Imagine the days before alarm clocks were very common! The only thing closer to that is the roosters’ piercing cry which was the main wake up call, and in some places it still is; many communities are not yet exposed to the experience of waking up to the snooze of the alarm clock. Yet, we have people that neither roosters, alarm clocks or the disturbing moaning nor agonies of the suffering Eritreans would wake them up.

The faithful among our people always wake up at the exact time in the morning to go to the mosque or to the church and pray to their maker- how do they know the exact time? It is certainly not the rooster; in fact it is the faithful who wake the roosters up; and that is a dedication we should all try to emulate. Alas, those who choose to sleep through the cacophony caused by the oppressors and through the wailing of their people will continue to sleep regardless of the situation. Most of the time, a dead conscience cannot be resurrected, it just rots for eternity.

Acria To Edaga Hamus

As a young adult when I visited Asmara, I usually took the early morning bus back to Keren. Most of the time I stayed in Acria with my relatives. On my way back I would carry my small bag, kiss the hands and knees of the elders and wave at the young goodbye, and head out. Next door is my ride: the late Mohammed Kemal, killed by the criminal Derg brutes in broad daylight, would take me on his Suzuki motor cycle to the bus station in Edaga Hamus. Riding on the bike, I would see through the cold misty air of the morning, devout elders in white Gabis and Jalabiyas strolling back home from the mosques and churches after the morning prayer. Others, clad in fancy three-piece suits, Safari jackets or worker’s Khaki shorts, hurried to work.

A short distance down the busy street is Edaga Hamus and the bus station which would be crowded with travelers and people seeing them off. The most moving scene was that of the crowd that came to see students off to Addis Ababa for Higher education at the Haile Sellassie university- their immediate families, relatives and neighbors would be crying and weeping at the bus station. It was a three-day bus trip to Addi Amhara, seemingly the end of the world. Many of those who were seen off at that station on their way to the trophy university now carry colorful titles and adorn their mouths with more colorful bandanas. I don’t think their relatives had a clue on what would become of their conscience.

Edaga Hamus was alive with the noise of the horse drawn carossas, trolleys and half-naked hardworking poor children shouting ‘caramella, dabo-qolo, mastika, qolo-Ater’. The air was filled with different deafeningly loud music played on the buses’ speakers. Amid the screeching and hissing noise of the old tapes, and the sound of sharp Brass Amharic music, it was very difficult to make what kind of music was being played. I would board the Keren-bound bus and find my way to a seat through dozens of Beles gift-baskets. The Beles fig fruit was the only delicacy that was usually sent to Keren from Asmara in exchange for Gaba and tropical fruits. Soon, the bus drivers blasted the klaxons as a warning for all to get onboard; the bus was about to leave.

Long distance truck drivers were stars in those days; bus drivers were the cream among the few celebrities. Afadish and Mohammed Berhan were the stars of the Asmara-Keren route but Mehari Ashera was a class of his own. When SATAEO acquired a new bus, it was entrusted to Mehari.

It was seven in the morning in Edaga Hamus; time stopped at 7 a.m. there. You could arrive there at mid-night and magically your watch will read 7 a.m. Midday elsewhere? It was 7 a.m. in Edaga Hamus which seemed to perpetually herald a new bright lively dawn. 7a.m. That day’s driver was Afadish. He could depart anytime of the morning- but since he was departing from Edaga Hamus, it was 7 a.m. and he would never be too early or too late. He was always in time. 7a.m. The musical hoot which sounded as if coming from an ice-cream seller’s truck blasted one last time and we were on our way—all without an alarm clock; it was always seven there! Passengers would secretly pray that no bandit encounters the bus on the way. There were a few shifta roaming the countryside those days and many confused them with the combatants of the ELF.

The Arabs would say, “ash-shey’ou bish-shay’e yuzker”; memories are a chain reaction. I remembered all of that reading a book that perfectly portrays the PFDJ values and covered almost the same period of time. The book titled, ‘wedi Hadera, kab Badme n Sahel’ was published years ago in Sahel as a propaganda piece. It is a story of Wedi Hadera, the bandit and murderer, who is portrayed as a hero. It is a story of an adventurous brute, his criminal escapades and his lawless banditry. It recounts the criminal development that starts in Badme, the bandit’s village, to Sahel, the fortress of the liberation struggle. But I will revisit that subject another time. For now, I would like to stay on what was happening at almost the same time that Wedi Hadera wreaked havoc on the Asmera-Keren highway stopping buses to rob and murder innocent passengers.

Waking Up To The Sound Of Drums

Every morning between four and five during the month of Ramadan, Kerenites woke up for SuHur breakfast to the sound of a beautiful rhythm of drums. The air of the quietly departing night was filled with a slow dum, dum, dum-dum drum beat by Mohammed Drar and continuous fast tempo Dum, Dum beat of Mohammed Saleh Ewale. What I don’t know is, who woke up Wed Drar and Wed Ewale.

Both men had similar personality: hard working, brave and dedicated and both were hot-tempered. When annoyed or bothered, both wrinkled their forehead, squinted their eyes, looked to the sky as if focusing on a tiny star, and talked to the heavens making their point. And if that didn’t work, and they were somehow disrespected, they tended to grab anyone by the throat and bring matters to rest. However, in a calm pastime setting, over tea or coffee at one of the many shops, they both were so sweet and the whole town-folks adored them.

I used to sneak over the wall or peek through the door to see the drummers walk by just before down. Wed Drar carried a lantern and I remember him with a flash light a few times. I have seen Ewale once when I boldly opened the door and saw him from a distance. Wed Drar was the one who passed by our neighborhood and I always saw him through a hole in the gate door. It was curfew time, and they were the only people allowed to walk during Ramadan. Thanks to a deal brokered with the Ethiopian occupational army commanders by a few gentlemen, Sergente Tewelde Beyen being one among them, the drummers were advised to carry a lantern or a flashlight to avoid being shot; the jumpy enemy soldiers would shoot at any moving object in the dark. But since dogs, donkeys and the mentally ill did not carry a flashlight or a lantern and were moving in the streets in the middle of the night, they were mercilessly shot and killed: Kidane Qurdid, Omer Abiq and many others perished that way.

Ewale was in charge of the Northern half of town while Wed Drar was in charge of the Southern half. They followed their routes in great discipline. People would listen and follow the sound of the drums and guess where the drummers have reached very easily. When the drummers met at a corner between Ad Rad'ai and close to the Dugana police station, it seemed like they held a party there: the drums would go wild - a mixture of two different beat rhythms. A few minutes later, the drummers would continue on their way home. Gradually, the drum sounds fainted and the roosters took over.  

I am wondering if we need ten Ewales and ten Mohammed Drars to rudely awaken some Eritreans from their deep slumber. Some are so fast asleep that they are not aware of the injustice befalling our people; and if they do, they would try to justify it in the most absurd way. For example, a few weeks ago, some dead-conscience elder, who not being a teenager, is supposed to be wiser by now, defended the injustice that is making the youth escape their country. He shamelessly stated that “Even Moses escaped from Egypt!” He justified the sufferings by resorting to biblical stories: even Adam and Eve wondered around aimlessly for years; the Agazian crossed the Red Sea and Europeans crossed the Atlantic! The caveman wondered somewhere - so, why are you bitching about the youth escaping Eritrea? According to him, the predicament of our youth is nothing to be concerned about, it is natural! Lost is the morality of right and wrong. Lost is the sense of justice and injustice. Long live the brute rulers of Eritrea! I am not the notorious annoying professor, but if I were, I would have said, it is time to leave those who prefer to bury their conscience behind and “let’s move on alone”!  But is the opposition moving together? The traditional opposition leaders have been transformed to a bunch of number-crunchers: 3^rd. meeting, 4^th. meeting, 2^nd. congress, three-fourth, 51%, seven, three, five! It is always explained in numbers. Maybe some people were created to be accountants and not politicians!  

Two months, tens of meetings and nothing has happened so far. The advice from many corners to the EDA members to get their acts together has produced nothing so far. They sit in a social setting and we are told they held a fruitful meeting! I think fruitful is meant to describe the juice drink on the table where they sat- Haja Barda! What do they discuss? What do they say to each other? Do they discuss 51% ¾ and the other nonsensical issues and consider that akin to a debate in a parliament in free Eritrea? And we have a dilemma, an enderasye eager to divide the spoons and forks among the two blocks; he treated it like the customary Hadar-Brki dividing utensils - a spoon divided into two is no more a spoon but two pieces of scrape metal. Does anybody doubt to what extent the prestige of the leaders have dropped? Do you doubt that they are all calling the disrespect to themselves? Please, someone please, tell the opposition leaders to stop crying over the toy they carelessly broke! Just go to work, meaningful work!

A farmer doesn’t wish his cow dead because it always misses the way back home and wonders in the wild. He just has to watch it closely next time so that it doesn’t leave the herd. Or else, he would have to look for it in the woods every night and bring it back home before the Hyenas hold a party over its carcass. And as far as the EDA is concerned, one thing is for sure: if they don’t offset their February failure immediately, they will be wondering in a place where no one would find them. But then, there are the camps in the North (or South depending where you are) and the oiling of the guns and the eminent smell of gunpowder. Are the people back home (the elite back home rather) paying any attention? Are the colonels, the majors, the captains and lieutenants who many of us have been urging to protect their people paying any attention at all? Alarm Clocks? Drums? Roosters? Barood? But there is always…
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Good News  

The good news is that our reality has changed. The PFDJ tribe is almost done. The noisy lots have dwindled in number so significantly you don’t even hear of them except for some “al mot bay tegaday”. Some of the most effective PFDJ-tribe supporters have regained half their senses (we have still to work on the second half). They have learned how to protect their money and are denying the Hagos Kishas the opportunity of dipping their hands in the pockets of Eritreans. The officer corps in Eritrea are in deep soul-searching exercise (and contemplating about the post PFDJ-tribe rule). The regime hooligans are no more free to roam and threaten people around the world. The committed opposition members have learned not to wait for anyone for salvation but take matters in their hands and do what they have to do. The followers of the organized opposition have become more assertive and are holding their leaders responsible if they cannot deliver. And the winds blowing from inside Eritrea are promising. Who are left? Of course the…

Warriors With A Bandana

The so-called intellectuals: Most of those are already dead and a dead conscience cannot be resurrected unless there is some divine intervention.

The Artists: The selfish are still in the service of the regime and the moment they learn the opposition is able to organize big concerts, they will flow in. The good apples, the morally tormented, will soon join the opposition.

The Aggafaris: Those who support the regime covertly without showing their faces will remain masks and they will certainly peel off and throw away their mask when the day of reckoning arrives; but even then, you will not be able to recognize them. What is the use? They will jump to the wagon of any power of the day and you surely can’t talk to ghosts, can you?

The Gebertn Hadegtn in Eritrea: Those are the pillars of the regime. Their deeds will determine their future in a just Eritrea. This time, Eritreans should not allow last-minute ship-jumping as witnessed after the Haile Sellassie and Mengistu regime’s downfall. Nothing should be above justice; compassion and forgiveness should be institutionalized just like what happened in South Africa. No “simply blend in” approach should be tolerated. To let things go in silence would be a betrayal to those who suffered too much and a betrayal to the principle of justice.

The clean Civil servants & soldiers: they are part and parcel of the suffering Eritrea. They agonize like any other citizen who loves his people and country. The only difference is that they are in the monster’s belly and can’t express their pain freely or openly. They are in a den with a wild animal watching over them. Any move and they would be devoured for a meal. They have been patient enough to endure the hardships, and I am optimistic the future will inspire them to do the right thing. And the future is bright; just be positive and optimistic.

Warriors With A Bandana: These are the queen bees who wear their bandanas over their mouths and not their head.

Anyone who read the Middle Eastern literature knows the word Harem as depicted by romantic Orientalists. In those stories, the Sultan’s (the ruler) Harem (dozens of concubines and lovers) were guarded by eunuchs. The heavily built, scary muscular men were actually men minus their physical proof of manhood. Whether the eunuchs were trustworthy or loyal is immaterial here; what is important is that they cannot trespass on the Sultan's women and the Sultan never worried having entrusted the protection of his women to the eunuchs. He would sleep content, without a bit of jealousy even if the eunuchs sleep in the same bed with two of his women on each side. If you read 1001 Nights, you would be amazed at the similarities between the characters of the stories and the PFDJ rulers. The PFDJ has its own, real, Ali Babas, Blue Beards, Pirates and many other characters.

The Warriors With A Bandana are those who revere the culture of silence and the Generalissimo Sebhat is their patron saint. Remember “did you see anything? No, I didn’t. Did you hear anything? No, I didn’t”? A group of selfish misguided men who lost the essence between the legs. Just like emasculated eunuchs, submissive and voluntarily gagging their mouths when their people are suffering. The Warriors with the Bandana are the potential warlords. Be watchful of the Sultan’s Eunuchs.
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