Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  The unexpected and swift destruction of the Italian forces in Adwa sobered the British in the east. It was clear that Menelik was not, after all, deranged or an upstart. The British decided to smooth things over with this fourth power. Barely a year after Adwa, the British government dispatched a highly regarded diplomat, Rennell Rodd, to amicably settle all outstanding issues with the now formidable Menelik.

  The French outdid themselves. They advanced traditional Franco-Ethiopian relations by redrawing the frontiers of their new colony. They pulled back the borders of their enclave to no more than one hundred kilometres inland. The sweetest of all victories to Menelik came when the Italians dispatched a special envoy, headed by Major Nerazzini, to bring the Somali territory issue to an amicable settlement. The Italians demonstrated their friendly intentions by pulling back the frontiers of their new colony to a mere 180 kilometres inland, significantly short of Italy’s claim before Adwa.

  Menelik’s new acquisition—Ogaden, home of the tribe of the same name—encompassed an extensive tract of fertile land. The population was less than a million. This land, however, did not fall under the interests of the Somali government, as there was no such political body in existence. The Somali government didn’t appear until 1960, when Italy and Britain relinquished control of their colonies, permitting them to unite under a very feeble regime. The various tribes had always administered themselves.

  THE POWER BROKERS

  SOMALIA’S AFFAIRS made a startling appearance in my young life one windy afternoon in October 1969. Another season of the Morality course was winding up. A year had passed since the first one concluded and, as this would be the last time the class would be facing Mr. Alula, there was an air of relief and elation among the students. The teacher, however, was as passionate and persevering as ever. Walking brusquely into the classroom with a grim look on his face, he announced that our neighbouring country was about to lose its flag. Somalia’s independence was in peril.

  I didn’t know what it meant for a country to lose its independence, but wasn’t so sure that the deprivation of a flag was such a bad idea. I wouldn’t mind it one bit if I didn’t have to stand stiffly at attention twice a day as the battered rag was hoisted up and down a decorated post.

  Mr. Alula went on to explain that General Siad Barre, in a successful coup d’état, had assassinated the popularly elected president of Somalia the day before. Our teacher was primarily concerned that Somalia’s former colonizers, Italy and Britain, might be on the alert and use the recent unrest as an excuse to march into our backyard.

  This was even more confusing. Normally, an event that was so monumentally bad as to throw the almighty Alula into a glowing tantrum meant good news to me. Not that removing a president placed in office by the people seemed like such a bad idea. After all, as we’d been told many times before, God chose our leader for us. So, I asked myself, what was so hideous about knocking off a man deposited on the throne by erring mortals?

  But Europeans marching into our backyard did appear alarming. Dad said that the one unforgettable blemish in our long and proud history was the occupation of Ethiopia, however brief, by fascist Italy. Questions quickly formed in my head but I did not dare open my mouth for fear that Mr. Alula might send me out to kneel on the gravel grounds, a brick balanced on my head. I decided to save my questions until I got home.

  Dad was in an unusually good mood that night. He didn’t think that the European powers would bother us, but thought there were a few things I should know about the inner workings of modern government in Africa. A coup d’état, Dad said, was more like Tsewa. A group of army generals form a pact to dip their hands into the government coffers. Power (the Tsewa) exchanges hands every five to ten years among the brothers in uniform. Opponents of the scheme are dealt with swiftly and mercilessly, but every now and then, civilians would be handed the helm to appease aid-donor countries. I remember thinking that a coup d’état was the most profiting and ingenious enterprise Africa had ever embarked on, one wherein everyone involved came out a positive winner. Except, of course, the faceless masses.

  General Siad Barre, meanwhile, appeared to have carved out a destiny for the fledgling country. He proudly announced that Somalia would embark on a course of “Scientific Socialism,” following the cue of that powerful nation, the Soviet Union. Barre believed that in a few years’ time the national economy as well as the territory of the young country would triple in size.

  Barre’s aides did not share his enthusiasm, at first. “Siad,” they said, “a country needs to have a proletariat class to embark on such a mission. We are nomads; there is not even a peasant base in the country.”

  “We don’t need a proletariat class or a peasant mass. We won’t do what the gaal [unflattering term for white man] says. Somalia will be a Communist nation like no other,” the General declared.

  And so, Siad Barre convinced himself, his aides and the Soviets that the revolution was not only timely but a long time in coming. The Soviet Union responded in kind, and economic and technical assistance poured in. Most important of all, the armaments that the West had been reluctant to deliver arrived by the ton. The Soviets trained and equipped a 20,000-man army—a staggering number for a country with a population of 3.5 million and no potential aggressors. The Russians delivered fifty MiG fighters (twenty-four of which were the most advanced supersonic MiG-21s), a number of Ilyushin bombers, 300 armoured personnel carriers and 250 medium tanks including several T-54 models—one of the most sophisticated in the Soviets’ arsenal. Overnight, the Somali army became the fourth largest fighting force in Black Africa—as Siad Barre was well aware. On July 13, 1977, the General declared war on Ethiopia by dispatching a massive, brutal force to Ogaden.

  The newly crowned Ethiopian dictator was completely overwhelmed by this sudden, although not completely unexpected, onslaught. The junta was already busy on a number of fronts. After the fall of the monarchy, most of the conquered peoples had picked up arms in order to break away from the central government. The army was engaged in battles against the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF), the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF), the Tigre People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) and the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF). There were too many fires to put out for the few extinguishers at hand.

  The traditional arms supplier of Ethiopia was the U.S. The Emperor’s musketeers were issued First World War–vintage rifles, primitive tanks and a handful of F-1 fighter planes. The Americans trained the young officers in modern warfare. They taught them English and showed them how to starch their uniforms impeccably; how to properly salute one another in the street; and how to kick the ass of the Somali nomads who were making trouble for their Emperor.

  Unfortunately, the nomads were now much better armed than the venerable Ethiopian Army. The nomads didn’t starch their uniforms, because they didn’t have any; they wore sherits. They didn’t salute each other, because their tribal chiefs did not approve. But they kicked ass. They perfected their primeval practice of kicking ass, directing their collective boots (sandals, actually) at the ass-end of Ethiopia. The Soviets helped, because in their own country they had long ago kicked the monarchy off its throne and into an unmarked grave.

  Ethiopia was desperate. The soldiers in Ogaden were running for their lives, tossing their cumbersome M-1 rifles in the desert, as they covered their rear ends with both hands. But the Somalis were unrelenting. They wouldn’t rest until they had driven the last Amhara out of Ogaden, out of Africa, out of this universe. There must be, they reasoned, a much bigger universe somewhere—one so large it could accommodate the overblown chauvinism and arrogance of the Amharas. The Somalis didn’t know where it was, exactly, but then it was for the Amharas to find their own bearings.

  The Ethiopians hated their vulgar and violent rulers in Addis Ababa, but they hated the Somali aggressors even more. A nationalism that had been locked and buried in a rusted vault at the death of Menelik once more showed itself. After all, a thousand-year-old pri
de was at stake. A glorious history was being rewritten by a people who didn’t know how to write. It was too much for the old warriors to take. They hung their ploughs in the shade, kissed their families goodbye, and descended from the mountains to reassert their God-given rights.

  However, times had changed, and the tide was against Ethiopia. The traditional allies of this Christian empire, the Europeans and Americans, were less Christian now (even if they never missed a mass), and far more embroiled in the East-West game.

  The Americans refused to send arms. Only months after promising $22 million worth of fighting equipment, they were struck with second thoughts. It seemed immoral to support what was obviously a Communist venture. Americans hate communism, and fight it by supporting other Communists. The United States turned its back on Ethiopia, and offered its hand to Somalia. At the height of the conflict, on July 26, 1977, the Americans signed a friendship treaty with Somalia, promising to sustain the arms supply. The U.S. also encouraged the Muslim countries of Egypt, Saudi Arabia and the Sudan to funnel aid to their cousins in the south.

  The Ethiopian bigwigs confirmed the final divorce with the United States by closing down the U.S. military base in Eritrea, booking flights for the one hundred American officials and their families out of the country, and giving them four days to leave. The junta started looking for a new love.

  The military junta sent emissaries to Turkey, Yugoslavia, China, Vietnam and Czechoslovakia to acquire much-needed arms, but in vain. In desperation, Ethiopia sent an envoy to Libya. The strongman of this oil-rich and vulgar North African state was already sending arms to the Eritrean rebels who were fighting to secede from Addis Ababa. Obviously, it would be a conflict of interest for Moammar Gadhafi to help Ethiopia. However, being a conscientious man, he couldn’t say “no” to someone in desperate need. Gadhafi agreed to supply arms to Ethiopia. The weapons were in Tripoli, waiting to be shipped to the Eritrean rebels. But, Gadhafi reasoned, as the Ethiopian regime’s need was so much more dire than that of the rebels, he would ship the weapons to the junta at once. He even scraped the bottom of the barrel (in fact, the barrel was full) and came up with a few extra long-range cannons, and half a dozen slightly used fighter jets. However, before he would sign over the weapons, Gadhafi wanted a small concession in return. Would Ethiopia help him to overthrow the government of the Sudan?

  The military junta had already bitten off more than it could chew. It wasn’t ready for a new war with its northern neighbour, and declined Gadhafi’s offer.

  Finally, help came in. The Soviets sent $100 million worth of arms, promising more would follow. The Soviets were still supplying arms to the Somalis: there were thousands of Soviet military advisers on that small desert strip. The Soviets didn’t see any contradiction in arming both sides. After all, both Somalia and Ethiopia were socialist rookies, so the aid was obviously advancing the cause of socialism. Siad Barre was, however, a little confused by the actions of this venerable Communist nation, the USSR. Either Barre wasn’t as well versed in communism as he thought, or this recent manoeuvre had been taught in one of the classes he’d missed.

  Siad Barre felt the sting of betrayal only when the Soviets sent more arms to Ethiopia than to him. His nomadic instincts took over, and he kicked the Soviets and their Cuban allies out of his desert outpost, telling them to stay away until they had paid a diya. The Soviets didn’t have far to go. They boarded the bus north, to Ethiopia. At the border they passed the last of the Americans, who were headed south.

  In a short time, Soviet military aid to Ethiopia had reached an unprecedented level. Between May of 1977 and March of 1978, killing hardware worth a cool $1 billion to $1.5 billion arrived in Ethiopia. This was four times what the U.S. had delivered to the country in the previous twenty-odd years. In the month of November alone, the Soviets delivered such an overwhelming quantity of arms that not only did it make previous U.S. aid look like pinpricks by comparison, but it set a record in the annals of modern warfare. It was the largest long-distance airlift in Soviet military history! For Ethiopia, it was a time of reckoning.

  Somalia intensified its aggression, attempting to pre-empt the Soviet intervention. It rallied all of its armed forces, including the police, the armed robbers and the smugglers, for a decisive victory before the Ethiopian Army could regroup. In a few short months, most of Ogaden fell. By late 1977, the war was being waged for the grandest prize of all: the cities of Jijiga, Harar and Dire Dawa—the third largest city in all of Ethiopia.

  JIJIGA BESIEGED

  JIJIGA WAS isolated and encircled. Besieged. Bombs fell relentlessly. Refugees from the conquered regions in the south littered the city streets, the parks and the public buildings. The country was under a state of martial law; all civil affairs were under the command of the army.

  High-ranking military and government officials moved their families, chattels and pets to safer places early on. Anyone with the right connections could sneak out one or two members of their family, as long as it was not a boy or man who could bear arms. But very soon even that became impossible. Hospital patients who had been referred to better facilities in bigger cities for life-saving operations were denied permission to leave. “Jijiga should be defended until each man, woman and child has breathed its last,” the high brass announced.

  I roamed the city streets, taking in its new features. There were more guns than people, it seemed. I saw teenagers with AK-47 machine guns sitting on the hood of a Jeep slowly rolling through the crowded street. These school kids turned soldiers were veterans of one of the major wars in Africa. Several groups of militia were camped along the roadside; some men were cleaning their guns, others staring at the blue horizon.

  A man in a Land Rover pulled up beside me. I noticed that its front tire was damaged, and that there were a few bullet holes in the sides of the vehicle. He asked me, with a far-off look in his eyes, where the next filling station was. I was leaning over the window to give him directions when I noticed the young girl sitting beside him, peacefully resting on his shoulder, her torn dress caked with dried blood. My mouth gaped and my eyes bulged. I hoped it was not what I thought it was. The man’s eyes regained their focus and he turned to me, reading the horror so plainly written on my face: “She is my daughter,” he said, unburdening his grief. “She was killed on the way here. I am taking her home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Dire Dawa.”

  “How can you get out of town?” I asked. “Even if you get past the soldiers at the gate of the city, I don’t think you can make it much farther. From what I hear, every metre of the way to Harar is mined,” I said, trying to make him see the danger.

  “What difference does it make? I am already dead,” he sighed, asking me once again the direction to the petrol station.

  A friend of mine ran his father’s tea room downtown. I went to visit him, to chat. The huge café was overflowing with human agony. I caught a glimpse of my friend as he ran at break-neck speed to serve water to one group and loaves of bread to another. They were not paying customers, but refugees accepting, graciously, the hospitality of the town. The war brought out the generosity in everyone. My friend noticed me in the crowd, and shouted over his shoulder for me to lend him a hand.

  I picked up a tray and went to serve a lady with two kids. The kids were crying but the woman didn’t seem to notice. I gave a loaf of bread and a cup of steaming tea to each boy. The boys grabbed the bread with pathetic haste, and started munching. I warned them that the tea was very hot and that they should wait until it had cooled off. The lady was still lost in thought, unconscious of all that went on around her. I offered her a loaf and a cup of tea. She raised her head to look at me, but her eyes refused to focus. I thought she was too exhausted from the trip to talk. I put the contents of my tray on her side of the table, asking her if there was anything else I could do to help. She shook her head, her eyes still staring at the vacant space between us. A man sitting at the next table beckoned to me.


  “She lost three of her kids on the way. I think she is suffering from some kind of mental trauma,” he whispered.

  “How did it happen?” I asked him.

  “Like everybody else she had to make a choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had to catch a truck rushing to get out of town. She only had time to collect two of her kids, leaving the other three behind. No one was waiting for anyone any more; the Somalis were already in town.”

  I finished helping my friend and went out for a walk. The southern half of town, the Muslim part, was eerily quiet. I could’ve walked for miles without meeting a living soul. The shops were padlocked, and the compounds and alleys, where one would expect to see and hear children playing and laughing, were as dead as a graveyard. Anticipating the outcome of the war and following their nomadic instincts, the Somali residents had already left for Somalia. The gravel-laid highway running through the centre of town, dividing it in two, proved to be both witness to our heavenly allegiances and a measure of where our hearts lay in this backsliding world.

  The dark blanket of night did not hide the scars of the war. No hyenas came to visit us during the night. Instead, gunfire descended from the desolate mountains, convincing people that the war was being waged in their own living rooms. We made fortresses around our bedrooms with sandbags and heavy stones, and slept under our beds. But soon we realized that the enemy was not under our dining-room table, but outside. The deserted half of town was reborn each night to shoot at us.

  One exceptional evening, the gunfire was so overwhelming, and the bullets flying overhead so abundant, that pieces of darkness fell from the night, tearing jagged holes in the night sky. Light rushed in through the gashes from the other side of the universe. The night repaired itself, plugging in the fissures, but soon the Somalis shattered it with more colourful fire. Tired of repairing itself every few seconds, the night decided to shed its layers like a bulb of onion, removing a peel of the dome with each bout of fire it received until, finally, the sun was forced to show itself.