Deep in the Wilderness

He who fights on a foreign soil another man’s war

Not for his family or his country’s honor

And, when he lies dying, hit by a deadly blow

From an angry firearm

But cannot say, “Oh! My beloved country

Here is the life you gave me, I come back to you”

Dies twice, reduced to eternal wretchedness.

 

This poem was written by Leopardi, a famous Italian poet. It could have been written for the Habesha conscripts. Having crossed the seas, the conscripts had now landed in the hot, dry wilderness, leaving behind their land, family, relatives, and friends. “Dear friend, do you think people live in this dry sand?” Tuquabo was asking, bewildered. “What can I say? I am just like you looking wherever my eyes take me to.” “How can I know?” replied the other. Both fell silent. They were all silent; except for whispers and unfinished sentences, not even one song or meaningful word was heard in the entire group. The sense of shock, sadness, hopelessness, and regret was clearly visible on their faces. The view of the desert was overwhelming. There was not a single tree or blade of grass, not to speak of water. One could not possibly move in any direction—left, right, front, or back—for one found oneself always surrounded by sand, stone, gravel, and heaps of dust. It was an expanse like the sea, but a more hostile one. In the sea, you can see fish and listen to the sound of the waves. Not even a single chirping bird was heard, nor was a bird in flight seen in the desert. With the open cloudless sky, it was like a hot oven. The nausea created by the permanent blaze and the absence of breeze makes one wonder whether one is in the land of life or death. What a stark difference, when you think of the green, windy, fertile land of Ethiopia, where streams flow. All the conscripts were now saying, “I deserve this, for wanting to come here!” But there was nothing they could do about it except feel pity for themselves.

They had woken up in a sweat from their brief sleep. And as soon as the whistle for departure was blown, they somehow wiped their sweat and started walking slowly towards a place deep in the wilderness. But their feet were aching from sand burn, and some tried to tend their feet as much as they could, while others headed inland—hopping as a way to withstand the heat underneath. Those who owned shoes wore them, those who didn’t improvised by wrapping pieces of cloth and handkerchiefs around their feet. That was useless. A make-do shoe was no match for the burning heat. The sand was like a glowing fire, with craters of hot ash everywhere. I recall one day myself running unawares into one of those hot ash craters. My legs sank up to my knees; I was full of burn wounds. Anyone who went through this experience like me will know; those who have not experienced it can, however, contemplate it with an open heart. It was through this hellhole that our countrymen were going, not for one day, but to live there for two years. Neither the shoes, nor the cloth with which they improvised to make shoes, could save them from the heat, as the sand that got into their shoes rendered the foot it covered bare. What can be said? Oh my God, it was devastating to see the wrath unleashed on them.

There is a Tigrinya adage which says, “The hyena that laughs at dawn is bound to cause havoc at dusk.” For surely the beginning was agonizing, and the conscripts started asking each other what it was going to be like for two years if they were suffering this much already. Two years! Two years in such heat, in a land of hell, with a terrible wind blowing! Fine sand was ceaselessly blowing into their eyes, ears, and noses, making their lives miserable by slipping down into their bodies through their sleeves and necks. Their bodies were sweltering. Since it was very fine, the sand was even falling through onto their bellies. All that can be said is that it is probably from that same fine sand that the haze emerges that sometimes comes to our land, and it burns bodies, destroys our pastures, and emaciates our livestock. Do you see? How a sandstorm so hot—that even after it has traveled a long distance and been slowed down by vegetation and mild weather is able to cause drought and sickness when it reaches our homeland—would affect one who is in the midst of the place where it takes off from the blazing ground, where there is not a single tree for shade? In any case, who knows how many of them were falling ill?

The conscripts traveled for the whole day and rested in the evening. Their feet were burning with blisters and wounds. They slept on the sand without any carpet or cover, wearing their clothes, their ammunition bound to their bodies. For the Italian commanders who rode on mules for the whole day, a tent was put up to protect them from night cold and sandstorms. Their beds were prepared, and water was readied for them. And who was taking care of this? The wretched Habesha, whose lot is suffering. Is it not clear that it was the conscripts who most needed help and assistance? No, it was the Habesha who were destined to stand by the Italians when they were served supper, after slaving for them the whole day. It was also the Habesha, who were despicable to the Italian mind. And who else other than the Habesha was going to prepare their horses and pack their goods the next day in the morning? Well, there were more surprising things. When a son of Habesha was elected as a privileged orderly to serve a white man, whether it was making his bed, or preparing his sword and weapons, or cooking his food, or lighting his cigarette, he thought that he had reached seven skies higher than his colleagues. So the useless one who follows a mule and feels full by smelling its dung thinks he reigns as a king over his friends just because he has put a hat on his head. And so it went. As they spent the night scorched by the day’s heat, stuffed with sand brought by winds, and were mocked by the night dew, they woke up the next day and moved on. Anyone who saw the conscripts then could see that their faces looked tattered, their eyes were red, and their lips were chapped. These young Ethiopians, whose faces had shone before as if they had been rubbed with butter, turned into such emaciated bodies in one day. It was hard to recognize them as Ethiopians at that time, but as useless persons from a cursed land. On the other hand, people back home were thinking about them, and cried, “Our priests, why don’t you speak out? Not even one young man can be found; all have gone to Tripoli.”

And at this time an internal voice spoke to Tuquabo. “Oh, poor Tuquabo! There was plenty of milk to drink, plenty of butter to eat in your home, but your parents have no one left to give their wealth to. You are dying of hunger and wasting away. Back home, when you returned from your trips your family welcomed you with a smile and showered you with blessings and everlasting joy. In your house, you were used to having hot water to wash feet, beer or aniseed drink to quench your thirst, a soft bed to sleep on, and you would sleep with your heart filled with joy. But now, where will you go to after spending all the day toiling? They do say, ‘Don’t go to a bad wife after spending the day with a bad ox.’ This has now happened to you. You will find no one happy to welcome you, no one to prepare your dinner, and no one to get you to sleep. It is then that you remember the good life you had with your family. You will wish to have it, but you will not get it. And thus you will do your best to try to forget this wish.”

Having camped for the night for a second day (which was as tough as the first day), they marched on and on in the desert for seven days—hungry, thirsty, and suffering from the blistering heat and sandstorms. That’s right, they called the walking “marching,” a new word in Tigrinya, which they had invented as a testimony to their exhausting experience. Soon they were close to the territory of the enemy. Their Italian commander, sitting on a horse in their midst, spoke to them in a loud voice. “O black Eritrean ascari! Those whom you are now going to fight against are but a bunch of shepherds. You may perhaps be frightened because they are whites. However, they are not like us. They do not possess guns, nor do they have ample bullets. They do not have binoculars like us, nor do they have mortars as we do. We alone are the brave whites; we, Italians, your masters. Hence, beat him (the enemy); do not be afraid of him. If we happen to find goats, camels, cattle, donkeys, or sheep, we will give you some to slaughter and eat. However, woe unto him who finds gold, silver, or any similar item and keeps it for himself. I shall flog his bare bottom with fifty-five lashes of the whip in front of everyone. Now then, have you heard?! I am the owner of all the spoils. I am your master; everything you find you hand it to me. You should feel gratified and privileged for fighting under the Italian banner. We, the Italian government, are great; we have ships, trains, guns, rifles, and airplanes. For this reason you should fight well for us.” He finished by stating that they must all repeat as he shouted, “Viva l’Italia; Viva Emanuele, our king!”

This was what the young Habesha were told while preparing for war. All right, they were mercenaries. Weren’t they? It would indeed be too much for them to expect to hear better words. When the commander was talking to them, however, he forgot that he was addressing the Habesha, who, unlike some other Africans who didn’t have pride in their history and land, had a long history of resistance and, moreover, were endowed with honesty of heart and depth of mind. He forgot the Habesha soldiers were fighting because they sought bravery and heroism, not for the sake of a few pennies.

We know that a soldier preparing to fight will not fight bravely if he is not defending the safety and greatness of his country and that of his parents, wife, and children. Our Italian chief did not seem to have any of these notions. He treated his soldiers like one who has gathered children from an unknown place to do things for him. He would rebuke them, lie to them, and sometimes praise them. He treated them as if they were children, and he boasted to them about Italian bravery. Thus, when he finally told them to shout, “Viva l’Italia!,” those who weren’t thinking did so with a loud, melodious voice, while the wise ones, Tuquabo among them, got a lump in their throat and shed sad tears as they came to realize what was being told to them. The judicious Habesha soldiers felt ashamed when looking at the Bedouin shepherds, who were preparing to defend their country. The people of the desert were not particularly good at war. They lacked guns and were short of ammunition. They didn’t have a king or a chief to lead them. Even so they did their best to save their land from aliens. On the other hand, it was strange to watch the Habesha, who at first did nothing when their land was taken and bowed to the Italians like dogs (as if that were not shameful enough indeed), preparing to fight those Arabs who wanted to defend their country. The Habesha were fighting for those who came to colonize and to make others tools of colonizing African neighbors, without anything of benefit to their country or society. There may be some who think that fighting the Arabs on behalf of the Italians and exterminating them from the face of the earth was forgivable considering that the Arabs and black Africans were historically enemies. But what was being done would one day lead to one’s fall. If one day they come led by a Frenchman or an Italian to fight, didn’t the Habesha know that the Arabs were going to pay back with vengeance? Don’t they know that they would tell their children, generation after generation, that whatever they might forget, they should not forget the blood of Habesha? And that this bloodletting would go on forever?

As Tuquabo and the others marched in the direction of the Arab “enemy,” the Arabs were preparing to fight the black mercenaries, the “Massawa slaves,” as they called the conscripts. They were nomadic people, like the Tigre and Saho of our country, who traveled from one place to another, leading their livestock to green pastures to graze. Their livestock were donkeys, camel, goat, sheep, and horses. Their horses were famous for galloping like the wind without tiring, and were named “steel” for their strength. But it was the camel that was most beneficial to them. It carried all their goods, did not suffer much from thirst (it could go without drinking for a month), and carried his owner across the arid areas to any destination. The camel was reputed to have been blessed by the Prophet Mohammed. Since it was said that the Prophet blessed the animal, it was thus also kept for spiritual reasons. And that was why the Christians in our country did not keep the camel, but the Moslems did. A Christian who drank the milk of a camel was also considered to have converted to Islam. I remember one day when I was a small boy. I met a man leading camels, and I saw the man milking and drinking from a bowl. Being curious, I approached him and asked him if a camel’s milk tasted good. “Sure,” he said, and he offered me a taste. I sipped from his bowl, but when I started swallowing, I felt uncomfortable and spit it out. The man was not at all happy at my spitting out the holy milk, and he said “Aha,” biting his lip. He would have taken out his wrath on me, had we been alone. The worst was to come later, though. When I reached home, as if doing a manly thing, I told my mother and a sister about the incident, and they were very upset with me. They hurled insults at me, shouted things like “You idiot! You fool! You good for nothing!” and so on. I asked them to explain to me why it was a sin or why they were so upset. As a Christian, of course, I had some knowledge of the Gospel, and I argued with them by citing biblical verses that said “Eat whatsoever is presented to you” and “It is what comes out of a mouth that makes a person unclean, not what goes into a mouth.” My mother and sister did their best to bring counterexamples to defeat my argument. They told me that, of anything else, the worst thing that the Habesha returning from Arab hostage remembered of Arab wrongdoing to them was their being forced to drink camel milk. Much prayer and ritualistic cleansing by holy water was needed by those who drank the milk. So they told me, “You should think seriously who you are because you drank camel milk, without either being hungry or being forced.” Because of their education, I knew that they could tolerate many things; but sensing my mother’s grave concerns, I also realized that my mother could end up sending me for a two-week cleansing by the washing with holy water at the Aba Meta’e monastery or another blessed waterfall. So I told her that I actually had only tasted and not swallowed the camel milk. Relieved but also repenting, she said, “My dear son, I am sorry for getting angry at you” and kissed my forehead. We reconciled immediately.

All this story goes to show how much the milk of camel was feared by the Habesha. On the other hand, we did not know that it was their staple food in Tripoli. The desert Bedouins couldn’t grow many crops, since there was not a single raindrop in the dry desert, in all seasons, summer or winter. I believe if they did not own animals, they would have perished. But God does not leave you with nothing. Where there is a small amount of water, they grow dates, which are also one of their favorite foods. They also make an intoxicating drink by extracting some liquid from the tree. But it is also said that if you were able to see an oasis, the area where water is abundant, you would ask yourself whether you are on earth or in heaven. These people live mostly around such areas, and that is where the traders also dwell.

The Arabs are the descendants of Ishmael, the son of Abraham’s mistress, Hagar. Most of them are red in color, but the heat has darkened their skin slightly. They are beautiful, they tend to be tall. Their women were dressed like the women of our lowlands, and since they were always covered, they were lighter in complexion than their husbands. Their old men were graced by long beards. Their children were plump, nourished with milk. The men covered their bodies from head to toe. They wrapped turbans around their heads. They also wore cotton cloths on top. It was impossible to find an Arab or a Bedouin who traveled empty-handed. If they couldn’t own a gun (which they adored most of all), they would have either a spear, or a sword, or a stick. The men who could afford it rode horses.

But for the Tigrinya the Arabs were notorious for bad behavior. They were untrustworthy, treacherous, and they held grudges. They had the reputation of being merciless killers if they got the occasion. According to the stereotype that was passed along by the Italians, to say that an Arab would respect a deal would be to lie. If you left trusting them because they made a vow, they would laugh at you. All this is what the white people said about them.

But they also had many good things to balance these bad behaviors. They were very diligent in upholding their religion. They never missed their prayers for any reason. Even if you were speaking with them, they would leave you to go and pray. No other society would have done this. They were also hospitable. But their best behavior was that they loved their freedom. They always counted on their God; they didn’t mind whatever might happen.

The Arabs were even notorious for being careless when it came to working for their basic food needs, and this carelessness undoubtedly emanated from their so-called indolence. Again here were some stereotypical stories and slurs about them, which I copied from a book, in fact a book written in Italian. One story tells that there was a man whose wife was to deliver a baby. He went to a carpenter and gave money to quickly make a bed for the baby. The carpenter agreed and took the money. But when the man came back, there was no bed. He went back for the second and third time, but the bed was not made. The child was born, grew up, and reached age twenty. He married and told his father, “My wife is going to give birth, and I need a bed for the baby to sleep in.” And the father replied, “Before you were born, I had paid a carpenter to make a bed for you. He may have finished it now. So go and fetch it from him.” When he went to inquire about the bed his father had paid for, the carpenter angrily replied, “Why are you giving me such trouble, I don’t like to do things in a hurry. And now, if you don’t want me to make you a bed, here is your money, take it.” He had failed to do a job given to him for twenty-one years. Another story has it that, in one home, a husband and his wife were sitting and drinking in the evening. The woman prepared a nice dinner. But she forgot to close the door and asked her husband to close it. He said, “Go close it yourself if you want to.” They argued for a long time, telling each other, “Why don’t you close it yourself?” The husband finally suggested to his wife, Fatima, that they should keep quiet and the first one to utter a word would close the door, and she agreed. While the food was in front of them, they kept quiet without moving a bit. Soon a beggar came. He begged, saying, “Wealth is a gift of Allah, and give me some alms from it.” No one replied to him. Cursing how bad a family they were, he went inside and ate the food which God had kept for him until he was full. He ate the meat and hung the bones on the woman’s neck. No one spoke while all this was happening. The beggar left with a full belly. Later a dog came around and entered the house when he saw the door open. With no one telling it to go, the dog was moving and sniffing around the house. It then came close to them. When it realized they were not speaking, trusting its instinct, it wanted to eat the bones hanging on the woman’s neck. But the woman then chased the dog and shouted at it to go. Her husband then laughed and said, “You have spoken, go close the door.” She agreed and went to close the door. They spent the night hungry and curled up, rubbing their bellies. In the morning, her husband mockingly said, “Mrs. Fatima, you shouldn’t have entered into a bet with your better, I did not speak, but you did.” “Yes, you are right, I spoke,” she replied, “but if the dog had not come, I would not have said anything.” In this way they spent the night hungry because they were too indolent to simply go and close the door.

Similarly, an old man went to collect prickly pears, but was overheated by the sun and prayed, telling himself that he would wait with his God until the sun cooled off. So he sat under shade. Then he saw a woman pass by while crying. He asked her why she was crying. She answered, “I cannot have a child. And my husband always beats me. He will not divorce me.” The man told her that he would make sure she got a child, “as long as you pick my prickly pear.” She agreed. When she went to pick for him, he took out his gun and removed some dirt from it using his knife. When she finished and came back, he said to her, “Take this and mix it with water and drink,” and gave it to her. She drank the mix, and it proved to be not her antidote for birth, but her killer. Imagine where indolence takes them.

This is what was said about the character of Arabs. But seeing now how they were arming themselves to fight when told there was an alien army coming to attack them, no one can believe that supposed laziness after all. It was altogether a different proposition to see the very activities that were taking place. In the midst of the noisy sheep and goats, there were those who were preparing their armor, sharpening their swords, cleaning their guns, and sewing any torn material for their cavalry. In the chaos of war, one could see women wiping their tears while bringing food and weapons to their fighting men. One could witness children crying as their fathers prepared for war while the mothers wept. On the other hand, one could observe the Moslem Arab heroes vowing to fight the “infidels.” Watching the elders encourage their sons, while the sheikhs facing Medina prayed to Mohammed to give them help and victory (with the whining of the anxious horses in the background), was an experience to which no person endowed with a human heart could stand indifferent.

After the preparation, it was time for departure. They kissed their children, parents, and relatives good-bye. Those who owned horses mounted them; those who didn’t set out on foot. The brave ones were leading from the front and singing, “There is no God but God, and Mohammed is the Prophet.” One of them stood and spoke to the Arab soldiers as follows: “Have a brave heart! Infidels coming to invade us is not a normal phenomenon; as it is said, the sons of Mohammed go to other places to rule and plunder, not others coming to rule and plunder them. We should not let something happen to us that did not happen to our fathers and grandfathers. We shouldn’t shame ourselves. Either we liberate our land or we shall be buried there. We should take back to our people the sign of our victory, or let them hear of our death.” He concluded by repeating, “Today is glory or doom.” They felt buoyed up by his speech, and all were singing songs of war, louder and louder. Waving their swords, they vowed not to be mentioned as men if they didn’t spill the blood of “those dogs.” They were even murmuring to their horses that they were to have the blood of Christians for lunch. Encouraged by such inspirational messages, the Arab insurgents moved faster and faster, and, after traveling all night, they came to a watching distance from the Italian army of conscript soldiers. The Italian army commander blew the whistle for getting ready for the battle. He ordered all soldiers to be lined up in two lines, front and back, according to European military techniques. On the left and right flanks, the heavy artillery and machine-gun soldiers lined up. Having shown them their positions, he loudly ordered them to be “on guard.” After that, he ordered them to attach their bayonets on to their guns, and then he told them to lie down on the ground. Not being culturally used to lying low in battle, the Habesha soldiers were confused by the order and wondered why they had to lie down instead of facing their enemy standing tall. They were, in fact, thinking that he was going to get them trampled by the horses. But in spite of this, they did what they were told.

Soon they were feeling anxious; they remembered their fathers and mothers, and they thought of their villages. They wondered who would bury them if they were to die here, with no one around to care for their graves. They understood how foolish it was to fight in a stranger’s war with no benefit to one’s country. They thought how frightening it would be even fighting in your land for your country when one single bullet could end your life—let alone fighting in alien lands for a foreign force. In such circumstances, there is no one, even the bravest, who would not tremble with fear. Well, in our country, fighting men are used to hiding their fear with boasting and agitating. But these conscripts weren’t even able to do that! This is because these conscripts were trained in the Italian way, and the first thing they were told was to be quiet and still unless the commander orders otherwise. The Arabs felt different, deep in their hearts. They knew they were going to fight for their country in their country. If they were defeated, they knew where to run. If they were thirsty, they knew where to find water. If they sought shelter in a place, they would find someone to give them sanctuary. All these things boosted their morale. Moreover, since they were Moslems, they were also encouraged by what Mohammed had told them: that they would be rewarded in heaven to the extent that they killed Christians, and that they would go directly to heaven if they died in such a war. It seemed war was like a wedding for them. If they should ordinarily not have been as strict in following the rules of the Qur’an and somehow negligent of the teachings of Mohammed, on that day they were impatient to reap the blessings of heaven for themselves and their children; and, if they died as martyrs, to earn the rewards that can take them directly to “their Jannah,” which is filled with honey, milk, and maidens. Yet, when they realized for a moment that death was really near, being mortal beings like all of us (how afraid we are of death, though we can’t escape it sooner or later), they too hesitated.

Putting their faith in Mohammed, the Arab warriors went into battle with bravery and determination. But they entered the fight directly and went forward; they didn’t have leaders who issued instructions. They looked like cattle thundering towards attacking hyenas. As they came forward kicking up dust, the Italian army conscripts (the ascari) poured bullets like water on them. Those in the frontline positions fell like leaves; some were directly struck by bullets; others came down together with their horses when the horses were hit. But the death of those in front did not deter the others. Running over the dead bodies of their brothers, the Arabs surged ahead, some falling and others running over the positions of the conscripts with the horses, which sprang like tigers. There, many a conscript who was lying down in the trenches was trampled by the horses, and others were slaughtered by sword-wielding men who were shouting, “Jihad fi sefil Allah!” At that moment, the Italian commander ordered the ascari to “stand up,” although they did not wait until he ordered them.

Other Arab fighters were also penetrating from other sides. Anyone who observed the fighting from a distance would not have been able to tell from which direction the war had begun; he would not be able to identify where the Italian or Arab positions were. One could only see people moving and horses jumping. One could only see weapons flashing, guns firing, and dust clouding. And one could hear the screams of wounded fighters, the boasting of the killers, and the shrieking noise of horses. Our countrymen were finding it difficult to fight with the sword, as it was not that common in their land. But when they saw that it wasn’t getting better, they took out their swords and started slaughtering. The bent sword of the Habesha could chop two or three men at the same time. Since it could bring down many men at once, the Arabs panicked and started stepping back slowly. The Habesha warriors were pressing while the Arabs continued retreating, after which they turned and started running away when the onslaught became too much to bear. But, let truth be told, there was no one who could run faster than the Ethiopians, and they caught and killed many of those unlucky Arabs. It was a horrible and strangely bewildering moment to watch the Arabs running, the Habesha chasing, the Italians shouting—all three different cultures, with different fighting styles, mixed up in the war. For the Habesha fighting a war was to push forward, whatever the cost; for the Italians it was to abide by the order of your commander, even if an enemy comes face to face, for nobody should move unless commanded (as they say). And above all, nobody should shoot unless under instructions. They tell you to do nothing, even if you are slaughtered, until they give their order! For the Arabs, first you should run fast towards your enemy, and then, if things turn out bad, you run for your life. In short, the Habesha work with incomparable strength, the Italians through arrangement, and the Arabs through action and risk. But to tell the truth, nobody could outstrip the Habesha in running, and when the Arabs fell to their hands (how pitiful), they were murdering like blood-drunk tigers, while everywhere else the two groups ran after each other like hunting dogs and escaping gazelles. At times the retreating Arabs stood back and killed a pursuing Habesha before themselves dying an inescapable death, but determined to die in a manner by which they could go to Jannah, which is abundant with milk and honey, as Mohammed had promised them. In addition to this, the Arabs had another tactic, which was to lie in ambush and do the killing there. In this way they slaughtered many sons of the Habesha. In the end, those who had horses fled to safety and those who didn’t were either killed or captured. And so it ended with full victory for the Habesha. No, I am wrong. It was for the Italians.

Late that night, the Italians had the ascari set up the camp and light fires, and let them eat their dinner of meat from the goats they looted. The ascari filled their stomachs with meat and felt satisfied. They were very tired and fell asleep where they were immediately after dinner. Tuquabo was one of those who stood out as a war hero on that day. He was praised for his deeds by his peers. While preparing for sleep, however, he was called to be one of the night guards. Having been in battle the whole day, he was upset by the call and said to himself, “Alas, this is like going to a bad wife after spending the day with a bad ox. After sweating all day, do I deserve to stay up through a sleepless night!?” Even so, as a soldier he knew that he wouldn’t be severed from his duty because he pleaded or his commanders felt sympathetic with him, and therefore he swallowed his pain and went for duty. To be a night guard meant that you had to sit in a place where you could observe people coming in and going out, and you must be cautious and alert in case an enemy came by unexpectedly. To be a night guard also meant that you shouldn’t be found talking with another, or just sitting, or sleeping. That would result, without any hesitation, in your being shot by your commanders instantly. The night guard must stay alert and stand still for two hours, whether it was hot or cold outside. Whatever happened, he was not supposed to move from his place or move around. This job was exhausting and of great concern for the conscripts, and their lament was expressed in the refrain they sang: “Libya, Libya, Libya, running during daytime, and guarding at night.”

Tuquabo went out as a night guard with some of his comrades. They took turns in their positions. When his turn came in the late night, Tuquabo took up his gun, wore his ammunition belt, and stood at the guard post. Because it was bitterly cold, he covered himself with a blanket. The place was so quiet; neither the sounds of wild beasts nor the screeching sound of a cricket were heard. In our country, one never feels lonely; even if it’s scary to hear sounds of wild animals at night, listening to them eases your heart nonetheless. You feel there is something around you. Here, Tuquabo was standing alone like a chunk of wood. He only saw a vast area of empty land surrounding him on all sides. In the moment he remembered his homeland and said to himself, “What would my parents be doing now? Maybe they are crying when they look at my unoccupied bed? And I am here alone in this desert in gloom. What a land is this? No single tree, no grass you could step on, no twinkles of light (or signs of cooking fire) to be seen from a distant village, no sound of animals. Everywhere you go is filled with sand, day or night, endless sand. And this they call a country! Ehmm. The Arabs fight for this barren land. And us? A curse be upon us! We didn’t do anything when the Italians came to take our fertile land. Not only that, we led the Italians like the blind and carried them like children and allowed them to enter our homeland, and now we are supporting them to conquer this land. We let our country be taken, and we are now instruments to occupy someone else’s country. We lost our country, and we are extending our hands to colonize other lands. How would the Arabs be fighting if they had as good a land as ours? When you think of it, the Arabs here are nomads, and they shouldn’t have cared too much, as they could have moved easily, leaving this barren land to the Italians. But despite all this, they did not kneel down to Italian rule!”

Tuquabo further roamed with his thoughts. “Back home, this time I’d be a long time asleep and awake. If there was a party, I would be drumming with my friends, and there would be girls and boys singing together with the intensity of the music. We would sing away the night with many sweet songs like ‘Have faith in God and nothing will happen to you’ and ‘Honey, would you like a drink in a glass cup?’ Also we would horse around, or sometimes wrestle so hard that we would throw each other high up to the sky before falling on the ground. This particular wrestling was called ‘the wrestling of the monks of Debre-Bizen Monastery,’ because the monastery was hidden so high at the top of a mountain that it seemed to touch the stars. If you did the trick of the ‘Debre-Bizen Monastery’ and threw off your opponent when wrestling, you surely showed him the stars! There was a wrestler called Haile who was so good that he was nicknamed Satan. Another, called Tewolde, was also very good. In the midst of this, one would hear the hyenas laughing, the dogs barking, and see the moon brightly lit as the shimmering stars surrounded her. Your heart melted. After the wrestling you would drink your milk and be lulled to sleep on the soft grass.”

When he mentioned sleep, Tuquabo remembered where he was. He woke up from his thoughts as one would wake up from sleep, and he looked around to find himself standing alone in the desert. As the tears accumulated, time seemed eternal. All of a sudden, Tuquabo found himself singing. “You are drying up in the empty field, thrown in a place you know not, neither for your father’s nor your mother’s sake.” He was surprised when he realized he was singing in the utmost silence, and he kept quiet. A while later, the next night shift guard came to replace him and, as they exchanged identification code words, Tuquabo said, “You took your time, eh?” to which the comrade replied, “You thought so, but the time is just now.” Tuquabo was a kind person and knew that staying all alone as a night guard was quite stressful; he therefore went to see the officer to ask if he could accompany his comrade in the night job. Moved by the thought, the officer told him to do whatever he wished. As Tuquabo went back to accompany his Habesha comrade, he cried lamenting that the Habesha with all their heroic deeds and love among themselves would have been useful if all they did was for their land, not for the benefit of strangers for whom they worked as mercenaries in a strange land. The two were there left alone for the rest of the night, and they chatted until morning. Befriended this way, Tuquabo and his companion marched together from place to place, as fellow soldiers. Beaten by the heat, the sun and dust, and without water, they trekked in the wilderness for days and days on end.

 

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