After we had filled our containers with water filtered using some contraption the Somalis had obtained from their Soviet suppliers, we rushed back to the base and informed the front of our discovery. There wasn’t even time for a bath, as it was growing dark. When we arrived, a large group of men was sent, with donkeys and camels bearing huge receptacles, to collect more water.
* * *
FOOD WAS SOMETHING I had worried about long before leaving home. It wasn’t that I had a special liking for anything, so much as I tend to be particular about all things I eat. I had broken bread with Somali friends numerous times, and knew that our foods were, for the most part, similar. But I didn’t know what to expect in the field. In Jijiga, when a dish is called Christian or Muslim, it refers to the meat that is used in the stew. Muslims, like Christians, offer prayers over the animal before slaughtering it. These few ritualistic words, uttered more out of tradition than conviction, are the most divisive. Christians and Muslims maintain separate abattoirs, butchers, meat-caterers, restaurants and kitchens, at a respectable distance from one another. The majority of the Somalis of Jijiga, like their Christian counterparts, are not fervent in their beliefs, observing the major religious events like Ramadan the way that even lukewarm Christians will observe Christmas. Even at these times Christians and Muslims commingle, sharing food (except meat) and festivities alike.
I had often wondered why such rituals were significant only when they involved meat, and not other foods, like festival bread, which is also prayed over before being broken. When I asked Mam, she replied that the meat, owing to the simple prayers uttered before slaughter, changed in texture, taste and delectable qualities. She had never touched Muslim meat, but was certain that it had an earthy, flat flavour to it. Mam claimed that she could tell a piece of Muslim meat from three metres, though I did not put her to the test.
Mam did not mind that I ate Muslim meat. She only warned me never to bring it home to her, and to scrub my hands cleaner than the cat before returning from such a meal. When I invited my Muslim friends home to lunch or dinner, Mother never alluded to our religious differences; she simply treated my friends as she would her own children.
* * *
THE MAIN DIET among the rebels was sorghum grain, soaked in raw milk, with, if you were lucky, a touch of unclarified butter and a dash of sugar. Occasionally, there was a piece of barbecued camel meat to share. Most of the foodstuffs were either bought from, or donated by, the nomads. It was the rebels’ policy not to rob their own people.
Sorghum and maize are the two grains cultivated in Ogaden. Even by Ethiopia’s standards, the farming is primitive. There are no yoked bulls or horses to open the earth before planting the seed; no weeding; no tilling the soil to aerate the ground once the seed has germinated. In Ogaden, farming is typically a one-man venture.
Shortly before the rainy season commences, the nomads begin to stake out their territory. Caravans of camels laden with all the worldly possessions of each nomad arrive at their staked lot. The women unload the camels and in a matter of minutes assemble their huts—slender wooden domes covered over with leather. Within a fortnight, the dusty fields of Ogaden, once barren and utterly desolate, teem with life. The landscape, once a dusty plain with nothing to relieve the eye, is dotted with intricately crafted “nomad helmets.”
After the first rain, the clay dust settles, the ground cracks and breathes, and life begins to press up into the sun. These grounds are among the most fertile in Africa, and a mere twenty-four hours after the first drop of precious rain touches the earth, the land is felted over with green. The nomads emerge from their helmet-shaped huts, pointed stick in one hand, bag of seeds in the other. They walk their parcel of land, end to end, stabbing the earth with the stick, dropping a single seed and, in a barely perceptible motion, covering the seed over with their heel. For the next few days each nomad-turned-farmer repeats this unvarying routine from dawn to dusk. For as far as the eye can see, this strange halting dance is performed simultaneously by hundreds of stoop-backed men, peering earthwards, stabbing and scattering without pause. To the casual observer, it looks like the fields of Ogaden have been overrun by a colony of lunatics, all under the delirious influence of an identical disease.
The nomads remain with their crops until they are two feet high, keeping them safe from winged predators. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they disappear from sight, domed frames neatly bound to the backs of camels. No trace is left of their residence save for the green fields. During the coming months, the domesticated plants will fight the persistent weeds and survive the occasional rolling assault of wild animals on their own. Shortly before harvest, the nomads return.
There is no communal effort involved in the harvesting of the plants either. Each nomad prepares his own storage bin, carefully digging a hole in the ground—a single small opening at the surface, and a deep protected belly in the earth. The bin is lined with wet ash, to protect the seed from insects. Then, after deducting a few sacks of grain for the market and his own consumption, the nomad stores the rest in this bulb-shaped recess, sealing the mouth with a lid and covering it over with dirt.
Once again, the camps are gone, and the landscape reverts to its original condition. There is no trace of the previous occupants to be found. Dust quickly settles over the small mounds of earth marking the scattered bins that lie just under the surface, making them indistinguishable from the numerous molehills that ravage the land. A few months later, the nomad will return to dig up his stored grains. He will use his pointed stick and a couple of distant landmarks to establish the location of his bin, triangulating between them. After removing the first few inches of dirt, he verifies that he is not breaking into another’s property; then he bails out the recess and fills his sacks with grain, leaving a scattering of seeds for the coming rainy season. For the remainder of the year, the nomad will live off his cattle, fervently reminding his God to bring rain.
* * *
AFTER WE HAD lived among the rebels for two weeks, a decision was reached by the leaders as to the status of the newcomers. The numbers of male and female refugees of all ages who were coming to the front had been growing at an exponential rate. The situation was already critical; normal activities had been halted, security had been compromised, and an urgent solution was needed if the rebel army was going to continue.
The organization tentatively picked some of the newcomers as potential members, and allowed others to remain with them while they secured a safe passage to Somalia, where they would remain as refugees. Whether or not someone was awarded a firearm depended on how well he spoke the Somali language, and how well he could recite passages from the Holy Koran.
Wondwossen and I had joined up with four other boys, natives of Jijiga. Three were local Somalis; one was from the Adere ethnic group; and Wondwossen was Amhara, like me. The others, excepting Wondwossen and myself, were all Muslims, though none of us practised religion. All of the group, except for me, spoke excellent Somali, and so our group was accepted by the rebels.
Each of us was issued a carbine rifle and two rounds of ammunition. The guns were very old and often jammed when they were fired successively, leaving us with a general sense of anxiety. Hussain had promised to get us replacements, but they had never materialized. Perhaps the matter was out of his hands.
The first three months of our existence at the front were filled with excitement and anticipation. We were constantly on the move and took part in a number of dramatic and daring actions involving army convoys heading south. We were not able to claim a major military victory, but that didn’t matter much at the time. We were satisfied that we were able to settle some old scores with the junta.
* * *
WONDWOSSEN AND I were separated about four months after we joined the front. He was sent to the eastern highlands.
Approximately a month later, my group mounted an impressive mission against an Ethiopian Army training camp in Chinaksen. A week before D-day, the activities in our
camp had reached a fever pitch. We had been told of the imminence of a mission, and knew it was serious, but only the top commanders were privy to the actual target and date of attack.
Chinaksen was an eight-hour walk from the recent rebel base. Before reaching the target, we had to cross several mountains and pass through dangerously open terrain. The day before the attack, many of the Somali rebels smuggled themselves and their rifles into town, unbeknownst to the Ethiopian Army. It is not unusual for nomads travelling in twos and threes to pass into any city in Ogaden, and the disguised rebels had hidden their armaments under a pile of firewood carried on the back of a camel, where no one would think to look.
On D-day, at about 3 A.M., the big guns were drawn closer to the army barracks, mines were dug into the road leading out of town, and we took up our strategic positions and waited for the signal. At the first sound of machine-gun fire and mortar explosions, the alarm bell in the training camp was sounded. Conscripts, dressed only in their underwear, ran from the dormitories in panic. Many held their clothes in their hands, dragging them across the dusty ground, as they ran about the compound to escape the fire. The guns were locked away in the depot each night, and those unarmed boys were massacred by the dozens. If a boy raised his hands in submission, this sad gesture was the last he would make. The guerrillas took no prisoners.
After the training camp was bombed, machine-gunned and burned, we walked downtown, shooting our guns in the air, at village houses and at the church. Then the Somalis among us began to hunt for dogs. They were still smiling from the pleasure of victory as they killed the animals. Not angry or twisted smiles, as one might expect, but smiles that would be appropriate during some festivity, smiles I had taken pleasure in on long afternoons, when Hussain told his fantastic stories. The faces of these men conveyed no hint of the brutality of their hands.
Within a matter of hours, a village that had once been considered an island of peace had been devastated. When we left Chinaksen, a terrible silence hung over the remains of the camp and the streets of the town.
My friends and I were silent on the way to the rebel camp. We reminded ourselves that these boys had been training to be soldiers who would one day be at war with us. But it was impossible to reconcile a future possibility with the terror marking faces that still bore the vestiges of childhood. We had watched them run for cover, terrified and half-dressed, only to be slaughtered. What had occurred defied all logic, defied our comprehension.
The dogs had become eerily quiet the moment machine guns and mortar fire broke the night, and remained silent even as the rebels hunted them with the same determination that had strewn the training compound with the bodies of the dead. Somalis, perhaps because of their faith, have always abhorred dogs. They refer to these animals as Haram (cursed) and do not own them as pets. Street dogs are not treated well anywhere, but in the Muslim quarter they are stoned, starved, and forced, through adversity, into showing their true animal nature.
* * *
AFTER BURNING DOWN the Chinaksen training camp, we retreated to the base. There was not a single casualty in the troop, and the success was considered a godsend. Once we had passed through the flat terrain, we relaxed and rested. I was very tired, and rested my head against a rock. Within a matter of seconds I was sound asleep.
What happened next sounded like a bad dream. I could hear torrents of machine-gun fire. People around me were running for cover, and someone was tugging my shirt. I tried to turn over and sleep on my other side when I felt a sharp jab in my ribs. It was Hussain, trying desperately to wake me. Suddenly reality hit me: we were at war.
The rebels panicked. We had been tracked by an elite Ethiopian Army unit stationed some thirty kilometres away, and it was our turn, disoriented and half asleep, to scramble barefoot for cover. But there was not much chance. Mortars, high-calibre machine guns and grenades ploughed the field. Before we could make out where the enemy was and where the shots were coming from, the heavens opened fire on us. Out of the blue horizon, four fighter jets headed our way; they dipped down, spread us with machine-gun fire, and on their way up dropped bombs on us that shattered the rocks and multiplied the shrapnel. I discovered to my horror that when someone you don’t know fires a .50-calibre anti-aircraft gun at you, he actually means to kill you.
I attempted to run for cover but I tripped over my shadow and fell into a hole in the ground. Fine dust got into my eyes, ears and nose, and I could barely make out my surroundings. When I finally managed to find my legs, I discovered that the sky had fallen. It was now supported by the tip of the mountain, and hung down so low over my head that I could easily have reached up and torn a piece from the blue canvas.
The mountains shrank. Everything around me—the trees, the people and the boulders—shrank, gaining in width what they lost in height. It looked to me as though the Earth was slowly being drawn through the two huge rollers of a heavenly extruder.
I tried to move but the air had tangibly thickened. It had solidified around me into a thick gelatinous ocean, and I was unable to move. I tried to slice at that jelly with my arms and legs and managed a few painful steps, but quickly ran out of breath. I opened my mouth wide and bit a piece of that jelly, but it got stuck in my throat. I reached down for my canteen to wash it down with water, but I found my rifle instead.
When I looked up again, I was relieved to see that the sky had receded, the mountains had regained their reassuring majesty, and the wind was once more blowing weightlessly past me. I noticed some fellow rebels dashing for the impregnable cover of the mountain and followed their lead. Many did not make it. I was one of the fortunate few to find safety in a cave. The camp below was smouldering; human limbs were scattered over a wide range. I paused in the dark belly of the mountain to see if I had sustained any injuries. There were tiny nicks all over my body and a gash under my right knee, looking up at me, wondering whether or not to bleed. I grabbed some fine dust and sprinkled it on.
Those of us who survived did not wait to witness the end. After collecting our units and gathering our strength, we ran for the only place we knew, the current rebel base, some twenty kilometres away. That night, when the casualties were counted, over one hundred and forty were dead, more than fifty seriously wounded, and the remaining three hundred psychologically crippled. Hussain was among the dead.
Darkness shrouded the base. The next few days were spent in mourning; the easy confidence that had permeated the rebels had been shaken to the core. Some members defected, heading for the relative safety of Somalia. I was undecided—until I heard what had happened to my friend Wondwossen. He had been killed while fighting to take over the town of Gursum.
I was told of his death, casually, by the group commander as he was making the morning rounds. I was not sure that I had heard the commander right, so I asked him to repeat what he had said, but he just patted me on the shoulder, adding a few comforting words before resuming his daily duties. Hundreds of fighters were dying in those perilous days. To him, Wondwossen was just another soldier.
* * *
I WAS STUNNED. Unable to carry my weight, I sought a solitary corner at the far end of the camp and collapsed on the thorny ground. My mind was racing. My eyes blurred. I felt such a terrible heat in my guts that it seemed to me that I might melt down unless I removed my skin. I searched for my battered canteen and dumped what little water it held over my head.
When my vision finally cleared, I found myself staring into pictures of my childhood as they rolled across the blue screen of the heavens. I saw myself in Memerae’s shed with baby oil all over my face; I saw myself with Wondwossen hunting birds with slings as they returned to town at night; building toy planes from scrap metal; injecting Mr. Alula’s cows with the avenging fluid. Soon the blue sky flickered with a scene from my childhood in which the mistress of a mansion drenched me with dirty laundry water, tossed over the fence of the compound. I could hear myself being regaled with all sorts of names, but when I looked around I was all by myself
in the midst of a desert. The mansion leaped from the sky and lumbered after me. There was nowhere to hide, no one to comfort me. With each step I took, I sank deeper and deeper into the scorching desert sand. When I was about to give up and let the building press me down into the sand, I heard a voice say, “Never give up.”
I leaped up with a start, but there was no one around except a large lizard who lay sunning himself on top of an immense rock, staring at me with unabashed confidence. I said a few words of prayer for Wondwossen, then got up to join the group.
I took a few tentative steps towards camp when I heard what was unmistakably Wondwossen’s voice repeat the phrase I had heard before: “Never give up.” I turned around as though I had just been slapped. All that remained of my vision was an empty field. The light morning wind tossed a tumbleweed across the expanse. The lizard and the bare rock it had been perched on were gone.
* * *
THE LAST STRAW fell for most of us when crates of advanced Soviet weaponry began arriving directly from the Somali Army supply depots, and when officers from the Somali standing army arrived to organize and train the fighting personnel. The war was no longer being waged by the Ogaden tribe in an effort to create their own homeland, but by the government of Somalia in an attempt to annex the Somali-speaking territories of Ethiopia. What that meant for the non-Somalis in the front was plain enough—trouble.
During the seven months of my tenure, the rebels had become less and less tolerant of non-Somalis, dispersing us throughout the various fronts so that no more than a handful of non-Somalis were left in any one group. When all the other fighters were supplied with the newly acquired AK-47 machine guns, we were only permitted to carry less threatening Second World War–vintage rifles. We were under constant surveillance. The atmosphere became unbearably stifling.
Notes from the Hyena's Belly Page 15