I look in the mirror and see a bunch of gray hair emerging  - uninvited. A few months later it takes the form of a full-scale invasion. I am rather taken aback for, even though I knew it would make its inevitable advent one day, I hadn’t expected it that soon, certainly not with such ferocity! Why the hurry?

Of late, I started noticing that certain things are changing fast. This is a paradoxical phenomenon in the land of the tortoise, where things are supposed to progress in a leisurely tempo. I look around me and see that my officemate had developed a few fresh wrinkles around her eyes; my neighbor had suddenly acquired a stooped posture; and the colors of the suits worn by the gentlemen in the café I frequent were faded and loose threads were surfacing.

In the Eritrea of today, where the burden of one crisis after another are mercilessly weighing down on the people, the rapid deterioration in the material and emotional wellbeing of the people cannot escape the eye. The sudden increase in the number of beggars, the women in the late hours of the night - their infant babies sleeping on their backs - as they struggle to sell their meager merchandise on the streets of Asmara, the skinny boys you pass on the country road, the villages that are devoid of any able-bodied men, the fields that remain unattended, … … …

As the gobye continues its excruciatingly slow pace, therefore, the wagon of misery has gained momentum. While demobilization is indefinitely deferred, leaving a whole generation of young men and women desperately count the days in the wilderness, and mothers and wives longingly wait for the return of their loved ones, people are aging at a fast rate as standards of living take a nose dive. So, after all, not everything is slow in Eritrea. There are a few things that are progressing quite rapidly! Is this supposed to be, in some strange way, consoling?

It is a time of ironically conflicting desires, where a mother wishes that the clock ticks faster so that her conscripted husband would return at once, while at the same time praying the pace was slower, or even time freezes, so that her only remaining son would not reach the conscription age sooner than necessary!  “Come sit inside, you gangly, good-for-nothing,” shouts my sister cursing the ill timed, undesirably long-legged, physique of my poor nephew. Although he was only 13, he was caught up in the round-ups of last summer before being released following the revelation of his true age, evidenced by his school certificates. It is a sad irony that we have lived to witness an era when one curses rather than rejoices at the spectacle of watching one’s own child grow! How many of us are familiar with the fact that families deliberately instruct their children to perform poorly in the exams so as not to advance to the next grade and thereby delay, as much as possible, their disappearance into Sawa? A fact that every Eritrean family knows, but, nonetheless, mysteriously escapes the attention of the engineers of the so-called education reform!

These poor children are also under the mercy of the watchful eyes of the party vigilante, who zealously monitor the movements of the youth in the neighborhood and duly report to their bosses any ‘suspicious’ situation. One such zealot (the mother of a popular female singer) is terrorizing the Geza Banda neighborhood. She is known for making the rounds of adjoining houses in search of some incriminating evidence. She would suddenly burst into the ‘cancello’ of one unsuspecting family: “…}p †sď ‘©ö‰ŤęM |§ ©H} ©öŁ ‹\mk I®đ Ă{đGę? —XĎoń …§‘©…} ©öŁ?”

Many of you in the Diaspora must be wondering how, indeed, fellow Eritreans back home are managing to cope with the unenviable situation in which they find themselves. How do they carry on with everyday life? How do they survive life under tyranny? What makes them persist? Is it possible to be encountering, on a daily basis, all sorts of agonizing experiences - harassment, abuse, imprisonment, pain, loss of loved ones, economic hardship, uncertainty - and at the same time go on with daily life as usual? Is it really possible to live in a state of constant subjection to terror and intimidation without losing one’s sanity? (Surely enough, for many the pressure has been too much to bear. You only need to sit in a sidewalk café in Asmara and watch, for half an hour, the world pass by, to realize the ever increasing number of these, mostly young, poor souls). How would one overcome the deep anger one feels seeing injustice, without being able to openly express one’s indignation? … Could it be that Eritreans have become masters of compartmentalized thinking?

Naturally, under such circumstances, people resort to various kinds of survival mechanisms (physical as well as psychological), and Eritreans are not an exception. One such mechanism is humor. It is not surprising, therefore, that political satire is flourishing in Eritrea. Some of the jokes are really sharp and imaginative. Consider, for example, the following one:

A delegation of Eritrean shimaglle was sent to meet God to plead for rain. At the gates of heaven, the delegation addresses God saying that the rains had been passing over their country for the previous years and the harvest had failed that year too. God looked into his books and then reached for a map and asked the delegation where their country was. The envoys pointed to Eritrea’s location on the map. A sign of astonishment appeared on God’s face who commented in a rather confused manner: “but I see green all over the place, your country is apparently lush with crops!”  “Oh Almighty God, these are not crops”, answered the members of the delegation “these are our children in green military uniform”.

In another witty line, a young man dies after an arduous life in the national service. At his funeral, the commander of his military unit loudly reads the last words of tribute. “]‘é† mkħ mksH©Y ILM uwwue bSai, bzHadero Hmam …” starts the commander when the martyr suddenly raises his head and interjects: “H}\mk …mksď… K„SMp: mksI©X|Dę ILM kF”.

I have my favorite one too, which goes like this: Three men, an Eritrean, an American and a German were chatting over a cup of tea. The German says: “you know medical surgery in my country is so advanced the things that are happening are really amazing. We had this crippled child who underwent a groundbreaking surgery and a few years later he was jumping like a horse. And you know what, he has become an Olympic sprinter medallist!”.  “Wow!”, said the American, “that’s quite a story! Actually, I know about a similar case in the US, which is not less startling. A child was born without hands. The doctors took bones and muscle tissue from his legs and gave him a pair of wonderful hands. And what’s his condition now? He is the middleweight boxing champion”. “Incredible!” said everybody in amazement. Then the two turned to the Eritrean and asked: “what about your country; do you have a story to share?”. “You will not believe what I will tell you” began the Eritrean with evident enthusiasm to show off the marvels of medical technology in his country. “A child was born without a head. Our doctors were puzzled as to what to do. One ingenious doctor finally suggested that a piece of ‘Akkat’ should be transplanted in place of the missing head. Miraculously the trick worked and the boy survived. He grew up and went to school like all other children”. “And how is he doing now? Is he still alive?” asked the startled listeners. “He is well and sound. He is actually serving as our President”, replied the Eritrean with a sheepish smile. [By the way, the last one is believed to have been hatched by high school students during last year’s summer campaign’].

And how can I forget what has become a masterpiece of all contemporary political satire in Eritrea – the unenviable task, assigned to Eritrean families, of incessantly manufacturing new children for the ever-hungry Sawa! But Nehmya has said it all, and I can only refer you to his brilliantly hilarious cartoons.

The absurdity of Government officials as they give confused and sometimes laughable statements in the media or in meetings, presents a rich source of political humor. Consider for example when the Minister of Education called on foreign nationals to send their children to be schooled in Sawa, or Weddi Kasa’s lecture to Government employees as he compared patriotism in Eritrea to that in the United States. “ }I|Ś mkF˝pq …D| ! …KUŠ‘éĄ} Šmk Ďj¬ –DM ›o†ŠŤ‰Ťké †¨M: }I| „íXqV‘éĄ} ´} Šmk ‘D¬pq M] KSq| sD| Mq†]\X Ăö{ę— †Ł”. In a seminar to party members, Zemehret classified most of the external world into two categories: those who envy us (e}…q), and those who wish to control us! Such entertaining statements are abundant thanks to our politicians, which greatly facilitates the job of satirists.

Recently, a fresh impetus has been added to the Eritrean satirical scene from a source no other than ‘Geometra Issayas’. Yes, this is a title that Il Presidente has acquired lately by virtue of his well-publicized escapades in Massawa. A hat-clad Issayas, giving orders for demolishing houses, is, by now, a well-recognized fixture in the Massawa landscape. Not only that. The man is now an authority in everything from horticulture to roads and from tourism to football. He is constantly seen dispensing his expert orders (advice would be too modest) all over the place. A friend of mine told me that, that reminds him of Mengstu’s last days, when things got mixed up in his head and started roaming the country in a helicopter, personally administering agricultural policy. He would land at some expansive plain and instruct his entourage: “ ‰sďB ‘©š L¬ ·ňĎ ›Tq; ‘©š [Lô} ĄD‘é ©N a}mkV”, and would quickly board his chopper heading for another unfortunate part of the country.

Not surprisingly, the most popular PFDJ slogan has received its fair share of sarcasm. The ‘Hade hzbi, hade lbbi’ motto has now various extensions, one of which is: ‘Had hzbi, Hade lbbi, Hanti gazetta’, in a reference to the boringly desolate media scene – with the one and only newspaper reporting seminars, announcements of court cases and ‘merd’E’. Why would we need more than one paper anyway? Aren’t we one hzbi?

And no one has articulated the resentment that Eritreans feel against the PFDJ better than ‘wed Jabr’[1] who, as he roams the streets of Barentu, used to exclaim: “…©ö´ Noë †mk K}©Ď: ‘醪M Noë †mk B´©Ď!”. 

Remember the clenched fist, pointed skyward, which used to appear in different publications and posters of the liberation era? This fist has recently taken on monumental dimensions. In one poster, it is portrayed as a huge monster cracking through the ground  - soviet style. Now there is a massive sculpture too, which Zemehret and his studious disciples make sure that, every time there is a festival or an official celebration, it is dutifully placed in the most well-frequented of public places. Imagine a monstrous, clenched fist, patterned with bloated veins, towering over your head as you take your usual stroll in ‘kombushtato’. [The mediocrity of this literal interpretation of art, a vulgar depiction of reality, is quite bothering, actually]. Now, officially, this famous fist is supposed to symbolize ‘awet nHafash’ or ‘bQltsimna’ or something to that effect. To the ordinary Eritrean, however, it’s just another tasteless and arrogant symbol of the PFDJ. Actually, people give it their own sarcastic interpretations. This is one of them: “ezzi’a entai mkhuana tfelTu dikhum?” asks the now-famous version. “ †sď… |§ „ď\Ą] „ď©ö †Ą  (qŚŤXM˘{𠉧q¸˘]) LDq †Ą”.

While we are on it, the long-awaited and elusive miTiyas (demobilization) has naturally inspired many cracks. “MąĄ]} K}´]oń [LĄq} ‹›SkD÷M }[M— Ş…MkX U„ď|¨M …§}ĘFą}” has now become a household maxim.

If demobilization was the ultimate illusion, social security has been a straight taboo for the last 12 years. By now, the fact that Eritrea is probably the only country in the entire planet without a system of social security is common knowledge. The subject has been mysteriously ignored by this government to the dismay of all salaried Eritreans both aged and young. Of late, the government started talking about studies (meSnaet’tat) that are underway to establish a pension scheme for public employees. “Aha, now that they are approaching retirement age, it suddenly dawned on them that there is such a thing as pension!” joked a friend of mine, when he was told about this recent rhetoric.

People, however, still find avenues for writing their inspired captions. One handy location is in the lavatories of cafés and bars. A few months ago, I stumbled across one of these. It read like this: “…}oëM Šmk ‘Ä„ď ›KƉęM „íXqV‘éĄ}: †sď K}´]oń {–| ©M| KĂöŁ M] òk |l‰ŤęM ‰mkF †ŁN …§q–a’ ”. Since then I made it a habit to look for new inscriptions hidden in unexpected places, and I found lots of them. Here is a sampling:

"gX\§ gX\§ …§qkDę|: ąV§ …¸§[é|>
<]dh§ §©M©M>
<ĂLM K}´]o>ń
“Hgdef = isepa”     (PFDJ = EWP, the latter being the ruling party of the Dergue);

My best moments (which I used to call my little window of free speech), were those rare occasions (about four times) when I took a ride in the same bus as a very exceptional old man, I will refer to here as Abboy Hdru. The late hour (after 9 p.m.) bus journeys bound for the various outlying neighborhoods of Asmara are, indeed, fun to be on board. These are buses full of working men, who, after a long, exhausting day, would make the journey home in an entertainingly cynical ambience. A flirtatious debate is going on between a group of boisterous men on one side and the lady conductor supported by two women passengers on the other. The theme is the changing gender relations. “…}p |§ D÷Msk} [mk„ęq[ď –‘é©–Kq M©öU: ‘E ©XC GęM ‰§q…q’] ąVI „ď©ö‰ęM? …‹†D÷ ąV§ §Ak} …}]q‰ŤęM ” teases the conductor in response to a verbal punch hurled by one of her adversaries. “‘§ sSlllll!” replies the man: “©XC ©öL ‹qmkDď: D÷Lđ H‰ďM †}o…sďsęFŠ ąV§ „ ©XC q˛›† o´š ! …”.

Some of these men had made a quick detour to one of the local liquor houses before taking the last available bus, which adds to the hilarity (and of course boldness) of their sarcastic comments. Abboy Hdru was one of the latter. He was probably in his late sixties/early seventies, a man burning with anger, yet hilariously witty. I gleaned from his various monologues that he had lost a son to the liberation struggle and had, at the time, several children in the front some of whom he had not heard from.

“ĎqGď s§ĘFą …Vgńq”, he would burst out. “ Šmk ˛šŠŤ ‘éĆ! †sď ‹ĘF!  †sď ˛mkX! ‰K§ q{mkX ‰MsDŠŤ …§Hoë! ©eŠŤ …k§ ‰MsD’ …§´©ö^… … …”. Now all passengers listen attentively, and in spite of the cautious, silent postures, cultivated by long years of state-administered terror, you can see the inescapable glow of approval in the eyes of everybody. It is as if Abboy Hdru is speaking for everyone.

““†{@FŠ Šl‡M ›˛©ö©ö …SK} S‰ŤďnM; …©ö´] Šmk KéLoë Ké´poë! …}p †sď‡M …‘Ş©öc‡M ‹‰ŤĎ…| †Ł”, he would exclaim.

“qLDď …mk ›oŠŤ˘© [Lđ|X: B›kď }„ę] śl HKFLD÷…” starts the news presenter of dmSi Haffash (the omnipresent, mandatory entertainment on all buses), when Abboy Hdru quickly butts in: “H[‘éoń! KpDFoń:... …}p koń }]‰ŤęM qmkFČ] òďmk| c[ď}| …}dh—UX| ©cń]| …D|! B›kď „íXqV HDďËDę †Ł? ‘§ ˛é˛é˛é©ö !”.

The last time I saw Abboy Hdru was about a year ago. I never saw him since – and the 9:30 journey to Godaif has never been the same! I don’t know what happened to Abboy Hdru. Did the dawn visitors finally caught up with him, or did he fall under the burden of his bitter sorrow? … Abboy Hdru, Where are you?