N. L. E.:
At that time I was titular clerk in the computation department of the office of the grand chamberlain of the court. The change of government loaded us down with work, since our department was responsible for supervising the Emperor’s instructions on the number of mentions of particular dignitaries and notables. His Highness had to take care of this matter personally, because every dignitary wanted to be mentioned all the time, and as close to His Unrivaled Majesty’s name as possible. There was constant quarreling, envy, and intrigue: who is mentioned and who isn’t, how many times and in what order. Even though we had strict instructions and norms precisely established by the throne about who is to be mentioned and how many times, such unrestricted greed and freedom arose that we, common clerks, were pressed by the dignitaries to mention them above and beyond the set order, beyond the norms. Mention me, said one and then another, and when you need something you can count on me. Is it surprising, then, that a temptation was born to mention them, in turn, above the limit, and thus gain high-placed patrons for ourselves? The risk was great, however, since adversaries counted how often each of them was mentioned, and if they caught any surplus they immediately lodged an informant’s report with His Judicious Highness, who either issued a rebuke or smoothed things over. Finally the grand chamberlain issued an order to introduce cards for the dignitaries, to record the number of times each one was mentioned, and to prepare monthly reports on the basis of which His Benevolent Highness issued additional recommendations about where to subtract and where to add. And now we had to throw away all the cards of the Aklilu cabinet and make up new ones. Special pressures were put on us, since the new ministers strove eagerly to be mentioned and each one tried to take part in receptions and celebrations in order to be mentioned on those occasions.
Very shortly after the change of cabinets, I found myself on the sidewalk because of an incomprehensible and quite unpardonable mental blackout. Once I failed to mention a new minister in the court, Mr. Yohannes Kidane, and he flew into such a rage that, in spite of my appeals for mercy, he had me fired.
March—April—May
S.:
I don’t have to explain to you, my friend, that we were beset by a devilish conspiracy. If it hadn’t been for that, the Palace would have stood for a thousand more years, because no Palace falls of its own accord. But what I know now, I didn’t know yesterday when we were sliding toward ruin—and, in a stupor, blind, in a hellish state of asphyxiation, confident of our power, exalting in ourselves, we didn’t look ahead. And all the while the street agitates without interruption. Everybody is demonstrating—students, workers, Muslims, all demand rights, strike, organize meetings, curse the government. A report comes in about a mutiny in the Third Division, stationed in Ogaden. Now our whole army is in ferment, set against authority, and only the Imperial Guard still shows any loyalty. Because of this insolent anarchy and slanderous agitation, dragging on beyond all tolerance, whispering starts in the Palace. Dignitaries watch each other warily, wondering as they watch. What will happen? What to do? The whole court smothers, crushes, fills itself with rumors, psst-psst here, psst-psst there, and they spend all their time mooning about the corridors, gathering in salons, scheming in secret, organizing meetings, cursing the nation. And the cursing, reproaching, envy, and animosity between the Palace and the street are growing reciprocally, poisoning everything.
I would say that slowly, gradually, three factions appear in the Palace. The first, the Jailers, are a fierce and inflexible coterie who demand the restoration of order and insist on arresting the malcontents, putting them behind bars, beating and hanging them. This faction is led by the Emperor’s daughter Tenene Work, a sixty-two-year-old lady permanently cross and obstinate, always reproaching His Ineffable Highness for his kindness. A second faction coalesces, the Talkers, a coterie of liberals : weak people, and philosophizes, who think that one should invite the rebels to sit down at a table and talk, listen to what they say, and improve the Empire. Here the greatest voice is that of Prince Mikael Imru, an open mind, a nature ready for concessions, himself a well-traveled man who knows the developed countries. Finally, the third faction is made up of Floaters, who, I would say, are the most numerous group in the Palace. They don’t think at all, but hope that like corks in water they will float on the waves of circumstance, that in the end things will somehow settle down and they will arrive successfully in a hospitable port. And when the court divided itself into the Jailers, the Talkers, and the Floaters, each coterie started voicing its arguments, but voicing them secretly, in the underground manner, because His Highness didn’t like factions and hated chattering, applying pressure, and any kind of peace-shattering insistence. Yet for the very reason that the factions appeared and began slinging mud and drawing blood, biting and fighting, grinding their jaws and showing their claws, everything in the Palace came to life for a moment, the old verve returned, and it felt like home again.
L. C.:
In those days His Majesty rose from his bed with ever-increasing difficulty. Night after night he slept badly or not at all, and then he would nod off during the day. He said nothing to us, not even during meals, which he ate surrounded by his family. Only during the reports submitted during the Hour of Informants would he come to life, because his people now brought very interesting news that a conspiracy of officers had arisen in the Fourth Division, with agents placed in all the garrisons and in the police all over the Empire, but who was in that conspiracy the informants could not tell because everything was being done in such secrecy. His Venerable Majesty, said the informants afterward, listened to them eagerly but gave no orders, asked no questions. It astonished them that instead of ordering arrests and hangings, His Majesty walked around the gardens, fed the panthers, set out grain for the birds, and remained silent.
In the middle of April, amid the constant unrest in the streets, His Majesty ordered that the ceremony of the succession be organized. Dignitaries gathered in the great throne chamber, waiting and whispering about whom the Emperor would nominate as his successor. This was a new thing, because His Majesty always used to punish and condemn any sort of rumors or sly comments about the succession. Now obviously moved to the highest degree by the affair, so that his quiet voice cracked and could barely be heard, His Most Gracious Majesty announced that, bearing in mind his advanced age and the ever-more-often-heard call of the Lord of Hosts, he was nominating—after his own pious decease—his grandson Zera Yakob as the successor to his throne. This young man, twenty years old, was studying at Oxford. He was sent out of the country some time before because he was leading too free a life, thus causing great worries to his father, Prince Asfa Wossen, the only remaining son of the Emperor, who lived permanently paralyzed in a Geneva hospital. Even though such was His Majesty’s will in the matter of the succession, old dignitaries and venerable members of the Crown Council started to complain and even to protest surreptitiously. They said that they would not serve under such a youngster, because to do so would be a humiliation and an offense to their advanced age and their many merits. Right away an antisuccession faction formed, one that pondered ways to summon the Dame Jailer, Tenene Work, daughter of the Emperor, to the throne. And another faction appeared immediately in favor of bringing to the throne another grandson of the Emperor, the Prince Makonen, who was being educated at an officers’ school in America.
And so, my friend, in the middle of these suddenly unleashed succession intrigues that plunged the whole court into such bitter fighting that no one thought about what was going on in the Empire, quite unexpectedly and surprisingly the army enters the town at night and arrests all the ministers of the old Aklilu government. They even lock up Aklilu himself, as well as two hundred generals and high-ranking officers distinguished by their unfaltering loyalty to the Emperor. Nobody has had time to recover his senses after this exceptional blow, when news comes that the conspirators have arrested the chief of the General Staff, General Assefa Ayena, the man most loyal to
the Emperor and the man who saved the throne during the December events by destroying the Neway brothers and defeating the Imperial Guard. In the Palace—an atmosphere of terror, fear, confusion, depression. The Jailers are pressing the Emperor to do something, to order the rescue of those who have been imprisoned, to drive away the students, and to hang the conspirators. His Benevolent Majesty hears out all the advice, nods his assent, gives comfort. The Talkers say that it’s the last chance to sit down at the table, bring the conspirators around to one’s own point of view, and repair and improve the Empire. These, too, His Benevolent Majesty hears out, nodding approval, comforting. Days go by and the conspirators lead first one person, then another, out of the Palace and arrest him. Again the Lady Jailer reproaches His Most Puissant Majesty, saying that he doesn’t defend loyal dignitaries. But apparently, my friend, it is the way of the world that the more loyally a person acts, the more of a beating he attracts, because when some faction has him pinned, His Majesty leaves him to twist in the wind. This was something the princess could not comprehend; she wanted to stick with the loyal ones until the bitter end.
May was coming, the last moment to swear in the cabinet of Premier Makonen. However, the Imperial protocol announces that the swearing-in will be difficult because half of the ministers have already been arrested, or have fled abroad, or have stopped coming near the Palace. As for the premier, the students call him names and throw stones at him, because Makonen never knew how to make people like him. Immediately after his promotion he swelled somehow; his gaze became fixed in the distance and so hazed over that he did not recognize anyone. No one could tame him. Some lofty force propelled him through the corridors and made him appear in salons, where he stalked in inaccessible and stalked out unreachable. And wherever he appeared he would start a worship service around himself, for himself. Others kept it going, hosannaing it up, incensing it up, with adoration, incantation, and supplication for mediation. It was already obvious that Makonen could not long remain in power, because neither the soldiers nor the students wanted him. I can’t even remember whether the swearing-in finally took place or not, because they kept locking up one minister after another. You must realize, my friend, that the cunning of our conspirators was remarkable. Whenever they arrested someone, they immediately announced that they had done so in the name of the Emperor, and right away they would emphasize their loyalty to His Majesty. This made him very happy, because whenever Tenene Work came to her father to denounce the army, he would scold her, praising the fidelity and devotion of his army. He soon received new proof of this, for in the beginning of May war veterans organized a demonstration of loyalty in front of the Palace, raising their voices in praise of His August Majesty, and the noble monarch came out onto the balcony, thanked his army for its unshakable loyalty, and wished it further prosperity and success.
June—July
U. Z.-W.:
In the Palace, dejection, discouragement, fearful waiting for whatever might happen tomorrow—when suddenly His Majesty summons his counselors, reprimands them for ne glecting development, and after giving them a scolding announces that we are going to construct dams on the Nile. But how can we erect dams, the confused advisers grumble, when the provinces are starving, the nation is restless, the Talkers are whispering about straightening out the Empire, and the officers are conspiring and rounding up the notables? Immediately, audacious rumors are heard in the corridors saying that it would be better to help the starving and forget about the dams. To this the Finance Minister replies that if the dams are built, it will be possible to let water into the fields and such an abundant harvest will result that there will be no more death from starvation. Well, yes, murmur those who had been whispering, but how long will it take to build the dams? In the meantime the nation will die of hunger. “The nation isn’t going to die,” explains the Finance Minister. “It hasn’t died yet, so it isn’t going to die now. And if we don’t build the dams,” he asks, “how are we going to catch up and surpass?” “But against whom are we supposed to be racing, anyway?” murmur the whisperers. “What do you mean, whom?” says the Finance Minister. “Egypt, of course.” “But Egypt, sir, is wealthier than we are, and even Egypt couldn’t put up dams out of its own pocket. Where are we supposed to find the funds for our dams?” Here the minister really lost his temper with the doubting, and began lecturing them, telling them how important it is to sacrifice oneself for development. Besides, His Majesty has ordered, has he not, that we all develop constantly, without resting even for a moment, putting our hearts and souls into it. And the Minister of Information immediately announced His Venerable Majesty’s decision as a new success, and I remember that in the twinkling of an eye the following slogan appeared in the streets of the capital:
As soon as the work on the dams is done,
Wealth will accrue to everyone!
Let the slanderers spew their lies and shams—
They will suffer in hell for opposing our dams!
Nevertheless, this affair so infuriated the conspiring officers that the Imperial Council established by His Unrivaled Highness for the special purpose of supervising the dams was thrown into jail a few days later, on the grounds that nothing could come of the dams but increased corruption and more starvation among the people. I have always been of the opinion, however, that this action on the part of the officers must have brought particular grief to His Majesty. He felt that the years were burdening his shoulders with an ever-increasing weight, and so he wanted to leave an imposing and universally admired monument after himself. That way, many years hence, everyone who could get to the Imperial Dams would cry out, “Behold, all ye! Who but the Emperor could have caused such things to be done, such extraordinary, wondrous things, whole mountains flung across the river!” Or, to look at it from another angle, were he to give ear to the whispers and murmurs that it would be better to feed the hungry than to build dams . . . well, the hungry, even if they are satiated at last, will eventually die, leaving behind not a trace—neither of themselves, nor of the Emperor.
The one I am talking to ponders for a long time whether the Emperor had already begun to think about his departure. He had appointed his successor to the throne, hadn’t he, and ordered the creation of an eternal monument to himself in the form of those dams along the Nile. (How extravagant an idea when juxtaposed with the other, burning needs of the Empire!) However, he thinks there was more to it. In naming his young grandson as his successor to the throne, the Emperor was punishing his son for the disgraceful role he had played in the events of December 1960. By ordering the construction of dams on the Nile, he wanted to prove that the Empire was growing and flourishing and that all the slanders about poverty and corruption were only the malicious chatter of those opposed to monarchy. In reality, the thought of leaving was completely alien to the Emperor’s nature; he treated the state as his personal creation and believed that with his departure the country would fall apart and disappear. Was he to annihilate his own creation? Moreover, was he to leave the walls of the Palace and expose himself of his own free will to the blows of enemies who lurked in waiting? No, departure from the Palace could not be considered; instead, after short attacks of senile depression, the Emperor seemed to rise from the dead, become more lively, acquire new vigor, and it was even possible to see pride on his aged face—that he was so fit, had such presence of mind, and remained so masterful.
June came, the month in which the conspirators, having strengthened themselves, finally renewed their cunning attacks against the Palace. Their cunning consisted in this: they carried out all their destruction of the system with the Emperor’s name on their lips, as if executing his will and humbly realizing his thoughts. Now—claiming to do so in the name of the Emperor—they created a commission to investigate corruption among dignitaries, checking their accounts, landholdings, and all other riches. The people of the Palace were overcome by terror because in a poor country, in which the only source of property is not hard work and productivity but
extraordinary privilege, no dignitary could have a clear conscience. The more cowardly ones thought of fleeing abroad, but the military closed the airport and put a ban on leaving the country. A new wave of arrests started. People disappeared from the Palace every night; the court became more and more deserted. A great commotion was caused by news of the imprisonment of Prince Asrate Kassa, who presided over the Crown Council and was, after the Emperor, the most important person in the monarchy. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Minassie Haile, also found himself in prison, as did over a hundred other dignitaries. At the same time, the army occupied the radio station and announced for the first time that a coordinating committee of the armed forces and the police stood at the head of the movement for renewal, acting—as they kept claiming—in the name of the Emperor.
The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat Page 12