And what about the ‘Semitic’ peoples of Ethiopia such as the politically dominant Christian Amharas? Almost certainly they are, as the ethnographers maintain, the descendants of Sabaean/South Arabian settlers who moved into the highlands in separate and somewhat later waves of immigration. Judaism in one form or another was probably quite well established amongst indigenous Agaw groups by the time that these Sabaean conquerors arrived – which would explain why their cultures, too, were gradually ‘Judaized’ and why Judaic elements survive to this day in the curiously Old Testament character of Abyssinian Christianity.
‘There were always Jews in Ethiopia, from the beginning,’ wrote the Portuguese Jesuit Balthaza Tellez in the seventeenth century.68 In this judgement he was, I suspect, far closer to the truth than those modern scholars who ascribe a relatively late date to the arrival of Judaism – and who seem to be completely blind to all the evidence that runs contrary to their own prejudices.
The mysterious ‘BRs’
While possessing the merit of explaining a great deal that hitherto had never been properly explained, I was well aware of a potential weakness in the theory that I had just outlined in my notebook: might it not reflect my own prejudices rather than the facts? To be sure, it was a fact that the Falashas practised an archaic form of Judaism; likewise it was a fact that Qemant religion contained many ancient Hebraic elements; and in a similar fashion it was a fact that the Christianity of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church was riddled through and through with practices that were unmistakably Judaic in origin. But from all this was it legitimate to conclude that there had been waves of Hebrew immigration into Ethiopia for hundreds of years before the fifth century BC – when, as I believed, the Ark of the Covenant had been brought from the island of Elephantine on the upper Nile to the island of Tana Kirkos? If I was right, and if there had indeed been prior Hebrew settlement in that area, then there would no longer be any mystery about why Ethiopia (rather than some other country) had been chosen as the last resting place of the Ark.
But was I right? Thus far the evidence that I had gathered in support of my evolving theory had taken two distinctly different forms: (1) social and ethnographic data about the Falashas and the Qemant, notably concerning their religious beliefs, their folklore and their relationships to one another; (2) clues, scattered throughout the Old Testament, which seemed to bear witness to some kind of sustained Hebrew migration to Abyssinia in the first half of the first millennium BC. If there had really been such a migration, however, then surely there would be proof of it outside the Bible and outside the observed peculiarities of Falasha and Qemant culture? The impressionistic material that I had already gathered was strongly suggestive, but what I really needed in order to make a complete case was tangible archaeological or documentary evidence of Hebrew settlement in Ethiopia prior to the fifth century BC.
I had never come across such evidence and I knew that I was swimming against the current of scholarly opinion in seeking for it now. Nevertheless I put out feelers to my contacts in the academic world in an attempt to discover whether there was anything of importance that I might have missed.
Not long afterwards I received through the mail a paper written in French by a certain Jacqueline Pirenne and published in 1989 by the Université des sciences humaines de Strasbourg.69 The paper had been sent to me by a professor of Egyptology at a major British university. In his covering note who said:
Just a line to enclose a photocopy of an article by Jacqueline Pirenne, given at a recent conference in Strasburg.
Frankly, from a scholarly point of view, I consider she’s gone ‘way over the top’; she’s undoubtedly a very able person, knows her ancient Arabian documentation, but has (for not a few of us) improbable ideas on anc. Arabian chronology & script origin. This essay is fascinating, but more fiction than history, I fear. (Beeston, I gather, criticised it heavily at a recent meeting of the Seminar for Arabian Studies; he’s pre-eminently sane, though no more infallible than the rest of us.)
I naturally wondered why the professor should have thought that a paper by someone who knew her ‘ancient Arabian documentation’ could possibly be of any relevance to my own research. After I had had the paper translated into English, however, I could see exactly why he had thought that, and I was also able to understand why members of the academic establishment had reacted with hostility to Jacqueline Pirenne’s views.
To strip a rather complex thesis down to its bare essentials, the main thrust of her argument was that scholars who had examined the historical relationship between Ethiopia and South Arabia had been completely wrong: far from Sabaean influences reaching Ethiopia from the Yemen, as had previously been supposed, the flow had in fact been in the opposite direction, in other words from Ethiopia to South Arabia:
The Sabaeans … arrived first of all in Ethiopian Tigray and entered Yemen via the Red Sea coast … This conclusion, which is the absolute contrary to all recognized views, is the only one … to explain the facts and do them justice.70
Pirenne then went on to demonstrate that the original homeland of the Sabaeans had been in north-west Arabia but that large numbers of them had emigrated from there to Ethiopia (‘via the Hammamat river bed and along the Nile’) in two separate waves, the first around 690 BC and the second around 590 BC. Why had they emigrated? In order to avoid paying tribute to the Assyrian invader Sennacherib on the first occasion and in order to avoid paying tribute to the Babylonian conqueror Nebuchadnezzar on the second.
This thesis was not as far-fetched as it sounded: during their respective campaigns Sennacherib and Nebuchadnezzar had not confined themselves to their famous attacks on Jerusalem; it was a fact that they had also pressed on into north-west Arabia, where they might indeed have encountered and displaced Sabaean tribes. This much I already knew. I did not feel, however, that I was in a position either to condemn or condone the rest of Pirenne’s argument, namely that her fugitive Sabaeans had reached Ethiopia by following the Nile Valley and then had migrated onwards from there across the Red Sea and into the Yemen.
Nor was this argument, interesting though it was, central to Pirenne’s importance for my own investigation. What caught my eye, and finally convinced me that I was on the right track, was her analysis of a Sabaean inscription found in Ethiopia and dated to the sixth century BC. Translated by the linguist R. Schneider and originally published in an obscure paper entitled ‘Documents épigraphiques de l’ethiopie’,71 this inscription honoured a Sabaean monarch who described himself as a ‘noble fighter king’ and boasted that in the empire he had established in the north and west of Ethiopia, he had reigned ‘over Da’amat, the Sabas, and over the ‘BRs, the whites and the blacks.’72 Who were the ‘BRs, Pirenne asked:
R. Schneider did not venture any interpretation … but the term, witnessed in Assyrian inscriptions – the Abirus – may be attributed to the Hebrews … It is natural that Hebrews would have emigrated at the same time as the second wave of Sabaeans, since the first capture of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar … followed by deportation to Babylon, was in 598 BC, whereas the attacks of the same Nebuchadnezzar against the Arabs were in 599–598 BC … Identification of the ‘BRs as ‘Hebrews’ who arrived [in Ethiopia] with the second wave of Sabaeans explains … the existence of the Falashas, black but Jewish … They are the descendants of these ‘Hebrews’ who arrived in the sixth century BC.73
What Pirenne had not given any consideration to was the possibility that the ‘BRs’ – a standard way of writing the word ‘Hebrews’ (i.e. ABIRUS) in early alphabets lacking in vowels – might have arrived in Ethiopia before any of the Sabaean incursions. She had simply deduced, because the inscription that mentioned them had been dated to the sixth century BC, that they must have migrated in that century. On the basis of my own research, however, I now felt very confident in concluding that the ‘BRs’ over whom the Sabaean conquerors had claimed suzereinty could well have been in Ethiopia for some considerable while before that – and, moreover, that thei
r numbers were still being added to at that time (and afterwards) by the arrival via the Nile Valley of more small bands of Hebrew immigrants.
This latter point was still in the realm of theory; Jacqueline Pirenne’s gift to me, however, lay in the fact that she had drawn my attention to definite archaeological and documentary proof of the existence in Ethiopia, in the sixth century BC, of a people called the ‘BRs’. Academics might argue until eternity about who these ‘BRs’ really were, but I myself was no longer in any doubt:
• they had been Hebrews who, at that early stage, had not yet submerged their identity with that of the indigenous Agaw amongst whom they had settled;
• they had worshipped a God called YHWH;
• in consequence, when the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh was brought from Elephantine to Ethiopia in the fifth century BC there was a very real sense in which it could be said to have arrived in a receptive and appropriate resting place.
A chapel of mischance
There remained very little more for me to do. Throughout a long and circuitous historical investigation I had been trying to satisfy myself that there might be genuine merit to Ethiopia’s claim to possess the lost Ark.
I had done that now. I was well aware that scholars might dispute my findings, and the conclusions that I had drawn from them – but, really, the approval of the ‘experts’ and the ‘authorities’ was not what I had sought during 1989 and 1990. Instead my goal had been an inner one in which I alone had been the judge and final arbiter of all the evidence and of all the arguments.
The central issue had been simple: to journey to the ancient Tigrayan city of Axum, and to the sanctuary chapel in which the Ark was supposed to lie, I would have to be prepared to accept physical risks and also to overcome a profound spiritual unease at the thought of putting myself into the hands of the TPLF – armed rebels who had good cause to hate me because of the cosy links that I had hitherto enjoyed with the very government that they were shedding blood to overthrow. I had not been prepared to accept those risks, or to struggle to master my own fears, unless I could first convince myself that in so doing I would be embarking on an adventure that was neither foolish nor quixotic but rather one that I could believe in and to which I could commit myself.
I now did believe that there was a very high degree of probability that the Ark might indeed lie in Axum, and I was therefore prepared to commit myself absolutely to the last stage of my quest – the journey to ‘the sacred city of the Ethiopians’ with all the risks and dangers and difficulties that that would entail.
This was not a decision that I had arrived at lightly; on the contrary, over the previous months, I had determinedly sought out every excuse that might possibly have justified the abandonment of the whole chancy project. Instead of finding such excuses, however, I had only stumbled upon more and more clues that appeared to point unerringly in the direction of Axum.
I had looked for alternative resting places for the Ark, but none of those that legend or tradition offered had seemed in the least bit likely. I had looked for proofs that the relic might have been destroyed, but no such proofs existed. I had established that the Kebra Nagast’s claims about Solomon, Sheba and Menelik could not literally be true – only to discover that these same claims might well serve as a complex metaphor for the truth. Certainly, the Ark of the Covenant could not have gone to Ethiopia in the era of Solomon; but it was entirely plausible that it might have made that journey later, at the time of the destruction of the Jewish Temple that had stood on the island of Elephantine in the upper Nile.
All in all, therefore, whatever the academics might think, I knew that I had reached the end of a long personal road and that I could not any more put off or avoid the final reckoning: if I was to preserve any sense of my own integrity, if I was not in later years to feel dishonoured and ashamed, then I would have to do my level best to reach Axum – no matter the risks that I would have to run, no matter the demons of self-interest and cowardice that I would have to overcome. It was a cliché – perhaps one of the oldest clichés known to man – but it seemed to me that what really counted was not so much that I should attain the sacred city but rather that I should try to get there, not so much that I should actually find the Ark but rather that I should find within myself sufficient reserves of character to make the attempt.
I was, in my own eyes, far from being an Arthurian knight clad in shining armour. Nevertheless, at this moment in my life, I had no difficulty in understanding why Sir Gawain, on his way to the perils that awaited him at the Green Chapel, had chosen to ignore the siren song of the squire who had sought to dissuade him from completing his quest and who had warned him:
‘if you come there you’ll be killed … therefore good Sir Gawain … ride by another route, to some region remote! Go in the name of God, and Christ grace your fortune! And I shall go home again and undertake to swear solemnly, by God and his saints as well, stoutly to keep your secret, not saying to a soul that you ever tried to turn tail.’74
After considering his position, Gawain had replied:
‘It is worthy of you to wish for my well being, man, and I believe you would loyally lock it in your heart. But however quiet you kept it, if I quit this place, fled … in the fashion you propose, I should become a cowardly knight with no excuse whatever … I will go to the Green Chapel, to get what Fate sends.’75
With just such resolve, though with less chivalry, I was now determined that I must go to my own ‘chapel of mischance’76 to find there whatever Fate might send me. And, like Sir Gawain, I knew that I would have to make that journey at the dawn of a New Year – for the solemn feast of Timkat fast approached.
Part VI: Ethiopia, 1990-91
The Waste Land
Chapter 17
Supping with Devils
After my trips to Israel and Egypt I returned to England in October 1990 with my mind made up: I would have to go to Axum, and the optimum time to travel there would be in January 1991. If I could arrive before the 18th of that month then I would be able to participate in the Timkat ceremony, during which I hoped that the Ark itself would be carried in public procession.
Raphael Hadane, the Falasha priest whom I had interviewed in Jerusalem, had doubted whether the genuine article would actually be used: ‘I do not believe that the Christians would ever bring out the true Ark,’ he had told me, ‘they would not do that. They will never show it to anyone. They will use a replica instead.’ Coming as it had from a man who had himself journeyed to Axum in the hope of seeing the sacred relic, this warning bothered me a great deal. Nevertheless I saw no alternative but to go ahead with my plan – and that meant confronting my own fears.
With Ethiopia’s civil war continuing to go against the government there would no longer be any doubt that I would have to put myself into the hands of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front if I was serious about getting to Axum. Over the years I knew that they had taken dozens of foreigners into the areas they controlled without the slightest harm coming to anyone. I, however, was terribly afraid that harm might come to me. Why?
The answer to this question lay in the close links that I had established with the Ethiopian regime over the period 1983–9. At the end of 1982 I had abandoned journalism, my former occupation, and had set up a publishing company of my own, the purpose of which was to produce books and other documentation for a wide range of clients, including a number of African governments. One of my earliest deals had been with the Ethiopian Tourism Commission; indeed, as reported in Chapter I, it had been that deal that had taken me to Axum in the first place, way back in 1983.
The result had been a coffee-table book1 which had been liked by senior members of the Ethiopian government and which had led to the commissioning of several similar projects. In the process I had met and got to know many powerful people: Shimelis Mazengia, the Head of Ideology, other Politburo and Central Committee activists including Berhanu Bayih and Kassa Kebede, and last but by no means least Ethiopia’s so-c
alled ‘Red Emperor’, President Mengistu Haile Mariam himself – the military strong-man who had seized control of the country in the mid 1970s and whose reputation for ruthless suppression of dissent was virtually without parallel anywhere in Africa.
There is a sense in which when you work closely with people you gradually begin to see things their way. This happened to me during the 1980s and, by the second half of the decade, I was one of the Ethiopian government’s staunchest supporters. Though I never approved of that government’s use of domestic repression, I managed quite successfully to persuade myself that particular initiatives taken by it were justified and helpful. Notable amongst these was the policy of resettlement inaugurated in 1984–5 with the goal of moving more than a million peasants from famine-stricken Tigray (then still under government control) to virgin lands in the south and west of the country. At the time I was convinced that this ‘was necessary’ because vast areas of the north had become ‘uninhabitable wastelands on the verge of total, irreversible ecological collapse.’2 The political leaders of the TPLF, however, looked at resettlement in quite a different way, seeing it as a grave threat to the rebellion that they were then desperately attempting to consolidate. The real aim underlying this ‘sinister’ policy, they were convinced, was to deprive them of vital grass-roots support in their own home region (since, obviously, every peasant removed from Tigray represented one less potential recruit for the Front).
The Sign and the Seal Page 51