http://www.asmarino.com/articles/2085-f ... in-eritrea
Freedom Chains: Celebrating Independence Day in Eritrea
By Yosief Ghebrehiwet
05/29/2014
It was a great day for Eritrea! This year, every Eritrean worth his/her name celebrated May 24, the day Eritrea got its independence from colonial, feudal and backward Ethiopia 23 years ago; that is, wherever they happened to be, be it in mainland Eritrea or in diaspora, be it in civilian Eritrea or in the national service and, oh yes, be it in free Eritrea or in its prisons and concentration camps. On this day, Eritreans of all stripes set aside their differences, if there were any to begin with – given that theirs is a land of hade hizbi, hade libi (one people, one heart) – and Muslim and Christian, highlander and lowlander, peasants and urbanites, Warsai and Yikealo and regime supporters and detractors, all came together in guaylas throughout the land and in diaspora. They danced, ate and drunk to their fill until the wee hours of the morning.
But this grand 23rd Independence Day anniversary, as celebrated in 22 years past, won’t the subject of this article. Rather, the focus will be on the one thing that made this year’s celebration unique among all the others past: the more than 10,000 political prisoners of the nation were allowed to celebrate the week of festivities in the same manner as the rest of Eritrea – with a big festival of their own that included seminars, parades, carnival, sport activities, marches, concert, bands, drama, fashion show, pictorial exhibition, guaylas, food and drinks, etc.
For some of you this may not come as news since Shaebia owned and affiliated websites have been bombarding us on this new development for an entire week. Shabait.com has been effusively gushing on how “Eritrean prisoners celebrated 23rd Independence Day anniversary with higher patriotic zeal”; on how “harmony and lifestyle among ethnic prisoners added fervor and color to Independence Day celebrations”; on how “the prisoners have been exerting unremitting efforts to organize the festivities, which attests to the honor and respect they give to their independence”; on how “the prisoners staged different cultural shows depicting the history and struggle of independence and national sovereignty, reiterating their readiness to honor the trust of our martyrs”, etc. In Madote.com, you can actually see the T-shirts that many prisoners wore on in their festival on this glorious day with the slogan “We are Eritrea, the Exception to the Rule,” obviously alluding to the fact that only in Eritrea are prisoners allowed to celebrate Independence Day with such fanfare. No wonder that slogan turned out to be one of the main themes of the prisoners’ festivities. Another theme mentioned in Meskerem.com says, “We Toil Today in Prisons throughout Eritrea for a Bright Tomorrow”. And, more importantly, the entire festival staged by the prisoners was broadcasted live through EriTv, courtesy of Eastafro.com and Meskerem.com.
Let me now cover, to the best of my knowledge, this grand event that took place inside the prison system of Eritrea on this year’s Independence Day. And my goal, of course, is to reinstate the good name of our government. Given that all kinds of humanitarian and political groups have been defaming Eritrea for gross humanitarian abuse of its prisoners, even going as far as calling our dear and beloved nation as “the largest open prison system in the world”, what transpired in the prison system of Eritrea on that memorable day has busted a Langley-fabricated myth, told and retold without a shred of evidence. This, of course, needs an extended explanation.
The hunger strike
It all started with a hunger strike of prisoners all over Eritrea, which caught our government totally by surprise. To many observers, how the more than 10,000 political prisoners, in more than 300 prisons scattered all over the Eritrean landscape, managed to coordinate this strike remained a mystery. But this came from failure to understand the true nature of the Eritrean spirit. To the contrary, the strike happened to be spontaneous; a fact that proved that the hade hizbi, hade libi spirit lives on even among the most marginalized. One needs to look at the nature of the prisoners’ demand to see that One Gigantic Heart at work: that they should be allowed to celebrate Independence Day as all the rest of Eritrea! That is all! This is what I call the selfless spirit of Eritreans at its best. Please, dear reader, I implore you to take note that the prisoners didn’t ask for better treatment – better housing with less overcrowding, better food and medication, no more tortures and extra-judicial executions, quick trials before the court, etc – that tebelesti (opportunists) would have asked under these trying times, when the nation’s territorial integrity is compromised by Ethiopia’s belligerent occupation of Badme. No, all they demanded was that they should be given opportunity to display their full-blown patriotism with the rest of Eritrea, even as they were condemned to confinement within their respective prison walls. Tell me, who in his right mind would deny them such a heart-rending appeal? And, believe me, our far sighted leader Kim El Isaias Afwerki didn’t fail them; and by not failing them, he didn’t fail us too.
The President, who almost had a heart attack when he heard about the hunger strike the first time, was delighted when he was updated in a follow up session next morning on the patriotic nature of the strike. He immediately passed an order to the effect that the prisoners should be accommodated in whatever way they wanted to celebrate the 23rd Independence Day anniversary. Soon, a committee was formed, with Zemehret Yohannes assigned to lead it. This was an excellent choice given that the most necessary ingredients for Independence Day celebration, namely guayla, and all the kirstatna that go with it – koboro, kirar, zurya, T-shirts, worqi shilimat, suwa, myes, etc – was a matter for kifli bahli (Department of Cultural Affairs) to sort out; and the supreme expert in Eritrean cultural affairs happened to be the one and only Zemhret Yohannes, who had served for many years in his capacity as Head of the Department of Research and Documentation Center of Eritrea, with many well-coordinated festivals under his belt. Further, the Office of the National Holidays Coordinating Committee was made to report directly to him for this event, necessarily bypassing its Head for maximum coordination. But that is not to say that, given the more than 10,000 political prisoners to attend to, this was not a strategic nightmare. But tell me, if Zemhret couldn’t handle it, who possibly could?
What would an Eritrean festival be without zurya and werqi shilimat? Absolutely nothing, my dears, nothing at all! Now, do you blame the women prisoners for refusing to end the hunger strike, long after their male counterparts (chauvinist pigs, if you ask me!) gave in? The men could dance all they want, just provide them with alcoholic drinks and with those indispensable T-shirts. But the women, zurya (traditional habesha dress for women) or not, they would feel naked without their gold jewlery. Zemhret’s head was spinning from looking at the long list of werqi shilmat (gold jewelry) that adorn the neck, breasts, ears, hands, legs and head that the women prisoners ordered for Independence Day: gobagub, stellini, seleste shimghile, worqi senselet, misginet, kutisha, suqurien, adri, telal, afro, walta, torta, katim, zibto, bracelleti, ambar, albo, etc. He knew that all of this demand was just for the week of festivities only, to be loaned out to the women prisoners, but still he couldn’t refrain from saying, “kabey’ye kihinekelen?” But first things first; for logistical reasons, matters of zurya come first …
The zurya affair
I can hear you, dear reader, scoffing at my claim that, zurya or not, the women would feel naked without their gold, as though I am purposely relegating the importance of zurya in Eritrean festivities to secondary status. No, not at all! In fact, I was about to go over the long list of zuryas that the women prisoners demanded too before your rudely interrupted me: itirtir, menen, dirbadir, hilflif, zirzir, netch-har, karamara, lalibela,, tsaida-midru,, hibrawi zurya, roguid idiyatu, ketin idiyatu, etc; and for those who were still prone to occasional bouts of quele, dimuq zurya keyh-meyh. And the fashion conscious prisoners made sure that the two latest types of zurya named after Oprah and Beyonce were included too in the demand list. And the sartorial cut demanded were as variable as the types of zurya: long or short skirted, long or short sleeved, with or without a neckline, strapless or strapped, with one or two shoulders strapped, with spaghetti or broader straps, etc.
Going over the long list of zuryas and their variations with exotic names, Zemhert was all worry again. Holding his head in his hands, he was heard muttering under his breathe, “Iyesus, Mariam, Yosief!” [Has he gone religious in his old age?] Even though these were damn expensive zuryas, their going price was the least of his worries. He knew that kifli bahli would be making enormous profit selling those zuryas in Asmara after the festival was done and over; that was why he was not worried about zurya expenses the way he was with gold expenses. What worried him to death was the logistical problem: almost all of the zuryas that the prisoners demanded were not to be found in Eritrea. Leaving aside the bitsifrina principle of Eritreans in matters of work, it happened to be that most of these elaborate zurias were made by the tsifri of Dorzie Haizo of Addis Ababa.
The only way that Zemhret could overcome this logistical nightmare was if he could find someone experienced and adept enough to make it through the long and torturous caravan route from Addis to Asmara with such huge zurya cargoes and within a short span of time to make it for Independence Day [in fact, as the Silk Road was to silk dresses in ancient times, the Zurya Road has become to zurya in these trying times]. And he knew in his heart of hearts that the only person who could accomplish this Mission Impossible was General Teklai Kifle aka “Manjus”, a veteran in the flourishing smuggling trade of human and nonhuman cargoes. But how would he, poor Zemhret, manage to survive the pound of flesh that the General would most certainly exact from him to do this job? Nevertheless, Zemhret added stoically (a habit he acquired from mieda), it was not something that had to be postponed, let alone avoided.
The two met in a famous segreto known to the generals and colonels only, obviously for security reasons. But I am glad to let the reader know that even though the general ordered a bottle of Black Label whisky, Zemheret ordered only water on hygienic and moral grounds. Manjus had a hard time believing that, suspecting that his comrade-in-arms wanted to stay sober for the waga-idaga. After a drawn out bargaining with the General that went deep into the night, it was finally agreed between the two that 500 prisoners, with two dozens more thrown in for unexpected expenses, would be made available to General Manjus for his expenses. But believe me, Zemheret drove a hard bargain. The General tried to confuse him by calculating the price that each prisoner would fetch at the Rashaida market in Nakfa. No way, Jose! Our man from kifli bahli had done his homework; he calculated that, at minimum, one prisoner would fetch 30,000 US Dollar; and when all the miscellaneous expenses were accounted for, the General would net 15,000 US Dollars per head. Zemhret even managed to extract a joke, “And no taxation”, which didn’t go well with the soar-faced General who is known to be very hard on those irresponsible citizens who cheat on their taxes.
General Manjus was adamant on one condition: he wanted to make sure that each and every prisoner fetched from the prison did have a close family member in wetsai ahead of time; he even threatened to come back to make “two live ones for one dead” swap if some of his merchandize turned out to be damaged goods (that is, if the family member in wetsai was mean enough not to pay the ransom demanded, the Rashiada would definitely come back to the General for reimbursement of the bad merchandize they would have necessarily discarded by then.) As he informed Zemhret confidentially, “I have a reputation to keep; and in this business reputation is everything. How are the Rashaida going to trust me if I deliver to them damaged goods? I prefer writing them off from my own profit.” He added in a worried tone, “You know this business is getting cut-throat competitive, what with many colonels and generals demanding their cut.” Zemhret also, in his turn, begged the General to understand his plight: that he had yet to meet Il Capo di Capi on this matter! After which, both of them became sentimental remembering their good old mieda days. If the barista that was serving them is to be believed, both gentlemen were teary eyed as they raised their glasses in toast and clinched the deal with “awet n’hafash! widqet n’feshsfash!” But what reassured Zemhret that the General would honor his end of the bargain was when he soberly swore b’hidri suwuat.
As they were about to leave the bar, Zemhret suddenly looked worried as he realized that he had overlooked something important, “How could I have missed this? 524 is not a small number; someone from the prison authorities is apt to find out that they are missing as soon as I hand them over after the festival.”
General Manjus roared in laughter, “Do you know what teklit means. We keep reshuffling the prison population the way we used to reshuffle the army in ghedli era every now and then. And for the same reason: so that nobody would be aware of who is missing. This is especially so when big conferences or gubae were conducted; you know how the troublesome ones used to go back to their units with fancy ideas in their heads. How else do you think we kept ghedli pristine? I am sure that teklit will take place right after the festival; the authorities won’t pass this rare opportunity ... Lest you have a sleepless night though, let me provide you with this additional information, if it helps: every time a few hundred prisoners are taken out … let’s say … bidifunu … for miscellaneous purposes, the next week or so the concerned authorities make sure that the prisons get well restocked. Don’t worry; it won’t be hard to find 524 guilty Eritreans walking scot-free at this very moment. Leave the restocking part to me. After all, what are friends for …”
What a relief! Indeed, what are 524 ghebar, be it to be apprehended or sold, between friends …
That night Zemhret slept like a baby. To his surprise, it was in broad daylight that he found himself unexpectedly fighting his conscience. Truth be told, it didn’t sit well with his conscience that he would soon be handing over 524 prisoners to the merciless Manjus, although it mercifully waited till morning to start bothering him. Uncharacteristic of itself, it demanded an explanation. And it better be good, it added audaciously. After going over and over this unexpected hurdle in his mind for almost half the day, he suddenly shouted at his conscience, “After all, these are 524 martyrs, selflessly giving up their lives to the Greater Cause”. His conscience shouted back at him in a mocking voice, “They are not doing it willingly, are they? You are murdering them!” When he heard the word “murder”, the deeply offended Zemhret lashed out at his conscience, “Would you dare say that the tens of thousands peasants, forcibly rounded up by Shaebia throughout the 80s, were murdered? Eh? Would you dare defile those martyred by calling them murdered?” After which his conscience, shamed by this impeccable ghedli logic, entirely stopped nagging him on this minor issue.
Now, the deal with the General clinched on matters of zurya and his conscience forever silenced, it was matters of gold that was worrying Zemheret to death again. Fortunately for him, on that same day on his way to home, he had an epiphany. He grinned from ear to ear as he remembered the strategy that his old good friend from wetsai, an old friend from his Jebha days, now an ardent supporter of Shaebia, used to collect money for prisoners’ cause in Eritrea. It was a brilliant gimmick: “Adopt a prisoner for just a dollar a day.” Why not adopt that gimmick, thought Zemhret, amused by his plan that right there and then started fermenting in his head.
Adopt a prisoner for just a dollar a day
This muhur from wetsai (the learned man from diaspora) is a selfless patriot that is now working day and night for our Eritrea. One time, in one of his numerous visits to Eritrea, he heard that the government was straining itself in all ways imaginable to meet the demands of its ever-burgeoning prison system. As the prison population was mushrooming in leaps and bounds (what with all those subversive elements lurking everywhere), the government was doing its best to catch up with the national security demands.
As he solemnly swore that he would do his patriotic best to help the government, our muhur was going over and over the enormity of the mission that was awaiting him on his head, “Shaebia needs all the help it can get to take care of these tens of thousands of prisoners: to apprehend them, arrest them, transport them, house them, feed them, take care of their health, interrogate them, watch over them, indoctrinate them, torture them and sometimes even finish them off,” he said with relish. His tone took a noble turn as he added, “All of this will require a lot of money. If only the tens of thousands of Eritreans that will surely show up in the hizbawi mekete meetings that I will conduct in wettsai would just pitch in whatever they can, it would go a long way in meeting our government’s prison expenses for this year.”
If the cause was to appeal to diaspora Eritreans, he knew that he had to package it in a “personal” way; he knew from experience that abstract causes had no shelf life. But how? “I need faces!” he kept yelling at himself, but he found it impossible to provide a face to the beleaguered government. He even entertained the picture of our Beloved Leader, but knew from personal experience that that grim face elicits fear and terror, and at best respect, but never pity. What he needed was a tearjerker face, one that makes the donors open their wallets wide. He despaired for many days before that life-saver idea came to him late one night. You see our muhur is an insomniac (bizaiba adu bizuh sle zihasb) who often stayed late into the night watching TV. Of course, his favorite station had always been EriTv, but occasionally he used to stray gingerly into the territory of the imperialists. As he kept watching old Western movies, in the commercial time ….
Dear reader, if you are in the habit of watching TV late into the night as our muhur, you couldn’t have possibly missed many of the fund-raising schemes, where you are bombarded with images of poor children from Sub-Sahara Africa or South Asia or Latin America, often with sad eyes and amputated limbs. The usual pleading goes as follows: “Adopt a child with just a dollar a day!” This is not adoption in its normal sense. All that is required of you to “adopt” a child is to send thirty dollars a month, and all the material needs of the child would be met (you are reassured). In a similar fashion, our muhur wondered, why he shouldn’t use a similar gimmick among diaspora Eritreans: “Adopt a prisoner with just a dollar a day!” He now has found the perfect “human face” that would elicit the sympathy of diaspora Eritreans: that of the prisoners!
And if he was to “personalize” this endeavor maximally, there was no other way than to copy the well-honed gimmick of the NGOs in the child-adoption schemes: by establishing a virtual relationship between the adopter and the adopted. Given the distance and inaccessibility, the virtual way would be an ideal strategy that could be easily made to fit to the diaspora population. He knew this wouldn’t be a normal kind of relationship, not even a farfetched one. After all, all that the NGOs did was provide the sponsor with a photograph of the child to be “adopted,” a few details about his/her background, a sob story to accompany it with and, at most, a letter or two supposedly written by the child. He felt sure that this would be the only way he could provide “faces” with which the donors would be made to establish emotional link. Now, he felt damn sure that he would generate much more money taking this proven way. With the indispensable help of Shaebia, he would make sure that the prisoners would write those letters; of course, with a sad-looking photograph inserted in between.
At his most euphoric moments, he even kept on fantasizing, “If this campaign goes well, I could expand it so as to enable Shaebia to apprehend all the suspects now walking scot-free. If I could only come up with the money that takes care, say, of 50,000 prisoners – oh, that would be the day!”
And the rest, as they say, is history. Ever after this scheme was invented it never failed to generate hundreds of thousands of dollars of revenue year after year. Dear reader, if you see a new prison sprouting anywhere in Eritrea or the number of prisoners dramatically going up, we will have to thank all those patriotic diaspora Eritreans who promptly answered the patriotic call made by the Motherland: lomi zeyketete, bidewu kem zimote!
Now, dear reader, do you blame Zemhret for trying to copy our muhur’s gimmick? Besides, Zemhret was very much known for his teatsatsafinet (versatility or adaptability); he didn’t adopt the gimmick as it was. He knew that anything that remotely emulates NGOs was nonstarter within mainland Eritrea; the Capo would see to it that it get killed at the very start. On that same day, Zemhret had another epiphany, as he reminded himself bemusedly, “Come to think of it, we have been using this strategy throughout the struggle years. Does this ring any bells to you, Zemi: ‘A dollar a day for Dirar Teghadalay.’ Isn’t that how we used to collect money from diaspora Eritreans then?” And then, in another show of teatsatsafinet the amazed even him, he shouted, “Yes! Yes! I got it, ‘A dollar a day for Dirar Usur!’”
Once the whole mission was baptized as Dirar Ususr (Prisoner’s Dinner), Il Capo di Capi had no problem with it; and thereafter, worked like a charm. Our muhur too, not to be outdone, soon adopted the name, to the anger and frustration of Zemhret. But wherever and whenever and by whomever it was used, it became a screaming success. The key word in the strategy to be employed was, of course, teatsatsafinet ….
YPFDJ’s teatsatsafinet to the rescue
It was amazing to see how these two old friends kept inspiring one another. The brilliant muhur from wetsai soon came out with innovative ways to exploit the new name maximally. The first thing he did was to order thousands of T-shirts with Dirar Ususr printed boldly at the bottom. Why not in the middle, you might be wondering. Well, our muhur had even a better idea to cover that coveted VIP space: the face of a prisoner! And in order to extract the most sympathy, the most appealing pictures from the prisons of Eritrea were selected: haggard women with weary look in their eyes; half-starved, emaciated children; bony old men with crooked canes; fresh prisoners with festering wounds; young men crippled for life from beatings; and anyone who had lost a limb or two.
As it was usual in times of emergency that had to do with the security and sovereignty of the nation, the YPFDJ volunteered to entirely bear the burden of matters of T-shirts, which had always been their forte. Soon, they were in charge for the design, production, distribution and selling of these T-shirts. As for themselves, you ought to have seen them in one of their youth meketes, led by none other than Yemane Monkey, with their camicia nera and the photo of prisoners planted right in the middle, highlighted by a square white background – what a marvelous sight! And, staffed as it was with many muhuran, the YPFDJ soon came up with an equally marvelous marketing strategy. In fact, it was in their marketing strategy that their talent in teatsatsafinent became damn clear to all of us.
It all started with a totally unexpected, but welcome, move from the opposition. Ever alert for any signs of outside infiltration, it was not long before YPFDJ cadres noticed that some from the opposition were sneaking into their meetings and festivals. At first, they thought that they were there to pull off one of their usual stunts. They were wrong; a little patience on their side proved that these newcomers were there just to buy those irresistible T-shirts. Like any tsuruy eritrawi, they could not resist the temptation to chip in to alleviate the suffering of our prisoners. In fact, come to think of it, it would make more sense for the opposition to donate, given that it was they who had been incessantly complaining about the humanitarian plight of prisoners. And true to this spirit, those in the opposition who had been defending Eritrea against sanctions, argued along the same line: “if we go against Dirar Usur, the population group that will suffer most will be that of the prisoners.” Who could possibly argue against such impeccable ghedli logic?
After realizing the extent of their unexpected advance into the enemy territory this soon in the Dirar Usur campaign, the YPFDJ devised new ways to garner even more support from the opposition. The Shaebia youth’s teatsatsafinet was at its best when their marketing went demography-specific meant to appeal to particular population groups: when it comes to Tewahdo, they realized that not any picture would do but that of Patriarch Antonios! They even came up with a designer caption personalized to fit that irresistible photo: Dirar Abun. Even the most heartless Tewahdo could not deprive an old and ill Patriarch his dinner. When it came to the secular opposition, it had to be the faces of the G-11! And the photo of the smiling Aster Yohannes became a hit among women. In Sweden, the only T-shirt with a journalist’s face on it – that of Dawit Issac – became the rage among both supporters and the opposition, and they appropriately called it Dirar Gazetegna. Further, in one exceptional case of teatsatsafinet, the YPFDJ used a photo of one famous Evanglical church in Asmara with a huge chain girding it (appropriating the “Christ in Chains” phrase familiar to fellow Evangelists), instead of a prisoner’s face, to appeal to Evangelical Christians. And in the next day, piles of T-shirts were seen heading towards churches that Eritrean Evangelical Christians in diaspora congregated. This way, every time their teatsatsafinet took a new turn into the uncharted territory of the opposition, the PFDJ kept hitting one jackpot after the other.
All of this was resentfully registered by Zemhret, who was seething in anger as his strategy was hijacked by none other than his old muhur friend. He felt hopeless and helpless, “There is no way I can beat this two timer son of a [deleted], unless … unless …” The Green-eyed Monster had such a grip on him that it gave him such unheard of courage to write a letter of resignation: “Kubur President, unless EriTv is put at my disposal for the Dirar Usur Project, I am resigning from my post ...” To his pleasant surprise, the response was not only positive, but damn quick. You see, the President had been delighted to see the unusual amount of hard currency flowing into Shaebia’s coffers since this project started in diaspora. There was no way on earth that he would jeopardize it. He also knew from old experience that only if these two old friends were kept at each other’s throat that this money would keep flowing. As for the insubordination of Zemhret, this was not the time to deal with it.
The power of EriTv: the montage strategy
For kifli bahli, this was a great scoop. Now that Zemhret had the mighty EriTv and the entire prison system at his disposal, the question is how to use the two in synergy maximally. But where to begin?
If there was one thing that Zemhret learned from his diaspora friend, it was that he had to package his message by “personalizing” it. We have seen above how his friend did it: by establishing a “personal link” between the adopting donor and the adopted prisoner, the profiling of the adopted through photos and letters being the indispensable part of this strategy. Now, Zemhret knew that no such one-to-one connection was needed in his case; the power of the ubiquitous three-dimensional world the EriTv made such connection unnecessary. All he wanted was for the prisoners to make a direct appeal on the screen to the population for donations that would cover their celebratory expenses for that special day – T-shirts, drinks, food, music, guayla, parades, carnival, shows, etc. And he also knew, with a heavy heart, that the most difficult part would be how to make women part with their worqi shilimat just for a week; but, granted, not any week. If he could only find enough number of women that would be willing, at least, to share their worqi shilimat with the women prisoners for that special week of guaylas and festivities, he would be the happiest person on this side of Mereb River.
Zemhret knew that the appeal to the patriotism of adetat never failed before. But how to go about it in EriTv, was the question. Soon though, the brains in kifli bahli came together to come up with clever commercials whose montage strategy saved the day. In all the commercials, the present and the past where juxtaposed in such a way to produce maximum effect on the mind of viewers. When some prisoners were paraded for Dirar Usur on the TV screen, old footages of teghadelti marching were also superimposed on it, with mention of Dirar Teghadalay interjected along both marches so that the viewer would have a hard time differentiating between the two. When crippled prisoners, preferably those who lost a limb or two, were paraded on the screen, an old footage (always in black and white, even when it was staged) of sunkulan teghadelti was also shown, with the word “meswaitinet thrown in now and then to confound any distinction that might occur to the viewer. When child-prisoners with rugged clothes were paraded, child soldiers either in Biet-Timhirti Sewra or with Ak-47 slung along their shoulders were shown. And when the cameras focused on women prisoners with unkempt and disheveled hair, EriTv went automatically back to ghedli era to get similar footages of women teghadelti in Afro hairdo. Oh, the power of dragging the past into the present …The adetet, who were initially on the imimim and qurimrim modes, melted like [deleted] when they saw all this, and weriqi gobagub and werqi ktisha began to pile up at no time.
As for the money needed for the Festival Sahel Independence Day, most of it poured in from diaspora. Diaspora Eritreans, who had never failed before to respond tothe call of the Motherland, were at their generous best when they heard that this time around it was about prisoners having a fun time of their prison lives. And for the regime supporters, who had been unfairly maligned time and again for being insensitive to the plight of prisoners, this was a rare opportunity to display their humanitarian side. Moreover, the human infrastructure already put in place in “Adopt a prisoner for just a dollar a day” campaign was instrumental in expediting the whole process (despite the muhur’s initial reluctance to cooperate).
That Zemhret’s EriTv strategy was a screaming success could be seen from the fact that his old friend, the muhur from wetsai, never spoke to him again. But if you want to see the success in real time, you ought to have watched the concert that was broadcasted live in EriTv on Independence Day – courtesy of eastafro.com and meskerem.net.
Festival Sahel
Nobody really knows how the Grand Festival that the prisoners staged came to be known as Festival Sahel; although, given all the connotations the term “Sahel” carried, it turned out to be the perfect name. Whatever name it would have been given though, one thing should be made clear from the outset: those who have been defaming ghedli for running away from its roots were put to shame by the spectacular bahlawi show that kifli bahli pulled off on that day. All the prisoners, more than 10,000 of them, were gathered at the center of historic Sahel, surrounded by the forbidding mountains that had made it a Great Fortress at times of ghedli. No one could have done a better job of choosing the right site for such a patriotic day.
Kifli bahli made sure that everything that was made available to the Asmara festival was also made available to Festival Sahel. First and foremost, given that the two festivals were taking place at the same time, the Asmara Festival was only intermittently broadcasted to provide enough air time for Festival Sahel. As for the rest, it was all there in EriTv: exquisite parades, with improvised floats pulled by the prisoners; marching prisoner bands in impressive uniforms; a choreographed march in the shape of aba gobye slowly snaking its way forward; cultural performances of the tshiate biherat, with an array of ethnic attires, music and dance that attest to the plurality practiced in the prison system of Eritrea; sport activities that testified to the physical fitness of the prisoners; prisoner musicians serenading the audience into a patriotic frenzy; an amazing drama, titled suwue embi ayzarebn ilu, written, acted and directed by the prisoners; etc.
The drama: suwue embi ayzarebn ilu
I don’t want to spoil it to would-be viewers by going over the details of the drama; for those who haven’t watched it in EriTv on Independence Day, kifli bahli has announced that it will soon be made available in DVD, and will be promptly distributed in diaspora. Here, I would like to describe only the scene that gave it its title, “suwue embi ayzarebn ilu”. Towards the end of the play, we are made to follow scores of prisoner-actors (acting as ghebar) in a succession of scenes: as they rush into the martyrs’ graveyard with shovels, spades, axes, crowbars, etc hoisted high above their heads; as they keep ferociously digging out the coffins from the graves; as they use their crowbars to forcibly open those dusty coffins; and, finally, as they collectively confront the dug out skeletal martyrs.
The ghebar then humbly, almost apologetically, ask the martyrs, “It is only because we have utterly despaired in finding a satisfactory answer to this most important of questions that we have dug you up: what was your hidri, that Eritrean dream, for which you gave your life?”
The martyred replied in a bemused tone, “You have to disturb us from our eternal peaceful sleep to ask us this most foolish of questions? It is true that there are tens of thousands of us that are dead and buried. But there are also tens of thousands more that have survived us. If you cannot find that hidri among the tens of thousands of living teghadelti who survived us, why do you expect to find it among us the dead teghadelti? And if you have already found the dream among the living, what is the need for sacrilegiously digging us up? If you found the answer among the living to be discordant, why do you expect a harmonious one from the dead? And if you find the hidri among the living wanting, and not to your measure, why do you think that we the dead would make up the difference? After all, we too had been flesh-and-blood living creatures like them before we turned dead and got buried here. If we didn’t have that hidri to your liking while walking alive, why do you think we would acquire it after we died?”
The ghebar do not know what to say, except to look at each other foolishly with glazed eyes. The martyred continue, “We have been turning in our graves every time you invoke our names to find justification for your own concocted and perverted dreams. You have been putting words in our mouths, to then audaciously claim ’suwue tezaribu.’ As if that has not been enough, now you have to dig us up to ask us this inane question! Can’t you leave us in peace?”
The ghebar keep opening their mouth wide, but nothing comes out of it. The dead keep on talking in that same quiet but reproachful tone, “You don’t seem to realize how morbid your enquiry is. If you believe that it is only us the martyred that truly know, then it follows that you are wishing the death of the living teghadelti for them to truly know. We can imagine you coming back 30 years from now, when all of those who have survived us are dead, to ask them the same stupid question. Why is it that you don’t ay something, or is it you who are truly dead? Say something or disappear, you the living dead!”
Still, nothing comes out from the ghebars’ mouth, even though one could discern from the accompanying facial expressions and hand gestures that they are trying their best to express their utter puzzlement. The scene ends with the martyred, unimpressed with the miming performance of the living, picking up the shovels, spades, axes and crowbars that have been laying on the ground, and chasing the ghebar out of the graveyard, shouting in a booming voice, “Get out of here, or we will bury you with us, you living dead, you fools, imbeciles, idiots, morons …” The crowd, which until that moment had been watching with grave and awed silence, kept applauding, hooting and whistling as the ghebar kept running at ighrey awtsi’ni speed. And that is how the play dramatically ends.
Musicians and journalists
As for the prison musical bands, it would be unfair if I pass without mentioning that Zemhret did try his best to convince the Committee of Prisoners for Independence Day Anniversary Festival (popularly known as CPIDAF) that it would be better to invite some of the great musicians that Eritrea was blessed with from outside their prison system for this grand festival. To his surprise, they were adamant on this point; they wouldn’t have it any other way than the self-reliant way. And true to their promise, at no time, they were able to assemble a band from scratch, and called it Dirar Ertra, in a reciprocal gesture for Dirar Usur. And the band didn’t fail us, the most memorable song to come out of it being aynk’ilon do’ilknanaye ’ti gudayna (which, incidentally, also happens to be the favorite song of the opposition – indeed, hade hizbi, hade libi), Of course, when this self reliant spirit of the prisoners was pushed too far Zemhret felt uncomfortable, but there was no way of stopping it without derailing the whole campaign. He had to reluctantly give in to the committee’s demand that the prisoners provide their own journalists too to report on this grand event in EriTv, as it convincingly argued:
“Dear Zemhret, we know that your offer to bring musicians from outside the prison system was out of the goodness of your heart, in that you felt that we don’t have musicians talented enough to meet the demands of such historically important event. But you couldn’t possibly argue along the same line when it comes to journalists. You know more than anybody else that the most talented journalists are to be found among us prisoners. In fact, in light of what free Eritrea has been generously providing us, we implore you to accept our humble offer: since we have more than enough well experienced journalists to cover the festival event in Sahel, we have decided to lend a few of them to cover the Asmara event too.”
Even though Zemhret’s heart almost gave out, his response was diplomacy at its best, “Although I am touched by your offer, I don’t want to deprive you from the little you have. Already, you are doing a lot for Eritrea.” Even as he declined their generous offer, given their impeccable logic there was no way he could deny them from covering their event with their own journalists – another devastating blow to all those humanitarian and opposition groups that have been pestering our government on the journalists’ disappearance. In fact, none other than Dawit Issac, in flesh and blood, was assigned to do the best part of the reporting …
Guayla and sport activities
I don’t want to bore you by going through the details of all the festivities of Festival Sahel, but I would feel that I have failed my patriotic duty as an authentic Eritrea if I don’t mention the most important part: guayla! All Eritreans in mainland Eritrea and across the globe were glued to their TV as thousands of prisoners, all in hand- and leg-chains, were dancing round and round in the football stadium size dancing floor. But why in chains, the nosey ones among you may want to know. You see, dear reader, true to the self-reliant spirit that permeated the festival, the committee had come up with this wonderful idea of prisoners policing themselves. Even though the police prisoners were themselves in chains, you could easily recognize them by the camicia nera that the YPFDJ provided them with, and by the equally black batons they carried in their handcuffed hands. Of curse, the prisoners were free – that is, there were no security apparatus in or out of the concert to supervise over them; none whatsoever – but it was felt necessary that they remain hand- and leg-chained for their own safety. Besides, the chains in between the limbs were long enough for the prisoners to easily maneuver in the dancing floor, thereby rendering the old communist saying, “Proletariat of the world, you have nothing to lose but your chains” silly and unnecessary. Besides it being for their own safety – in the sense that it not only protected them from each other’s harm, but also from self-inflicted ones – if they could easily maneuver in the dancing floor, what for would they need to unchain themselves? Enough of this communist or liberal nonsense that finds no currency in exceptional Eritrea!
Dear reader, if I am to surmise from your bemused look and shaking head, you don’t look convinced at all. Well, let me try for the last time to make you see that these chains were designed in such a way as to never interfere with the freedom of movement of the prisoners, but of course without infringing on the freedom of others (in fact, I would even dare call them “freedom chains”). This freedom was exhibited at its best in the sport activities that the prisoners conducted. Dear reader, if you had followed these sport activities in EriTv, you would be impressed by the remarkable dexterity that the chained prisoner athletes displayed in various games: jumping, javelin-throwing, ground tennis, volleyball, basketball, soccer, boxing, wrestling, running, cycling, etc. But the sport that drew the most applause was gymnastics. And it was for a reason, for the wonder kids that delighted the audience with their acrobatic talents had growen up in Biet Maesrti Sewra, the place where all the child prisoners got their prison schooling. It was amazing to see these wonder kids doing both forward and backward somersaults, turning 360 degrees in the air; and, what was more astounding, doing the double and triple flip; all the time getting in and out of their chains like Houdini. At no time did the chains come on their way to impede their movements; occasionally there was a stumble here and there, but that is to be expected even among unchained athletes. The sport activities spectacularly ended with the marathon. Amazingly enough, the man who won the race had the same name as Mebrahtom Keflezighi (even called himself Meb), the man who won the Boston Marathon, and finished at the exact same running time of 2:08:37 – too many coincidences, if you ask me …
At last, dear reader, now that you are nodding your head in agreement, let me rush back to the dance floor, tsehay keyarebet. What a sight! This is what I call a sight to keep for posterity. If I am to describe it in one sentence, I would say that the whole scene was enveloped in a romantic aura, with all the senses assaulted in the most delightful way to remind us of all the living, the chained and the dead. As thousands pairs of feet, with chains dragging along the way, stamped the dirt dancing floor in the open, a thick dusty cloud that never left the scene was hovering above to give it the feel of otherworldliness. Besides the full-blast blaring of the music, the ears were bombarded by the clapping of the iron handcuffs and the rattling of the chains that somehow translated into a heavy metal presence throughout the festival. And for some dusty but welcome reason, everything that the prisoners ate – zighni, derho, zihla, humuto, tibsi, fitfit, alicha, shiro, tumtumo, ades, hamli, pasta, salata and the most delicious one, tsahli-sahel – had this earthy taste that reminded everyone of the sweet but short life. And with all the sweating that the kudas and sibras exacted on each and every dancer, the open-air dancing floor was much appreciated for not letting them smell one another, as they did in their overcrowded cells.
Then there was the amazing show on the stage, where the dancing troupe kept delighting the audience by their ethnic dances. Let me limit myself to the star of the show, an exotically beautiful and exceptionally talented lady that kept the audience riveted by her dance moves, despite the fact that she too was hand- and leg-chained. But, realizing ahead of time that she would be the star of the show, kifli bahli made sure that her chains would be exceptional. Dear readers, hold on fast to your seats as I tell you this: those chains were made out of pure gold, authentic Bisha gold! Again, this wise move on our government’s side renders the old communist saying “Proletariat of the world, you have nothing to lose but your chains” silly and unnecessary, for Marx (or was it Lenin) couldn’t have foreseen chains made out of pure gold when he uttered that nonsense. Maneuvering dexterously in between the chains, the Lady with Golden Chains (as she came to be known) delighted her near and far audiences as she danced in nine different ways, representing the nine ethnic groups. But the most memorable moment, played and replayed by EriTv was the sibra part when every one joined in chibcheba as she shook her shoulders as if possessed. Dear reader, if you think that clapping with hands does justice to Tigrigna guayla, please think again; the most gorgeous clapping ever heard was when thousands of pairs of iron handcuffs joined in earth-shattering chibcheba.
I see, dear reader, something is bothering you. You are asking: what was all the fuss about gold jewelry if the only thing we have seen made of gold was that of chains? Well, you need to come closer, in the dancing floor, to see all the werqi shilimat mentioned above in spectacular display.
Close-up: worqi shilimat on display
I bet you that those who think worqi shilimat is an excess in nationalist festivities must have not set foot to a single guayla out of the many patriotic festivals that grace the Eritrean calendar in their abundance. If they did, they would have noticed how gold jewelry dazzled the onlookers from all possible angles in both patriotic and mundane ways.
First and foremost, the necklaces: there was the veteran gobagub expansively covering the breasts, large and small alike; and for those that believed “less is better”, there were stellini and seleste shimghile lightly dangling from the neck. Then came the earrings: two balls of kutshas conspicuously adorning the ears; and, again, for those who believed “less is better”, there were the smaller options of suqurien, adri, telal, afro and walta demurely covering the earlobes; and for those who believed “even more is better”, there was the unfailing torta, concentric layers of gold in the image of the wedding cake mercilessly pulling the earlobes down. Then there was the unique misginet, a gold collar clasping slender necks in a tender chokehold, with spikes of gold highlighting it. There were also those indispensable katem in three or four fingers vying for attention by their sheer incongruity, with the obnoxious zibto outperforming all the rest. Going down in each arm were a dozen or so of werki bracelleti jingling and clanking joyously, especially at times of sibra and chibcheba; and for those who wanted all the bracelleti gold rolled into one fat arm adornment, there was ambar-id. If you happen to be a leg man, you would be occasionally rewarded by ambar-igri gracing slender ankles, as your eyes follow the lady behind in kuda. If you were one of those who go ethnic on such occasions, nose-piercing had become the newest thing to do, with inkilils of worqi on display nose to eyeball. And if this happened to be your lucky day, dear fellow nationalist, you might see nay kisad in the shape of Eritrea dangling from werqi senselet. But the most impressive development in matters of werqi shilimat were the ones that had come to fully invade the hair: worki senselet that crisscrossed the head intricately, as if in some kind of wiring known to the expert only; werqi ghimbar that covered the entire forehead, as if it was a piece of medieval armory; and various other mini-adornments that kept clinging on to the hair for dear life. No wonder that the most frequent songs that the women demanded were werqi hizaba and b’zuryachi kolel beli, to the chagrin of the more nationalistic ones (and they happened to be all men!) who often overruled them to play the hard core, X-rated patriotic songs.
All of this talk about werqi shilimat would be incomplete if I fail to mention one category, for it happened to contribute a lot to the dazzling smiles of the ladies (and, sometimes, men) concerned as no other jewelry did: worqi sini, preferably sini number 7 or 11 or both. Dear reader, you would appreciate my resorting to dentists’ language for precision purposes if you realize that there were some few foolish women who have turned sini number 28 or 29, way back in the kurumti section, golden. Tell me, who, except their dentist, would be able to notice that? After all, isn’t all the jewelry out there for public display?
The food scandals
What would such an amazing festival be without a scandal? So let me go over two little scandals regarding the menu mentioned above, but quickly resolved with the usual teatsatsafinet of the authorities in charge of the festival.
The kitfo scandal
Dear reader, the astute fellow that you are, you couldn’t have failed to notice the conspicuous absence of kitfo from the menu provided in Festival Sahel that I mentioned above: zighni, derho, zihla, humuto, tibsi, fitfit, alcha, shiro, tumtumo, ades, hamli, pasta, and salata. You couldn’t also have missed the conspicuous presence of an authentic Eritrean dish you might have never heard of before: tsahli-sahel. The gossip in me finds it hard to bypass this incident that involves kitfo and tsahli-sahel ...
You know, in Eritrea, even such trivial matters of kitfo and zihla have to be democratically discussed before they find their way to the dining table. After much frank and unfettered discussion among the committee members of CPIDAF, it was decided that kitfo and zihla should be banned from the menu of the festival for not being authentically Eritrean on this most Eritrean of days. True, there was a lot of pressure from Zemhret , who in turn was pressured from above to reign on the expenses that were honestly getting out of hand.
When the prisoners, who had never eaten meat in their incarceration days, heard that there would be no kitfo or zihla, a riot broke out, one that could have easily morphed into an Eritrean version of Arab Spring had it not been handled wisely (as our government did in the Forto case). You see, since the time the idea of a festival for prisoners had been made to float around, all the prisoners – and I mean without a single exception – had been dreaming of nothing else but of kitfo and zihla. Although the prisoners terribly missed the faces of their dear ones – of a parent, a spouse, a son or daughter, a friend, a lover, etc – that used to crowd their dreams every night, those beloved faces were suddenly wiped out to be unceremoniously replaced by big chunks of zihla and piles of kitfo. So much so … wait till you hear this … that in one of the regularly held nikhat meetings, when a cadre asked the attending prisoners what the martyrs’ dream was all about, one fool blurted it all out, “kitfo and zihla”, to everyone’s hooting delight. But for the no-nonsense Shaebia cadre, hatseyawi hilmi (or as his Jebha counterpart would have preferred to put it, embaratoryawi hilmi) was not a laughing matter.
Nevertheless, it was the riot and the hatseyawi hilmi that convinced the authorities to relent – well, to half-relent. A compromise was struck: zihla was in, kitfo was out. After a lot of discussion, zihla was found out to be an authentically Eritrean dish, to the surprise of everyone concerned. As the same cadre put in another nikhat meeting, “Tell me, is there a Tigrigna word for kitfo? None! Niente! As for zihla, we don’t say gored-gored or whatever the Amharas call it – zihla is pure authentic Eritrean Tigrigna.” Even though the prisoners stoically accepted this explanation, hard as they tried they could not stop dreaming of kitfo. True, zihla never made it back to their dreams after being reinstated into the menu, but kitfo … oh dear … it came back in all its variations (kitfo leb leb, tirye kitfo, tibs kitfo, guragie kitfo, kitfo with ayib, kitfo with gomen, kitfo with mitmita, etc), as if in vengeance.
The authorities didn’t want to take a chance, and decided to nip the problem at the bud before it turned into an epidemic. “If they dream of kitfo now, who is to say that they won’t dream of andnet tomorrow,” they worried themselves to death. In the end, they reluctantly decided to seek help from one mihirti (by the way, this too was from wetsai), who convinced the authorities not to resort to the proven ways of mieda – interrogation, isolation, torture, execution, etc – at least not until the festival was over and done. Instead, she informed them that she will use her highly successful therapy skills to get rid of these dreaded dreams from the prison camps at no time; and, more importantly, at no cost to the authorities.
In the many therapy sessions that this mihirti soon conducted, she used the “associative method” that she was famously known for in America to effectively chase those dreaded kitfo dreams out of the prisoners’ heads. She knew that Eritreans loved their land to death – la nostra terra! She argued with herself, “I can understand how the prisoners easily traded the faces of their beloved ones for zihla and kitfo in their dreams, but they will never, never do that with their land. After all, hasn’t the Badme affair been about land over people?” An ingenious solution was to follow this admirable logic. She selected two irresistible land scenes that were meant to replace kitfo in the dreams: lemlem Ertrana and gobotat Sahel; the former selected for the soothing effect such greenery would elicit, the latter selected for patriotic reasons.
After a few sessions, and the dreamed up dreams in between, the prisoners were asked if they had successfully replaced lemlem Ertra for kitfo in their dreams. A few hands went enthusiastically up. Our mihirti was delighted, in fact was beyond herself, that her therapy was starting to get results so early in the therapeutic process. Not so fast! It didn’t take long for the ever-alert cadre to notice that all those hands that went up in the air so nostalgically belonged to amiches! Hmmm … began to growl the cadre … “So now you are dreaming of Gojjam and Shoa …” The lemlem Ertra association was instantly made to disappear, so were the amiches that dared to dream beyond Mereb.
Undaunted, our mihirti focused on gobotat Sahel to save the day, as the gobotat did their own saving in times of sewra. She associated every hill or mountain with a certain battle. Not only were the stories of these glorious battles – Nadew, Wukaw Iz, Selahta, Key Kokob, Bahr-Negash, etc – told and retold to the prisoners, famous patriotic songs that mention these battles were played and replayed. And most importantly, slide pictures of these noble mountains – Gelie, Arag, Gerger, Fah, Nakfa, Himbol, Kertset, Arareb, Ebmalko, Rora, Denden, Fidel Pe (T), Spartacus, Sulfur, Biddho, etc – were made available as the stories were told and the songs were played in a three-way association. After being bombarded with all these visual, auditory and oratory stimuli, the prisoners were told in no uncertain terms to start dreaming of gobotat Sahel instead of kitfo. They were told to repeat after her, “kitfo wusae, gobo uto!” And, after going through this grueling therapy, they didn’t fail her; for all the prisoners without exception reported to one another that they had been dreaming for days only of gobotat; and for that, of gobotat Sahel! She couldn’t have hoped for more. The problem was that none of the prisoners, who were admitting that this miracle did happen to one another, would dare admit it in front of her. Oh, dear, what could have gone wrong this time?
Dear reader, it is with heavy heart that I am sharing this information: It is true that all the prisoners invariably dreamt of the towering gobotat Sahel in all their grandeur – distant, but vivid enough to be engraved in their minds (and later on, in their eyes). In their patriotic zeal, as soon as they detected a silhouette of a mountain afar in their dream, the prisoners kept running and running to reach it (and you know how difficult running could be in a dream). But as they came close enough to touch the mountain, they would realize that the whole gobo was made out of kitfo! Even the formidable Fidel Pe, that T-shaped miles and miles long trench that had seen many battles was filled to its brim with kitfo. Delighted, they would kneel down to position themselves well and dip their hands – no, no, their faces – deep into the mountain; and, unfortunately, as all reported rather gloomily, it was at that very moment that they kept waking up from their nightmares. Now, tell me dear reader, befeterh Amlak, how were they supposed to tell this to our mihirti, let alone to the dreaded cadre? They knew in their heart of hearts that turning the heroic Sahel mountains into piles of kitfo, and then burying one’s face into them in joy and abandon, was nothing short of treason. This was even worse than temberkachnet, for it involved diving into the mountain of kitfo head first, above and over the kneeling down! Unfortunately for them, this was a secret too vivid to be kept, for their reddened eyes (that is, kitfo-red) were soon to betray them in broad daylight.
You see, after seven days of consecutive mountains-of-kitfo recurrent dreams, something metaphysically inexplicable happened to the eyes of the prisoners: the images of mountains of kitfo, as in negatives of a photo, lingered in their eyes long after they woke up. Whatever washing with salted water and squeezing out with tears they tried didn’t help. It didn’t take long for our astute cadre to notice this. At first, he was confused, for the images were in upside down format. But it didn’t take him long to wash the negatives in his darkened head, and straighten the gobotat Sahel up.
Immediately, an emergency meeting was called, with three interest parties eyeing each other eyeball to eyeball: the CPIDAF, Zemhret and the cadre. The cadre, after ranting about saboteurs and the revolution for few minutes, came up with a nice solution that satisfied everybody, “The only way we could get rid of the negatives in the eyes of the prisoners is if we put back kitfo into the menu. In fact, I am surprised that you didn’t include it in the first place. After all, this is an authentically Eritrean dish; the problem is with the name only.” To avoid total encirclement, Zemhret, who was on the defensive until this point, quickly added, “Well then, dreaming of mountains of kitfo is an Eritrean dream too, thanks to gobotat of Sahel that inspired these dreams. If you would allow me, let me suggest that from now on we call kitfo ‘Sahel’, the same we did with the currency when we called it Nakfa.” After seeing the enthusiasm with which this suggestion was accepted by the committee members, the cadre accepted it grudgingly. But he wanted to have the last word, “Although an excellent idea, somehow ‘Sahel’ standing on its own doesn’t sound like a dish; let’s call it, instead, tsahli-sahel”. This was followed by a spontaneous applause, for it seemed to all concerned just the right name for a tasteful authentic Eritrean dish to be called.
The mihirti, who was by then running from one office to another trying to convince authorities that she was a certified expert on recurrent dreams, was relieved to hear that all ended well. Having had two close calls in short time though, she soon boarded a plane and left the country, never to be back again. Although her original plan was to stay over for the festival, the disappearance of the amiches had had a sobering effect on her.
Well then, everything that ends well is well. Not exactly … even though it somewhat did end well, there was a minor scandal – within the food territory, again – that almost derailed the major achievements registered in the kitfo affair. This time around, it had to do with pasta … yes, good old pasta.
The pasta scandal
When the festival was in full swing, it didn’t take long for our ever-alert cadre to note that no one among the prisoners, none at all, was touching the exotic pasta dishes that were laid out on huge long tables. Nothing was lacking, dear reader; it was Italian cuisine at its best: Fetucini Alfredo, Tagliatelle al pomodoro, Tagliatelle ai funghi, Pasta al pesto, Pasta Primavera, Pasta fagioli, Lasagne, Tortelini all zucca, Spaghetti all Puttanesca, Spaghetti alla Bolognese, Spaghetti all’ aglio, Casserole Spaghetti, Spaghetti alla Carbonara, Ravioli con la ricotta, Pansotti alla Genovese, Cannellioni ai carciofi, Rigatoni all pajata, Cappellini pomedoro, Penne all’arrabbiata, etc. Although the prisoners kept eying this gourmet parade that rivaled Babette’s Feast almost lustfully, with their tongues smacking their dirty chins and running noses in involuntary licks, none would dare touch it. And when asked by the authorities for explanation, each one of them would turn his/her head in contempt – as in offended dignity – and walk away with their heads up. The authorities were simply dumbfounded. And our cadre was actually thinking the unthinkable, “Are they preferring Ethiopian food to Itali