The Thirst of Death

Early one morning the general commander passed the order that everyone should pack to leave and shouted, “Gird up your loins and move!” For himself, he carried water on his mule. So did his Italian companions. But who would look out for the conscripts? Even if they dried up from thirst, who would really care? They marched anyway. Without knowing where they were heading, they slugged along and couldn’t find any water on their way. Not a trace of water. If you asked where the commanding officer was, he would be in his tent safekeeping his water. He had guards around his tent and stayed silent inside. A proverbial saying goes, “There are times when fighting a war is easier than resisting hunger.” Pity the conscripts who were on the brink of death from thirst yet were guarding the tent for somebody who carried water. Nobody could understand how terrible it must have felt for those who needed to get a share of the water. They were like the rich man in hell who longed for a drop of water from Lazarus. They would have loved to get a taste of water from anyone. But they weren’t there to privilege themselves by quenching themselves with water; they were supposed to stand there and prevent any other conscript from coming close to the tent. Whenever they heard the splash of water, their hearts would jump. It was exactly like watching a dog whose eyes, while one is eating, are raised and lowered following the movement of one’s hand. They were, after all, like dogs, if you compared them with the Italians. In fact, dogs fared better; they at least ate their masters’ leftovers.

Nobody knew what those conscripts who were abandoned outside, who looked like monkeys hampered from drinking water, were doing. Some of them were restlessly moving back and forth; some lay down throbbing. Others were desperately digging up the sand by hand in case they could find water. Poor souls, they thought they could dig up water easily in the same way as in their homeland. They found the sand hotter as they dug deeper, and losing all their patience, they looked up to the sky and prayed to their God in despair, “O All-Seeing God, we are in distress.” A few among them (not only one or two) had patience and would try to calm down the rest but were out of words. How would it be possible to utter a word when the throat was dry and the tongue couldn’t get any saliva? Their lips were chapped and dry, their eyes dull, their faces ashy, and their eyelids covered with dust. They hoped for wet night breezes to come at night, but there was no breeze or fog in that wilderness. Even if wetness had fallen, without grass or trees, the hot sands would have soaked it all. So they spent the night roasted by the heat.

The order to move was given again the next morning, and the soldiers walked slowly. The sun was unbearably hot, the sand got hotter, and dust blew up. Many felt their hearts sinking, and order lost its meaning. They were dropping their guns and ammunition, and staggered. By midday, many had spinning heads and fell down and curled up and remained there, dark blood flowing out of their noses. And the remaining blood was forced out with the last energy of their dying bodies. Some couldn’t continue marching at all and collapsed where they were to become food for the vultures. When he saw this, the Italian commander-in-chief disappeared on his mule, leaving them behind. He was afraid that they might kill him, but in fact nobody dared. Let truth be told, would a Habesha dare revolt against an Italian? It was very unlikely. But for the Italian, the Habesha was like a weak donkey, which you couldn’t kill for meat or hide and therefore would leave behind to die in the field under God’s hand. The cowardly Italian, who gained his pride and fame from the strong young Habesha, thus escaped when he knew that they were weakened and dying of thirst. But for him, they were just mercenaries; they had been bought anyway.

Gradually the entire army of the conscripts was in disarray. Groups started dispersing in all directions without knowing where to go. Tuquabo’s group luckily headed on a route which happened to take them to a place where they chanced upon a well. They crowded up to drink, but it turned out the water was deep. Using a rope, a few of them then began to descend deep down to the bottom of the well to reach the water. Once there, they were chewing mud and sending up capfuls of it to the comrades on top, in order to help quench the thirst. As the comrades on top waited expectantly, those who were beneath inside the well suddenly discovered a hidden wellspring, whose opening was sealed off by a layered chunk of cloth, but was gushing with water the instant they removed the covering. All drank and washed, helping each other. A few of the conscript leaders who had mules also gave water to their beasts. They were the few blessed, lucky ones. About one-fourth of them, in numbers. Even if it had taken them three days of trekking to find the water. As for the other wandering units of conscripts, some fell into enemy hands, while the corpses of others lay everywhere. A few of them had also, indeed, the luck to reach a well with water, but they stampeded it like a mob, like buzzing flies that fall into a bowl of milk, and they died by falling on top of one another. Those who were trampled under were suffocating, and tried to make it up by stabbing with knives the bodies of the comrades who were falling on them. With their entrails soaked in blood, they all perished together there, with bellies open of both the killers and the killed. Oh, it was a horrible sight. You wouldn’t even wish that to happen to your enemy. May the parents of these sons of Habesha not see this; may anyone who has a human heart not see this. This had become the end of the brave young Ethiopians. And the Italian who led them to this and made this happen was going to have a good night’s sleep in his homeland. Nothing was going to happen to him. Everything worked well for him.

The cruelty of it! And what happened to those conscripts who got away from this hell? They still had to fight their way out, and the Arabs started killing them one by one. The griot sang, “One by one they got fewer” when he mourned the death of Negusse, the legendary Habesha war hero. It is true that the Habesha people were brave, but unfortunately the Arabs were coming in numbers. In the end, the Arabs drove them out to the rim of the sea, and the surviving conscripts eventually embarked on the ship that took them off towards their home. On their return journey, they were grieving their comrades who fell in battle and died, and mournfully sang, “Let no one go to Tripoli, lest they be cut with long knife and sword.”

The parents, brothers, and sisters were, of course, wondering about what happened to the conscripts during all those days of war in “Tripoli.” They always were in fear and tears, preoccupied day and night by the thought of their sons in the war, as they waited for their return. Those parents who had other children at home were at least feeling somehow consoled by their presence. It was sad to see those like the parents of Tuquabo, whose only son was born to a family through a lot of prayers and promises, and who was gone to a foreign land to risk his life in the service of strangers, leaving behind his aging parents. There is a truth to the proverbial saying that “the heart of youth is swollen with pride.” It is distressing to think that one could leave those parents who only want your love, who only want the best for you, who pray for your safety and who want to see themselves die before you, and instead go to serve those strangers who do not see you as any better than a dog. It would have been good if you’d go for trade or out to the field to hunt game or for something harmless of that order. But no, going to war, to a land of thirst and famine, death, and degradation, is simply incomprehensible. This is not just one story, but the story of many parents, but since we are talking about Tuquabo’s parents, let’s go back to them.

It is easier to think about them than to try to put in words how the time seemed so long for Tuquabo’s parents during those two years. It was pitiful to see how saddened they were and how their health was deteriorating in the last days of their life, as a result of his absence. Each night, before they went to bed, they pleaded, singing Kyrie Eleison, and prayed, “O Lord, please let the only son you gave us return home safely. Don’t let us die before our eyes see him once again.” His mother was having nightmares and was calling her son’s name in her sleep. There were times when the dream would seem so true that she believed she had met Tuquabo in real life, and she would stretch out her arms to hug him, before suddenly waking from her slumber. Once awake, she could never fall back to sleep, and muttered in pain throughout the night. Everything reminded her of her son. Whenever she saw a young lad passing by, she thought how wonderful it would be to see Tuquabo there walk like that. If she heard mothers talk about their sons, her heart went out to him, to the one who was overseas. If she heard her cows mooing, she felt miserable from the thought that the heir-owner was absent, and she would think lamentably about the futility of milking them or making ghee of their milk, for it would be for others to eat and drink, as Tuquabo was gone. “Oh, Tuquabo! Tuquabo,” she would cry, and go on agonizing, “What good is a harvest if there is no one to eat? If it isn’t for my son Tuquabo, what’s it for me, but to add to my grief?” Such outbursts were becoming her only conversation with her only son. The neighbors were sorry for her to see her in this condition, and they prayed in their hearts that God would help her by returning her son. Her husband was worried for his wife’s mental health. For indeed she was sometimes spending the whole day calling her son’s name, like a person who has gone insane.

A letter had once arrived at the house from Tuquabo. She grabbed it and almost wanted to swallow the paper, kissing it over and over, pressing it to her face, and holding it close to her heart. And when, another time, Tuquabo sent a photograph of himself, she was speechless and didn’t know what to do with it, as she had never seen a picture before. It had all seemed to her like a dream. She never parted with the photo; and she loved to show her friends her son’s picture, feeling happy and proud to talk about him at length. Time went by, and a rumor went around one day that the conscripts were coming home. The news was like a strong wind that stirs up the embers of a dying fire, before finally blowing out the flame with its massive force. It was like that for Tuquabo’s mother. It gave life briefly to her weary heart, but then her heart, pounding with joy and excitement (and she was of old age), made an artery rupture and stopped beating altogether. In a blink of a moment, she passed away thus, calling her son’s name. Her husband fell into the deepest sorrow imaginable. Besides missing his son, he had also lost his wife. He remained alone in the empty space at home. Life was hard for the old man, who in the remaining years of his life most needed dignity and love but instead was deprived of his child and spouse. It would be different for a young person, who could be deceived and encouraged by worldly life, which is hard to do for one who is old enough to know the vanity of the world. How could he be consoled? One would think that the news of the returning conscripts should have rekindled some hope in Tuquabo’s father, but he, too, was overwhelmed by the events unfolding. When he first heard the news, he was tormented by the uncertainty of not knowing whether his son was dead or among the survivors of the war. And who could tell? As they say, “If there is water, there is winter,” which worried him. Who could vouch that Tuquabo would survive the unknown and endless hazards of the journey at sea, on his way back home? And even if Tuquabo came back safely, it was perturbing to think of having to tell him of the death of his mother. Tuquabo’s father couldn’t eat, drink, or sleep. He stopped talking to people. He spent his days at home, sobbing in misery—alone. The neighbors were kind enough to come and visit him once in a while and ask him, “What would you like us to bring you to eat and drink?” But it is hard to deal with a person who resents himself, and it was getting harder for him to find solace. So he preferred to be left alone, and spent his days contemplating his misery. Only his flesh was in this world; his heart was in a different world now, thinking about his wife and son. In fact, he was growing forgetful; he wouldn’t know where he was. And with the loss of his mind’s eye, he had no use for his sight and hearing.

After some time, word was heard that the conscripts had reached the port of Massawa. Indeed, the conscripts had made it to Massawa. After two years, the fortunate ones arrived in Massawa, to return to their homes. But no one could know the thoughts that filled their heads. They were now in the land that they had badly missed. They saw the great mountain chains, which were the topic of their daily conversations and night dreams, and they couldn’t resist their tears. The landscape was part of their hearts and souls. It was impossible to forget the land, even when left behind in peace and prosperity, let alone when left in adversity. They were struck by a tremendous feeling of joy and longing when they saw in Massawa the brown people like them carrying loads, and they were bursting with a mix of laughter and crying at the same time. One can only imagine how they would react when they reached Asmara, if they felt such euphoria on entering Massawa, where for most of them there were no families and relatives to meet.

When they heard that the conscripts were entering Asmara, many people from the villages—children, women, old and young—gathered in the city. Some had traveled on foot, others on mules. Those who did not know whether their loved ones were among the returning waited in fear and hope. Fear, because they wouldn’t know if the loved one was dead; hope, for their safe return. Not knowing the train hours, the villagers were going back and forth to the station to ask about the train’s arrival. It was heartrending to watch the Habesha agents in authority there, who were proudly shouting “Pronto” answering the phone in Italian, but who either simply ignored or disdainfully looked down on their inquiring country fellows. It could be worse. Occasionally, there would be whipping, beating, and shoving. It was then also to mark moments such as this that the people sang, “God save us from your wrath, the Habesha clerk has turned against his own.”

The train finally arrived in Asmara with the conscripts. A huge crowd of people gathered at the station as it arrived. Those who didn’t know of its arrival rushed to the station from home or work, carrying food and drinks. Having fenced off the station, the guards, who were armed with long whips, and with pistols hanging on their left hips, stood there smugly as if ready to block the way to a big party. Their job was to whip away any Habesha who came closer. No mistake about that; that was their task, their order. Only the Habesha were whipped and chased away. They wouldn’t dare to touch anyone who was from overseas. Yes, it was again the Habesha who was the dupe.

As the train entered the station whistling, the conscripts waved the scarves in their hands. Some women ululated, others were crying. “The train comes smoking and your mother’s daughter is crying,” sang the women. The crowd pushed forward, which led to a commotion, after which the guards started beating and whipping anyone in their way. When, after a while, the conscripts came out lined up on one side of the train, they were flooded by the crowd. The crowd seemed like growling sheep or goats which ran about to fetch their little ones, bucking and hitting anything on their way, while the little lambs moaned and jumped to find their mothers. There was noise, chaos, tears, and calling out of names on all sides as people fought to find their loved ones. While those reunited were hugging and kissing, others jostled through in a desperate search for their loved ones.

In the end, when the people who found their loved ones separated from the crowd, the chaos settled down. But not really. The people whose relatives had died, but nonetheless had decided to come to the station to find out for themselves from the comrades within the battalion, started to scream and cry in grief. They were inconsolable. Their loss was the more painful because also they were unable to claim the remains of their sons and loved ones. Not knowing whether the bodies were eaten by fish in the sea or by vultures and hyenas in the desert drove their grief beyond imagination.

The memory of the “Cetimo” battle was particularly agonizing. In this regard, I remember the story of an Ethiopian woman who had lost her brother. She had left her homeland with her brother and had come to Asmara. I think they were only two of them. Then her brother joined the conscripts and died in the war. She had learnt about it a long time ago. She was shrouded in grief from top to toe. Hair shaven, eyes hollow from crying, cheeks drooped by tears, skin scratched and torn in distress, she came to the station in a tattered black dress—which was all she had left to show as a legacy to her brother. She had been sobbing silently when the train pulled in, and after the conscripts got off, she started calling her brother’s name. When everybody started leaving the station with their loved ones, and she knew definitely she had lost her brother, she burst into tears and loud screams. It was heartbreaking to see. Swept by grief and rocking like a person with a severe stomach pain, she was moaning and groaning in distress. “What would my people say to me, think of me? Oh brother, we left our homeland together—am I destined to return alone? If they asked me where he fell, I wouldn’t be able to tell. If they asked me where he was buried, I wouldn’t ever know where he was. What would they say to me? I left my home country with nobody to support me except you my brother. Now I don’t know where to go. Tell me what to do . . .” As she muttered those words, her feminine shriek and cry pierced the hearts of the people like a blade. That shriek could move even those with a heart of stone. On the other hand, what people saw that day was not extraordinary. It continued to happen each time conscripts arrived in the train station.

After the bedlam, everyone went home. Tuquabo’s father had waited in his village because he was bedridden by that time. Tuquabo therefore went directly to visit his father. When they met they were in each other’s arms for a long, long time. It is rather easier to imagine than to put in words how they were feeling toward each other at that time, for it is difficult to express love in words. Tuquabo asked about his mother. Trying to find excuses, the father said, “She is visiting somewhere and she would be coming tomorrow . . .” But Tuquabo’s heart could not rest. Deep inside, he knew and told himself that if his mother were alive, she would have waited for him, knowing that the conscripts were returning that day. His tears were falling, and soon Tuquabo and his father were sobbing violently. His father finally told him of his mother’s death. Learning that she died right before his arrival put him in greater sorrow. And with feelings of regret and with a cramp in his stomach from grief, he wailed the following dirge for her.

 

Going to a distant land,

Not for the honor of my homeland

Leaving my family behind,

In agony and tears, for two years

And knowing I killed my mother, to follow my vanity

Here I return dragging my feet

To show my unworthiness

To those I upset, my people and beloved ones.

I deserve their curse

 

Lacking nothing, I had plenty to eat, drink

And clothing to cover

But left my homeland, oh, such rashness

Here I return to show my unworthiness.

Let all who can speak,

Mouth their condemnation

 

I was one blessed by his grace and with riches

Why did I put myself through this?

Mother, I know it’s because of me

My sweet mother, I have failed you,

Deep within the devil deceived me.

So be it, I accept your curse

To be denied of an eye, tooth, and hand

And be barren like a fiend

I deserve worse;

So be it, let all fall upon me.

Farewell to arms

I am done with Italy and its tribulations

That robbed me off my land and parents

I am done with conscription and Italian medals

Farewell to arms!

 

Some days later, Tuquabo asked to be discharged from the Italian Army and returned to his village. His father didn’t live much longer, and the death of his mother continued to be the most painful experience for him for a long time to come.

 

First Edition (in Tigrinya)

Pietro Silla Printing Press, Asmara

([1927], 1950)

 

Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701

ohioswallow.com

Translation © 2013 Ghirmai Negash

Introduction © 2013 Laura Chrisman

All rights reserved

 

To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at (740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).

 

Cover image: Illustration from L’Illustrazione Italiana
of General Baratieri landing at Massua in 1885

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hailu, Gebreyesus, 1906–1993.

The conscript : a novel of Libya’s anticolonial war / by Gebreyesus Hailu ; translated from the Tigrinya by Ghirmai Negash ; introduction by Laura Chrisman.

p. cm.—(Modern African writing)

“First edition (in Tigrinya), Pietro Silla Printing Press, Asmara ([1927], 1950).”

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-0-8214-2023-2 (pb : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8214-4445-0 (electronic)

1. Italy—Colonies—Africa—History, Military—Fiction. 2. Libya—History—1912–1951—Fiction. 3. Eritreans—Libya—Fiction. 4. Draftees—Eritrea—Fiction. I. Negash, Ghirmai. II. Chrisman, Laura. III. Title. IV. Series: Modern African writing.

PJ9111.9.H35C6613 2012

892.833—dc23

2012040505