The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat

by Ryzard Kapuscinski

  Consider also, my dear friend, that—between you and me—it is not bad for national order and a sense of national humility that the subjects be rendered skinnier, thinned down a bit. Our religion ordains a strict fast for half of all the days in the year, and our commandments say that whoever breaks the fast commits a deadly sin and begins to stink all over of hellish sulfur. During a fast day one cannot eat more than once, and then only a piece of unleavened bread with spices for seasoning. Why did our fathers impose such strict rules on us, recommending that mortification of the flesh be practiced unceasingly? It is because man is by nature a bad creature who takes damning pleasure out of giving in to temptations, especially the temptations of disobedience, possessiveness, and licentiousness. Two lusts breed in the soul of man: the lust for aggression, and the lust for telling lies. If one will not allow himself to wrong others, he will wrong himself. If he doesn’t come across anyone to he to, he will lie to himself in his own thoughts. Sweet to man is the bread of untruths, says the Book of Proverbs, and then with sand his mouth is filled up.

  How, then, is one to confront this threatening creature that man seems to be, that we all are? How to tame him and daunt him? How to know that beast, how to master it? There is only one way, my friend: by weakening him. Yes, by depriving him of his vitality, because without it he will be incapable of wrong. And to weaken is exactly what fasting does. Such is our Amharic philosophy, and this is what our fathers teach us. Experience confirms it. A man starved all his life will never rebel. Up north there was no rebellion. No one raised his voice or his hand there. But just let the subject start to eat his fill and then try to take the bowl away, and immediately he rises in rebellion. The usefulness of going hungry is that a hungry man thinks only of bread. He’s all wrapped up in the thought of food. He loses the remains of his vitality in that thought, and he no longer has either the desire or the will to seek pleasure through the temptation of disobedience. Just think: Who destroyed our Empire? Who reduced it to ruin? Neither those who had too much, nor those who had nothing, but those who had a bit. Yes, one should always beware of those who have a bit, because they are the worst, they are the greediest, it is they who push upward.

  Z. S.-K.:

  Great discontent, even condemnation and indignation, reigned in the Palace because of the disloyalty of European governments, which allowed Mr. Dimbleby and his ilk to raise such a din on the subject of starvation. Some of the dignitaries wanted to keep on denying, but that was no longer possible since the minister himself had told the correspondents that His Most Sovereign Highness attached the greatest importance to hunger. So we eagerly entered on the new road and asked the foreign benefactors for help. We ourselves do not have, so let others give what they can. Not much time had passed before good news came. Airplanes loaded with wheat landed, ships full of flour and sugar sailed in. Physicians and missionaries came, people from philanthropic organizations, students from foreign colleges, and also correspondents disguised as male nurses. The whole crowd marched north to the provinces of Tigre and Welo, and also east to Ogaden, where, they say, whole tribes had perished of hunger.

  International traffic in the Empire! I’ll say right off that there wasn’t much joy about it in the Palace. It’s never good to let so many foreigners in, since they are amazed at everything and they criticize everything. You can imagine, Mr. Richard, that our notables were not disappointed in their fears. When these missionaries, physicians, and so-called nurses reached the north, they saw a thing most amazing to them, namely, thousands dying of hunger right next door to markets and stores full of food. There is food, they say, only there was a bad harvest and the peasants had to give it all to the landowners and that’s why they’ve got nothing left and the speculators took advantage and raised the prices so high that hardly anyone could buy wheat and that’s where the misery comes from. An unpleasant affair, Mr. Richard, since it was our notables who were the speculators, and how can one call by such a name the official representatives of His Well-Beloved Highness? Official and speculator? No, no, one can’t say that at all!

  That’s why, when the shouts of these missionaries and nurses reached the capital, voices were immediately raised demanding that these benefactors and philosophers be expelled from the Empire. But how, say the others, can we expel? We cannot possibly stop the action against hunger, since His Benevolent Majesty has attached the greatest importance to it! So once again no one knows what to do: expel—wrong; keep—also wrong. A sort of vacillation and vagueness develops, when suddenly a new thunderbolt strikes. Now the nurses and missionaries are raising hell, saying that the transports of flour and sugar are not reaching those who are starving. Something is happening, say the benefactors, so that the aid is disappearing along the way, and somebody should find out where it is getting lost. They start to poke about, to interfere, to nose around. Once more it turns out that the speculators are packing whole shipments into their warehouses, jacking up the prices, and stuffing their pockets. How this was discovered, it is difficult to say. There must have been some leaks. Things were set up so that the Empire would accept the aid and take care of distribution itself, and no one was to try to figure out where the flour and sugar were going—that would be interference. Now our students get ready for action. They shout in the streets, denounce the corrupt, mount cries for indictments. “Shame!” they scream, proclaiming the death of the Empire. The police club them, arrest them. Upheaval, seething, commotion.

  During this period, Mr. Richard, my son Hailu was a rare guest in our home. The university was already engaged in open war with the Palace. This time it started with a completely trivial affair, with a small, insignificant event, so small that nobody would have noticed, nobody would have thought—and yet obviously there come such moments when the smallest event, just a trifle, any bit of nonsense, will provoke a revolution and unleash a war. That is why our police commander, General Yilma Shibeshi, was right when he ordered that no stone be left unturned, that there be no lying around but rather diligent searching with a fine-tooth comb, and that the principle never be forgotten that if a seed starts to sprout, immediately, without waiting for it to grow into something, the plant should be cut down. The general himself looked, and yet, obviously, he found nothing. The trivial event that set things off was a fashion show at the university, organized by the American Peace Corps even though all gatherings and meetings were forbidden. But His Distinguished Majesty could not forbid the Americans a show, could he? And so the students took advantage of this cheerful and carefree event to gather in an enormous crowd and set off for the Palace. And from that moment on they never again let themselves be driven back to their homes. They held meetings, they stormed implacably and vehemently, they did not yield again. And General Shibeshi was tearing his hair out, because not even to him had it occurred that a revolution could start at a fashion show.

  But that is exactly how it looked to us. “Father,” says Hailu, “this is the beginning of the end for all of you. We cannot live like this any longer. This death up north and the lies of the court have covered us with shame. The country is drowning in corruption, people are dying of hunger, ignorance, and barbarity everywhere. We feel ashamed of this country. And yet we have no other country, we have to dig it out of the mud ourselves. Your Palace has compromised us before the world, and such a Palace can no longer exist. We know that there is unrest in the army and unrest in the city, and now we cannot back down.” Yes, Mr. Richard, among these noble but very irresponsible people one was struck by the deep feelings of shame about the state of the fatherland. For them there existed only the twentieth century, or perhaps even this twenty-first century everyone is waiting for, in which blessed justice will reign. Nothing else suited them anymore, everything else irritated them. They didn’t see what they wanted to see, and so, apparently, they decided to arrange the world so that they would be able to look at it with contentment. Oh well, Mr. Richard, young people, very young people!

  T. L.:

  Amid all the p
eople starving, missionaries and nurses clamoring, students rioting, and police cracking heads, His Serene Majesty went to Eritrea, where he was received by his grandson, Fleet Commander Eskinder Desta, with whom he intended to make an official cruise on the flagship Ethiopia. They could only manage to start one engine, however, and the cruise had to be called off. His Highness then moved on to the French ship Protet, where he was received on board for dinner by Hiele, the well-known admiral from Marseille. The next day, in the port of Massawa, His Most Ineffable Highness raised himself for the occasion to the rank of Grand Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, and made seven cadets officers, thereby increasing our naval power. Also he summoned the wretched notables from the north who had been accused by the missionaries and nurses of speculation and stealing from the starving, and he conferred high distinctions on them to prove that they were innocent and to curb the foreign gossip and slander.

  Everything seemed to be moving along well, developing favorably and successfully and most loyally; the Empire was growing and even, as His Supreme Highness stressed, blossoming—when suddenly reports came in that those overseas benefactors who had taken upon themselves the trouble of feeding our ever-insatiable people had rebelled and were suspending shipments because our Finance Minister, Mr. Yelma Deresa, wanting to enrich the Imperial treasury, had ordered the benefactors to pay high customs fees on the aid. “You want to help?” the minister asked. “Please do, but you must pay.” And they said, “What do you mean, pay? We give help! And we’re supposed to pay?” “Yes,” says the minister, “those are the regulations. Do you want to help in such a way that our Empire gains nothing by it?” And here, together with the minister, our press raises its voice to denounce the rebellious benefactors, saying that by suspending aid they condemn our nation to the cruelties of poverty and starvation. They oppose the Emperor and interfere in internal affairs. It was rumored, my friend, that half a million people had died of hunger, which our newspapers blamed on these shameful, infamous missionaries and nurses. Mr. Gebre-Egzy called the strategy of accusing these altruists of waste and starving the nation a success, and the newspapers unanimously confirmed his opinion.

  At that very moment, amid all the publicity and writing about the new success, His Venerable Highness, having left the hospitable decks of the French vessel, returned to the capital to be greeted as humbly and thankfully as ever. And yet, if I may now say so, in this humility one sensed a certain vagueness, a sort of obscure duplicity, a sort of, well, humble lack of humility, and the thankfulness was not demonstrated eagerly, but rather reticently and sulkily. True, they did give thanks, but how passive it was, how sluggish, how ungrateful a thanksgiving! This time, as always, people fell on their faces when the procession drove by, but how could it ever compare to the old falling? In the old days, my friend, it used to be real falling—sinking to the point of losing oneself, falling into dust, into ashes, into a shivering, quivering fit on the ground, hands reaching out and beseeching mercy. And now? Sure, they fell, but it was such an unanimated falling, so sleepy, as if imposed on them, as if done only for the sake of peace—slow, lazy, simply negative. Yes, they were falling negatively, awkwardly, grimacing. It seemed to me that, even as their bodies fell, deep down they were standing. They seemed to be lying face to the ground, but in their thoughts they were sitting, acting humbly with hearts that grumbled. Nobody in the procession noticed this, however—and even if anyone had observed a certain indolence and sluggishness, he wouldn’t have said anything about it, because any expression of doubt was received badly by the Palace. The nobles had little time, after all, and if one person expressed doubt, everybody else had to put aside what they were doing and dispel these doubts, remove them completely, in fact, and cheer up the doubtful one.

  On his return to the Palace, His Prudent Highness accepted a denunciation from the Minister of Commerce, Ketema Yfru, who accused the Finance Minister of interrupting aid to the hungry by imposing the high customs fees. However, His Benevolent Majesty did not reprimand Mr. Yelma Deresa with a single harsh word; on the contrary, manifest satisfaction shone on the royal countenance. His Sovereign Majesty had accepted the aid unwillingly because of all the publicity that accompanied it; all the sighing and headshaking over those who were wasting away spoiled the flourishing and imposing image of the Empire, which, after all, was marching along the road of undisturbed development, catching up and even surpassing. From that moment no aid or contributions were needed. For the starvelings it had to suffice that His Munificent Highness personally attached the greatest importance to their fate, which was a very special kind of attachment, of an order higher than the highest. It provided the subjects with a soothing and uplifting hope that whenever there appeared in their lives an oppressive mischance, some tormenting difficulty, His Most Unrivaled Highness would hearten them—by attaching the greatest importance to that mischance or difficulty.

  D.:

  The last year! Yes, but who then could have foreseen that 1974 would be our last year? Well, yes, one did feel a sort of vagueness, a melancholy chaotic ineptness, a certain negativity, something heavy in the air, nervousness and tension, flabbiness, now dawning, now growing dark, but how did we go so quickly straight into the abyss? That’s it? No more? You can look, but no more Palace. You seek, but you do not find. You ask, but no one can answer. And it began . . . well, that’s the point. It began so many times, and yet it never ended. There were so many beginnings but no definite ending, and because of this unending beginning, through so many unfinished starts, your soul grew accustomed to it all. There arose a conviction that we would always wriggle out of it, lift ourselves up again, that we would hold on to whatever we had a grip on and hang on through the worst.

  But this growing accustomed to things ended in a mistake. In January 1974 General Beleta Abebe stopped over in the Gode barracks on his way to an inspection in Ogaden. The next day an incredible report came to the Palace: the general has been arrested by the soldiers, who are forcing him to eat what they eat. Food so obviously rotten that some fear the general will fall ill and die. The Emperor sends in the airborne unit of his Guard, which liberates the general and takes him to the hospital. Now, sir, a scandal should break out because His Revered Majesty devoted all his attention to the army during the Army-Police Hour, continually raising its pay and increasing its budget, and suddenly it comes out that the generals have been putting all the raises into their pockets and making great fortunes. However, the Emperor did not scold any of the generals, and he ordered that the soldiers from Gode be dispersed.

  After this unpleasant incident, worthy of oblivion, indicating a certain insubordination in the army—we had the biggest army in black Africa, the object of His Majesty’s unabashed pride—calm set in. Only for a while, though, because a month later a new report comes in to the Palace, also unheard of! In the southern province of Sidamo, in the Negele garrison, the soldiers start a rebellion and arrest their superiors. It began because the soldiers’ wells in this dinky tropical nowhere dried up and their superiors forbade the soldiers to drink from the officers’ well. The soldiers lost their senses because of thirst and started a rebellion. The airborne unit of the Imperial Guard should have been sent in to pacify them, but remember, my dear sir, that this was the terrible and unimaginable month of February, when in the capital itself events of such a sudden and revolutionary nature were occurring that everyone forgot about the unruly soldiers in distant Negele, who, having seized the officers’ well, were now drinking their fill. It so happened that just then it was necessary to begin stamping out a mutiny that had erupted in the very neighborhood of the Palace.

  How very surprising was the cause of this violent unrest that took over the streets! The Minister of Commerce had raised the price of gasoline. In response, the taxi drivers went on strike. The next day the teachers were striking, too. The high school students came out into the streets, attacking and burning buses, and let me mention that His Impeccable Highness owned the bus company. Trying to suppress t
hese pranks, the police catch five high school students, and in a lighthearted mood send them tumbling down a steep hillside and take potshots at the rolling boys. Three of the boys are killed and two seriously wounded. After this incident come the judgment days: confusion, despair, abuse. In support of the high schoolers, the university students move out for a demonstration, no longer thinking of learning or of grateful diligence, but only of sticking their noses into everything and undermining insolently. Now they are heading straight for the Palace, so the police shoot, club, arrest, and set the dogs on them, but nothing avails, and so to please them, to calm them, His Benevolent Highness recommends calling off the gasoline price rise. But the street doesn’t want to calm down!

  On top of all this, like a bolt from the blue, comes the news that the Second Division has rebelled in Eritrea. They occupy Asmara, arrest their general, lock up the provincial governor, and make a godless proclamation over the radio. They demand justice, pay raises, and humane funerals. It’s tough in Eritrea, sir, where the army fights guerrillas and plenty of people die. The problem of burial had existed for a long time, which is to say that in order to limit excessive war expenses, only officers had a right to a funeral, while the bodies of the common soldiers were left to the vultures and hyenas. Such inequality now caused a rebellion. The following day the navy joins the rebels and its commander, the Emperor’s grandson, flees to Djibouti. It is a great distress that a member of the royal family has to save himself in such an undignified, unworthy way. But the avalanche rolls on, my dear sir, because that very day the air force mutinies. Airplanes buzz the city and, according to rumor, drop bombs. The next day our biggest and most important division, the Fourth, rebels and immediately surrounds the capital, demanding a raise and insisting that the ministers and other dignitaries be brought to court because, the soldiers say, they corrupted themselves in an ugly way and should stand in the pillory of public opinion. Well, the Fourth Division’s bursting into flames means that the conflagration is close to the Palace and everybody had better save himself quickly. That very night, His Magnanimous Highness announces a pay raise, encourages the soldiers to return to their barracks, urges calm and tranquillity. He himself, concerned about the image of the court, orders Premier Aklilu and his government to offer their resignations—that must have been a hard order for him to give because Aklilu, even though disliked and condemned by the majority, was a great favorite and confidant of the Emperor. At the same time, His Highness raised the dignitary Endelkachew, a person considered a liberal and blessed with a talent for well-turned words, to the post of premier.