us, and the unfamiliar songs of the night made it look and feel alien. The smugglers tried to help, explaining to us which pair of shining eyes belonged to which animal, and the meanings of the howls in the darkness. They reassured us that no animal would go out of its way to stalk us, except perhaps the human animal. It was the only beast to be feared in the wilderness.

  Once, while travelling alone under the breathtaking terra cotta of the dying sun, one of the smugglers had seen a bale of hay ahead of him. It was the end of the harvest season, and the harvest was very good that year, so he did not think much of it until he noticed the heap of grass moving. A bundle of hay left outdoors overnight is not unusual, but a bale moving on its own is uncommon even in Jijiga. Abdi quickly rolled the reels of oral history that had been passed to him through hundreds of generations but found no reference to a beast hiding behind a bale of grass. No such apparition had ever, to his knowledge, attacked a peace-loving nomad. He decided to move on.

  With each measured step the nomad took, the bale of grass changed its shape until it became alarmingly clear that it was not one but two lions, a couple, lying side by side as they watched his thin frame emerge from the purple horizon. The beasts did not seem particularly excited to see him, but they didn’t take their eyes off him, either. Abdi dropped the stick that all nomads habitually carry, to convince the lions of his peaceful intentions, and moved on, without betraying his alarm. The nomad was only ten metres from the couple when the lioness became threatening and restless, appearing eager to pounce on him. But luckily for Abdi, the king of beasts was in no mood for war and convinced his mate, with a few guttural reproofs and a nudge, to leave the young man alone.

  Abdi earned his living smuggling humans out of the country and bringing in contraband goods from the neighbouring countries of Djibouti and Somalia. Once, when he was travelling with his fellow smugglers through the desolate mountains, one of his friends looked up and saw a lion sitting on a bare rock, casually watching the nomads. The lion was perfectly disguised, blending in with the greyish rocks and dying grass, and it was a matter of chance that the smuggler noticed him.

  Instead of heeding what his ancestors had drilled into him and leaving the lion alone, the man raised his rifle, aimed clearly at the beast and fired. He missed. The lion disappeared. No one thought much of this little incident until hours later, when they were crossing a narrow alley. They were walking in single file along the belt of the t
reacherous mountain when a tortured shriek was heard from the end of the line. Looking back, they saw one of their men disappear downhill, carried by a lion. They could not tell if it was the same lion they had encountered earlier but there was no mistaking the identity of the victim—the man who had shot the rifle and missed. The moral of the story is that lions do not eat peace-loving nomads. If you are a nomad and you find yourself in the belly of a lion, rest assured—you are not nearly so peace-loving as you thought.

  There was no moving bale of hay or vengeful lion on our trip. I did, however, discover just how ill-prepared I was for the task awaiting me. Unlike the Somali nomads guiding us, who seemed to flow like the wind, I had a difficult time crossing the mountains and hills. Halfway into the journey, I was suffering from a severe stomach ache and was barely able to walk. It was the miracle of Mam’s bitter medicinal roots that put me back on my feet.

  About eighteen hours after we left Jijiga, after rerunning many of my dreams, we finally reached the end of our journey. Beyond the next hill lay the rebel encampment. Unwilling to further imperil themselves, reluctant even to give advice as to how we were to present our hands to the rebels without being shot, the smugglers melted away into the hills. As our small troop debated the safest means of integrating ourselves with the rebels, one among us, I can no longer remember who, came up with the idea of waving a white flag—an idea most likely gathered from some grainy black-and-white Hollywood war movie. We had no other options. Wondwossen removed his shirt, which was stained with dust from our journey, and revealed a pristine white undershirt beneath, which he offered up for the mission. After a few minutes of scrounging in the scrub and brush, we found a suitable twig to which we tied our makeshift flag.

  Though the way was clear and the day bright, our feet were heavy and our progress to the rebel encampment was slow. Ahead of us, a strange outcropping of mountainous stone stood between us and the camp. As we approached this monolith, hoping to share its view with whatever lizard had slid out of its crevice to sun itself on the wide hot expanse, we were ordered to halt by a voice that seemed to issue from the rock itself. Half a dozen men then appeared from behind the stone, wielding a variety of rifles, all of which were trained on our small group. We were instructed to toss our bags a safe distance from us, and undress completely. The youngest of the rebel scouts, a boy about our age, was the first to lower his gun. He smiled at our naked troop amicably, displaying remarkably white, well-structured teeth. One of his canines was plated with gold—the style of the day among wealthy Somalis—and it lit up with the sun like a flare. He offered his hand, and introduced himself to us as Hussain. Two of the others followed suit, lowering their guns and shaking our hands. The others kept their distance, still training their guns on us.

  Hussain and the two others led us to their group leader, who reclined in the sparse, sun-dappled shade of a truck contentedly chewing chat. Three of his lieutenants were in attendance. The leader spoke slowly. He asked us our ethnic group, what our fathers did for a living, what we knew about the front and why we had decided to join. He asked us many questions that we had never considered, and which we could not find answers for, concerning the local army movements and the size of recent militia reinforcements. Finding our knowledge on these matters so easily plumbed, he turned his attention towards his three lieutenants, and engaged in an intense discussion regarding the type and extent of the new armaments being airlifted to Jijiga, the possible involvement of Cuban and Russian forces in the conflict, and how these factors would influence the outcome. When the conversation waned, he noted our continued presence with surprise, ordering Hussain to take us off somewhere and watch over us, until he had made a decision.

  Hussain was an enigmatic person. His father was an important political figure in Djibouti—a Somali-speaking city-state on the Horn of Africa that had once been a colony of France. As his father’s only son, Hussain had been groomed for great things. He had attended the best school his homeland had to offer, and later had rounded out his education in France. He spoke French and English fluently, as well as Somali, his mother tongue. And yet here he was, on the front lines, a gun-slinging rebel.

  Hussain had remarkably easy manners, was quick to laugh, and was animated in conversation and gesture. On long dull afternoons, when conversation grew sparse, people would eagerly seek his companionship. During those times, Hussain would tell ebullient stories of the people and things he had seen while vacationing in France. It’s not that anyone believed a word of it, just that the sheer incredibility of it all was enlivening to the ear. I remember one instance in which a crowd gathered to silently apprehend the strange imaginings of his mind. He told the group of an invention called the microwave oven, an object that looked very much like a transistor radio, complete with a dial, but which was only meant for heating food. You placed your cold meal inside this box and a few minutes later your food emerged steaming hot, while the plastic bag covering it remained intact. Before the hour was out, everyone at the front had heard tell of this ridiculous idea, and wherever Hussain walked that afternoon, he was taunted by soldiers about his “magic box.” Hussain simply laughed it off. Another time, he let it be known that there were countries in Europe where the government paid its citizens money because they would not work at any job. That story got him a reprimand from the leader himself. Such stories, although harmless lies in one context, become dangerous under different circumstances. The leader believed it might give rank-and-file fighters the wrong idea.

  One day, when the afternoon was particularly long and hot, Hussain and I exchanged stories. He admitted to me that while growing up in Djibouti, he had believed that Amharas each had a short tail between their legs. He had heard many stories of the atrocities committed by Amharas, mostly untrue, and had formed a mental picture of the people capableof perpetrating such horrors. It was not until he had made his first trip to Dire Dawa, Ethiopia’s third largest city, that he was shocked to find the Amharas were shaped like men. His surprise in finding that the Amharas were indistinguishable from his own people was eclipsed only by his surprise that no one treated him badly. In fact, staying at the most expensive hotel, spending his money lavishly, accompanied to his room by more than one local prostitute at a time, he earned a certain fame and admiration from the people who got to know him. When I met Hussain, he had not only wiped his childhood prejudices from his mind, but had replaced them with the strongest and fondest memories of his young life, memories that were inextricably linked with the Amhara people of Dire Dawa.

  Far from revealing the inner workings of his mind, this revelation made him an even greater mystery. How could someone who had developed such a fondness for a people fight them in the battlefield with such unparalleled determination? The rest of the rebels were simple to understand; they abhorred all things Amhara with a vengeance. Though Hussain shared in their ideals of a “Great Somali Land,” which would embrace all Somali-speaking people in neighbouring countries under a single banner, he proved exempt from the nationalistic dogma that held one must degrade all others in order to uphold one’s own.

  * * *

  HUSSAIN LED US through our first weeks. Like children, we had to be taught all over again how to sleep, how to wash our faces, how to relieve ourselves, and many other things that one takes for granted.

  I received my first shock in field etiquette when I went out to wash my face. Hussain gathered us all together that first morning, and led us down a hill, towards some grazing cattle. He asked us to pick our wash basins. He knew we were confused, and he had already begun to cry with laughter, his gold tooth flashing with each rib-cracking laugh. When he finally composed himself, he offered to show us how it was done. Hussain carefully surveyed the docile herd, finding an animal that suited him. He circumspectly approached the cow and gently began to rub its hindquarters. The animal appeared to relax, raised its tail and let out a fountain of urine. Hussain immediately bent down, and splashed handfuls of the yellow liquid over his face. Still grin
ning, he invited us to do likewise. I was revolted, and refused. The rest, some hesitating briefly, others for longer, all with an eye on the cows’ hooves, followed suit.

  Wondwossen decided to prove that prudence did not mean avoiding risks altogether, but minimizing them. He attempted to draw his wash water from a camel, thereby advancing the breakthrough, while minimizing the risk to himself. While we stood by, curious, he stroked the camel’s hindquarters, accidentally brushing the animal’s knee in the process. All camels have an aversion to this kind of knee-touching intimacy. This camel reacted swiftly and violently, kicking Wondwossen in the stomach and knocking him a full six feet away. As we laughed ourselves silly, Wondwossen brushed the dust from his clothes and stood up uncertainly. All that was hurt was his pride.

  A couple of days later, five of us were sent to fetch water. There were no rivers, lakes or wells within twenty kilometres of the base. During the rainy season, water had collected on various surfaces, but most of the local ponds were already running low—holding more in the way of tadpoles than water. It took us the better part of the day to find a fresh watering hole. The hole itself was easy to spot; we just had to look for the cattle, donkeys, camels and nomads who gathered en masse around the precious water-filled basin. Though we were all sweaty, and in desperate need of a drink, the guerrillas did not rush for the water. Binoculars were trained, strategic positions held and the area carefully studied for a full hour before it was declared safe.

  The nomads were not in the least surprised to see us. They must have crossed paths with the rebels too often to consider them intruders. The nomadic men came over to greet us, extending both hands, and touching their chests to indicate that their welcome was heartfelt. We did likewise. The women and children continued at their tasks, washing themselves in the pond alongside animals that were drinking, rolling and urinating in the water. These were people who had never heard of disease-causing bacteria and viruses. They sickened and died only after they had learned about the existence of dangerous micro-organisms. Until then, they neither filtered their water nor thought of boiling it, and they lived long enough to be killed by drought.