A LOOK AT ITALIAN COLONIALISM: THE WRITINGS OF ERMINIA DELL'ORO

 A LOOK AT ITALIAN COLONIALISM: THE WRITINGS OF ERMINIA DELL'ORO

UNO SGUARDO SUL COLONIALISMO ITALIANO: GLI SCRITTI DI ERMINIA DELL'ORO*

https://academia.edu/79272187/Uno_sguardo_sul_colonialismo_italiano_gli_scritti_di_Erminia_Dell_Oro

Erminia Dell’Oro, an Italian born in #Eritrea, is one of the few writers to have addressed the issue of Italian colonialism in her works from the point of view of the colonized. She describes the consequences of domination based on racial laws, massacres,, and deportations. Asmara addio (Goodbye Asmara), L’abbandono (The Abandonment), Il fiore di Merara (The Flower of Merara), Vedere ogni notte le stelle (Seeing the Stars Every Night), La gola del Diavolo (The Devil’s Throat) are some of her works dealing with cruel aspects of Italian colonialism, such as the "madamato," the concubinage between Italian men and Eritrean women, and “meticciato”, children born from the concubinage, that led to the humiliation of the Eritrean woman and to the identity crisis of so many children. https://academia.edu/79272187/Uno_sguardo_sul_colonialismo_italiano_gli_scritti_di_Erminia_Dell_Oro

The scents of spices fill the air, the clear skies and the red hues of African soil are visible in the novels of Erminia Dell’Oro. Like Elisa Kidané, Ribka Sibhatu, Igiaba Scego, Cristina Ali Farah, Maria Abbebù Viarengo, and Gabriella Ghermandi, Erminia Dell’Oro comes from a former Italian colony and writes in Italian, her mother tongue. Dell’Oro is, according to Daniele Comberiati’s definition, a “postcolonial” writer of the “fourth shore.” The first term refers to the themes in her works, particularly Italy’s relationship with its former colonies and the consequences of colonialism, while the second term recalls the phrase used in Fascist propaganda to designate the then Italian colony of Libya and, by extension, the other colonies of the Horn of Africa in addition to the three shores (Adriatic, Tyrrhenian, and Ionian) of the national territory.

However, unlike the aforementioned writers, Dell’Oro, along with Luciana Capretti, born in Libya, is the only one to have both parents of Italian origin, thus fully belonging to the colonizers rather than the colonized. A rather unique case in a literary landscape of names like Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, Abdulrazak Gurnah, or Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, to name a few. Yet, her voice, arriving in Italy from the “fourth shore,” is fundamental for gaining a different and less idealized perspective of Italian colonialism.

Born in 1938 to Luigi Dell’Oro and Gioconda Vespa in Asmara, Eritrea—the earliest Italian colony—where her paternal grandfather Carlo, who came from Lecco, had settled as early as 1896, Erminia was the first of four children. For the small city situated on a plateau at 2,400 meters above sea level, this was a period of maximum splendor in terms of infrastructure, industrial, and economic growth. The presence of Italians at that time was significant, considering that, according to the 1939 census, Asmara had a population of 98,000 inhabitants, 53,000 of whom were Italian. The Asmara of Erminia’s childhood would always remain an enchanted land for her, with its breathtaking landscapes: the Dahlak Islands and their coral sea, walks along the dry bed of the Anseba River, trips to Keren for the Monday camel market, and overnight stays at the “Sicilia” hotel, picnics at Hebo, and train journeys on the littorina from Asmara to Massawa, where her grandparents lived, among the mountains covered with prickly pear cacti and populated by baboons. Tunnels piercing through the mountains, cliffs, and bridges suspended over ravines. Camel drivers, veiled women walking along with caravans and driving mules and donkeys with sticks. And then, the Green Island off the coast of Massawa, inhabited only by hermit crabs and birds.

For Erminia, Asmara is also a city of smells and colors: the coffee drunk by her father and uncles at the Vittoria Bar on Viale della Regina, the colorful fabrics, the zuries (long dresses worn by Eritrean women), the multicolored beads, the berberé (red chili pepper mixed with other spices), the scirò (fava bean flour), and the taff (a local grain) used to make anghera (a thin flatbread), all products sold at the grain market. And in addition, the blue skies, the red earth, the colorful birds, a city where crickets sing and hyenas and jackals howl, where children play and laugh outdoors. A charming city also because of its multi-ethnic nature, where along with the Eritreans, Indians, Arabs, Greeks, and people of various races and religions coexist: Copts, Jews, Muslims, Catholics. An aspect of Asmara that, as Daniele Comberiati states, is also highlighted by another writer born in Eritrea, Elisa Kidané.

After Italian colonialism, on April 1, 1941, the British took over as the new administrators of the country. Viale Mussolini, the majestic main street lined with double rows of palm trees, known as the “closed field” by Eritreans because it was closed off to their passage, became Corso Italia, symbolizing that the era of Italian colonialism was over. In the 1950s, Eritrea was first federated and then annexed to Ethiopia. Erminia, who attended Italian schools, remained there until 1958, after which she moved to Italy, feeling like a magical plant in one of her recent stories: “torn from its roots” (2006:16), from a land where the sky seemed to be “washed every morning [...] and then spread out entirely above the earth, clear and blue” (2006:19).

“Arriving in Milan in April,” Dell’Oro recounts in an interview she graciously granted us, “thanks to a train pass that I received as a gift from my father to explore the country of my origins, which I had never visited before, I began to travel mainly in the north.” In Milan, she collaborated with the daily Il Tempo, and in the ‘68 era, became socially engaged, married, and from 1975 to 1990, managed the Einaudi bookstore. Later, she worked for Einaudi as a reader of foreign texts. Meanwhile, she became a writer, first with novels for adults, and from 1993, she started publishing children’s stories. “I never imagined I would write for children,” Dell’Oro confesses. “The first story, Matteo and the Dinosaurs, published by Einaudi ragazzi, was born from an experience accompanying my grandson to the Natural History Museum in Milan. Since then, I have continued to write for children. My latest book is titled The Kidnapped Cat, published by Battello a Vapore.”

I arrived in Italy. I did it thirty years later, but inside me, unconsciously, it was already formed. To be honest, I initially wrote a 400-page novel, but it was lost. It contained memories of Asmara, but it was more of a love story; I hadn’t yet fully processed my life experiences. Then, after many years, one early morning, I woke up and began to write its beginning. Something, I don’t know what, had unlocked. It was what the poet Franco Loi talks about: what was already inside me surfaced.”

In an interview published on El Ghibli, Erminia states: “When I arrived in Italy, I realized that almost no one knew about the history of the Italian colonies in Africa. It was a part of our past that no one knew about or wanted to know about. Our colonies were small, quickly lost, and populated mainly by fascists... there was no literature on this subject, unlike in other European countries. So, when I returned to writing, I positioned myself on the side of the Eritreans.” Dell’Oro, more than anyone else, sought to dispel the myth of a “humane” Italian colonialism, which was established from the very beginning of our colonial policy. Her demystification of the myth of Italians as “good people” — supposedly more tolerant, humane, and magnanimous than other conquerors — is driven by the desire to clarify what our colonial adventure really was, from its origins to the fall of the Fascist Empire. Even in our colonial history, Dell’Oro points out, there were massacres, deportations, and racial laws. And while distinguishing between the early colonialism, characterized by a desire to improve the lives of African populations, and Fascist colonialism, which was marked by oppression, Dell’Oro does not hesitate to highlight the different living conditions between the privileged class of whites and that of blacks, presenting us with a city divided in two.

In Asmara Addio, she describes Sunday at the Campo Polo stadium, where trotting and galloping horse races were organized. There, the elite of Asmara gathered, with ladies flaunting elegant dresses and binoculars to better follow the races. “My mother,” Erminia recalls, “detested the strolls on the main avenue and the social scene. She also avoided attending the Italian Club, a somewhat snobbish and Fascist place, where people spent evenings playing canasta and bridge, and where dance parties were often organized.” Besides the parties, there were tennis tournaments, outings, and hunting trips. There was the time for a stroll through the central streets: “Hats, veils, pipes, canes [...] It was the Asmara of the whites, and at the time, Eritreans were not allowed to walk on Corso Mussolini, later renamed Corso Italia” (1997:22). They were relegated to Abbasciaul, on the outskirts of the city. They would come to the center only to sell eggs and poultry, while children went there to beg for bacscisc, or tips. “It was from our domestic staff,” Dell’Oro recounts, “that I learned the local language, Tigrinya, not from Eritrean children, as they were not allowed to attend Italian schools.” In fact, many Eritreans worked as servants or gardeners in European households. The city was structured according to who governed it, and as Erminia Dell’Oro emphasizes in La Gola del Diavolo, “It was the whites who considered themselves masters, in a land where blacks had always lived” (25). The same infrastructures built—roads, bridges, the Asmara-Massawa railway, hospitals, factories—according to Dell’Oro, served Italian interests exclusively, not those of the conquered country, and what was considered advantageous for the conquerors was not necessarily beneficial for the conquered.

The pages of many of Erminia Dell’Oro’s novels also reveal underlying racism on the part of the Italians. The concept of Eritreans as an inferior race was deeply rooted in our colonizers and manifested itself in the sexual advances they made toward Eritrean women. Characters like Sahira, the Bilena maid of the Conti household, are portrayed in her novels. With her splendid, sinuous body wrapped in long, colorful dresses, Sahira became the object of desire for many men who frequented the Contis’ home, until she met a tragic end due to a bad affair with an Italian who killed her with twelve stab wounds in the middle of an Asmara street for having ended the relationship (1997:172-173). Then there’s Elsa, whose real name is Haimanot. The Italian engineer she works for as a maid refuses to pronounce a name that is too difficult for him and renames her Elsa. Every night, the engineer goes to Elsa’s room, until she becomes pregnant and is sent back to her village with a little money. “A beautiful baby girl was born, with skin as pale as the moon, almost too delicate for Elsa to dare to touch” (1991:101). A year later, the engineer returns to Italy, taking the child with him and leaving Elsa to her sad fate. Finally, there is “the beautiful Nura, with curly black hair, golden melancholic eyes, and the bearing of women from the lowlands; [...] she worked on a banana plantation just outside the village; the owner, who had been occupied with other affairs in Asmara for some time, had been her man. Nura was fourteen when she met him, and he was already old. [...] One morning, while she was going to her wells, she saw Nura—a child-woman—washing herself” (1994:70). Nura had a child with this man who came from Southern Italy, who later abandoned her.

Another theme widely addressed in Dell’Oro’s novels is that of the madamato, an institution that existed since the first Italian colonialism in Eritrea and later spread to other Italian colonies, referring to concubinage between Italian men and Eritrean women. In Eritrea, it was justified as part of a local tradition, the “marriage by wage” of limited duration, called dumoz: the groom was required to provide for the bride by giving her a fixed compensation until the contract expired. However, Italians did not care much about the obligations implied by this contract and understood the madamato as the possibility of freely enjoying domestic and sexual services, which ultimately devalued the Eritrean woman and her personhood. Moreover, these peoples—as Major Donati claims in the novel L’abbandono—“forget quickly, they don’t have feelings like us, they are different” (1991:44).

Dell’Oro thus sketches the character of Lisetta’s mother in Asmara Addio. Lisetta is a mixed-race child, the daughter of an Italian who, in old age, fathered three children with a young native woman. While the girl listens to the words her father says to her mother as he leaves for Italy, her gaze is lost in the void: “Don’t worry [...] I’ll bring you to Italy, I’ll send you money soon” (138). But the mother “nodded in agreement and said nothing. She knew hard times were ahead, the man would disappear; she didn’t want to hope, like other women who lived in the futile expectation of a letter” (138). Lisetta reappears in the following pages when, in order to survive hunger, she ends up becoming a sciarmutta, or prostitute. There are many references to sciarmuttismo in Eritrea in Dell’Oro’s works, especially in L’abbandono, where in the opening pages, the character of Salvatore the Calabrian appears, who, despite the declaration of love tattooed on his chest for his fiancée Rosalia waiting for him back in Italy, spends every night with the sciarmutte of Massawa (1991:28).

Starting in April 1937, with the introduction of racial laws, unions with local women were punishable by imprisonment of one to five years, and mixed marriages were prohibited, leading to the denial of recognition for children born from such relationships. Mixed-race children, called “missions” because they were often abandoned in orphanages run by Catholic missionaries, were considered the fruits of sin.

Cinzi overcomes his fears of the racial laws when he realizes that “a relationship with an Eritrean woman was tolerated as long as it was not too conspicuous. The Duce was far away, and with that climate and those women, it was impossible to expect that the laws would not be modified to suit personal needs and passions” . But when Italy enters the war, Carlo sends Sellass and their children back to their native village and abandons them, boarding a ship to South Africa. As a result of this marriage, Sellass will be rejected not only by the Italians—since mixed families were not well accepted—but also by the Eritreans of the village of Adi Ugri, because she made herself a servant of the “bad people who came as masters” (36) in their country. The same happens to her children, Marianna and Gianfranco, who belong fully neither to one people nor the other, but are simply considered “mixed,” “bastards,” or “pro-Italy.” Erminia Dell’Oro recounts: “It was the story itself that sought me out in the person of Marianna, the mixed-race daughter of Sellass. One day, I was presenting Asmara Addio in Milan when a woman of my age approached me to ask for an autograph. As I signed the book, she told me that she remembered seeing me often pass by on Corso Italia, in Asmara. That’s when I began to think about when, as girls, we would take evening strolls along the avenue, we Italian girls all well-dressed and groomed, while Eritrean or mixed-race girls were kept out of that world, and I thought to myself that I would like to write something on the subject. Then one day, this person called me and asked me to write her story. I did, and I added some imaginary elements to soften her loneliness, such as the bush in front of her house with which young Marianna continuously talks.”

Another terrible aspect of colonialism highlighted by Dell’Oro is the use of gas in the war for the conquest of Ethiopia. A chapter of Asmara Addio is dedicated to the fascist attack on Ethiopia in 1936 and the battle in which mustard gas, a poisonous gas, was used against the defenseless population. This sad truth, denied until a few years ago, came to light thanks to films and documents preserved in the State Archives. Dell’Oro herself admits she knew nothing about it until she read the works of Angelo Del Boca, one of the few historians committed to reconstructing our colonial history. As she writes in Asmara Addio: “For two days, the men stationed around the lake to fight against the white men had waited in vain for reinforcements, food, and water [...]; instead, another attack came from the enemy, poison gases were dropped from airplanes, and many of them died in terrible agony” (139). 

“In Asmara,” Erminia Dell’Oro recalls, “we did not have precise news about what was happening in Ethiopia, we only knew that atrocities were being committed. In 1989, a few months after the release of Asmara Addio, before the historical documentation on the war in Ethiopia had been made public, I was invited to the television show of journalist Maurizio Costanzo, who provocatively asked me if what I claimed in my book about the poisoning of Lake Ashanghi with mustard gas by Italian troops was true. I replied yes and said that documents would soon be released to prove it. The next day, I received many letters of protest, but the facts proved me right.”

To complete the picture of Italian colonialism, there is still one of Erminia Dell’Oro’s unpublished works, written in 1999 and titled Il Re di Pietra (The Stone King). “I will propose it to a publisher soon,” says Erminia. “I had Angelo Del Boca read it, and he liked it very much. It tells the story of a storyteller from Axum who arrives at the court of Haile Selassie and falls in love with a courtesan. The book describes the attack on the Viceroy of Ethiopia, Rodolfo Graziani, who had committed horrific acts in Addis Ababa.” This book would complete the history of Italian colonialism that Erminia Dell’Oro has skillfully depicted in her novels to ensure that Italians know or remember it.

Bibliography

• Aruffo, A. 2010. Il colonialismo italiano. Da Crispi a Mussolini. Rome: Datanews.

• Capretti, L. 2004. Ghibli. Milan: Rizzoli.

• Comberiati, D. 2008. Una diaspora infinita: l’ebraismo nella narrativa di Erminia Dell’Oro. In Memoria collettiva e memoria privata: il ricordo della Shoah come politica sociale, edited by Lucamante, S., Jansen, M., Speelman, R., & S. Gaiga. Italianistica Ultraiectina 3. Utrecht: Igitur Utrecht Publishing & Archiving Services.

• ———. 2009. La quarta sponda. Scrittrici in viaggio dall’Africa coloniale all’Italia di oggi. Rome: Caravan.

• Del Boca, A. 1992. Gli italiani in Africa Orientale. La conquista dell’Impero, vol. II. Milan: Mondadori.

• ———. 2002a. Gli italiani in Africa Orientale. La caduta dell’Impero, vol. III. Milan: Mondadori.

• ———. 2002b. L’Africa nella coscienza degli Italiani. Miti, memorie, errori e sconfitte. Milan: Mondadori.

• ———. 2009. Italiani, brava gente? Vicenza: Neri Pozza.

• Dell’Oro, E. 1991. L’abbandono. Una storia eritrea. Turin: Einaudi Nuovi Coralli.

• ———. 1993. Matteo e i dinosauri. Milan: Einaudi ragazzi.

• ———. 1994. Il fiore di Merara. Milan: Baldini & Castoldi.

• ———. 1996. Mamme al vento. Milan: Baldini & Castoldi.

• ———. 1997. Asmara addio. Milan: Baldini & Castoldi.

• ———. 2000. La casa segreta. Milan: Bruno Mondadori.

• ———. 2004. Un treno per la vita. Milan: Bruno Mondadori.

• ———. 2005. La gola del diavolo. Milan: Bruno Mondadori.

• ———. 2006. La pianta magica. Milan: Il Battello a Vapore, Edizioni Piemme.

• ———. 2007. La principessa sul cammello. Trieste: Einaudi ragazzi.

• ———. 2010. Vedere ogni notte le stelle. San Cesario di Lecce: Manni Editore.

• ———. 2013. Dall’altra parte del mare. Milan: Il Battello a Vapore, Edizioni Piemme.

• El Ghibli. Online journal of migration literature, interview by Irene Claudia Riccardi, El Ghibli website.

• Farah, A. & Ubax, C. 2007. Madre piccola. Milan: Frassinelli.

• Johnson, E. 2003. Home, Maison, Casa: The Politics of Location in Works by Jean Rhys, Marguerite Duras, and Erminia Dell’Oro. London: Associated University Press.

• Kidané, E. 1995a. Ho visto la speranza danzare. Verona: Novastampa.

• ———. 1995b. Fotocopia a colori. Verona: Novastampa.

• ———. 2004. Orme nel cuore del mondo. Verona: Studio Iride.

• Said, E. 1998. Cultura e imperialismo. Letteratura e consenso nel progetto coloniale dell’Occidente. Rome: Gamberetti Editrice.

• Sibhatu, R. 1993. Aulò. Canto-poesia dall’Eritrea. Rome: Sinnos

*Translated from Italian to English by: OpenAI. (2024). ChatGPT [Large language model]. https://chatgpt.com

Maharana Hadgu: Testimonies on the so-called Menkae Movement

 

Maharana Hadgu: Testimonies on the so-called Menkae Movement

Interviewed by Aida Kidane 2004

Aida: The word "Menkae" evokes curiosity and intrigue. Although it has become a familiar term in many Eritrean households, its true meaning remains misunderstood by most. For years, the EPLF leadership labelled the Menkae movement as a regionalist faction, relegating it to a forgotten chapter of the Eritrean guerrilla struggle. The sensitive nature of the Menkae issue has often led to its suppression, and their story remained buried until recently, when a resurgence of interest prompted a closer look into the history of these Menkae martyrs. In a 1996 video interview, the President mentioned that the Menkae fighters were not even honoured as martyrs—their legacy was silenced, and their files closed.

Many of these young Menkae members joined the struggle, or meda, shortly after graduating or when they were close to completing their studies. In the 1960s and 1970s, graduating from university was a significant achievement for any Eritrean family, celebrated with relatives and friends. The future was bright for these graduates, who were respected and held in high regard within their communities. Yet, these students consciously chose to give up promising careers and personal comfort, trading a life of certainty for one of constant danger and deprivation.

They endured harsh conditions—sleeping on the ground without proper bedding or food, living in the face of death every day—all for the sole purpose of liberating Eritrea, a country that had suffered tremendously. Their commitment was profound, and many were acutely aware of the personal sacrifices they were making. Students from abroad—whether in Europe, the USA, Arab countries, or the Eastern Bloc—were similarly driven by the cause. In fact, students studying in Eastern Bloc countries even made a pact that those who completed their education would immediately join the armed struggle, whether for the ELF or EPLF.

The emergence of the "Menkae" movement was not the result of a single, unified cause. Rather, it was a mosaic of various grievances and dissatisfactions that coalesced under the name "Menkae." Maharana Hadgou, a war veteran who joined the EPLF in 1974 and served until liberation, witnessed these events firsthand.

The following account captures his reflections from his early years of joining the front. I am grateful for his willingness to share his memories and for his patience in answering my many questions. Stories like Maharana's help us gain insight into the daily lives of the fighters—an aspect that has seldom been discussed in detail. His account paints a vivid picture of the realities of those days. He has also provided a video narration about the Menkae martyrs. Although his story touches on a painful period, it’s important to remember that there were also many good and worthwhile days in meda.

Maharana: The book Destructive Movement, written by Isaias in 1976, was distributed to all fighters three years after the Menkae movement. Everyone read it. Typically, a political commissioner or a cadre of a haili kept the book. As a cadre and member of the party at the time, I remember that anyone who opposed the narrative was taken away—many secretly disappeared.

The Menkae movement began in September 1973 and gradually unfolded until the end of 1976. Then another group, known as the “Yemeen,” meaning ‘Rightists’ emerged and shifted the focus away from the Menkae movement. It was claimed that the Yemeen were acting against the Menkae, and everyone was warned to be wary of them. Isaias accused the Yemeen of being the ones who purged and eliminated Menkae members like Solomon Woldemariam. He asserted that they pretended to oppose the Menkae while pursuing their own regionalist agenda.

During the struggle, food was scarce. Even salt, the cheapest commodity, was not available daily. Sugar became a distant memory—we went years without drinking it. Breakfast was non-existent, and we typically had just one meal a day. The fighters made immense sacrifices for independence, but what we see today is not the reward they envisioned.

After liberation, the fighters wanted to be governed by written laws, sought peace with neighboring countries, and desired for their rights to be respected. But Isaias soon assumed absolute control, behaving like a king who believed only he knew what was best for the country. He undermined anyone with knowledge and centralized all power. He dictated policies on land, the constitution, and multi-party systems. Those governing under him also turned against us. Eventually, even these officials realized that Isaias was driving the country towards ruin. When they demanded changes and reforms, he accused them of treason and losing the vision of the struggle, despite their being experienced leaders.

In brief, as I mentioned in the video, the Menkae movement began publicly in September 1973, although Isaias and Ramadan claimed it had started secretly earlier. At the time, the gedli had no formal program or bylaws and was governed by a set of guerrilla rules. The PLF, or Hizbawi Hailetat (H.H.), had around 22 or 32 military rules governing conduct, such as punishments for breaking a needle, showing suspicious behavior, damaging a weapon, or leaking information to the enemy. These rigid rules did not facilitate good relations with the civilian population.

When educated individuals like Musie and John joined the front, they brought new perspectives. As university students, they had studied various systems and structures of foreign guerrilla movements and began advising the front on how it should be structured. They would write proposals during the day and return to their positions by night. With Isaias’s approval, they were appointed to a committee to draft a structured program for the front.

At that time, the H.H. was divided into three groups: the first led by Ramadan, the second by Isaias, and the third by the Obel group. Together, they numbered fewer than 500 fighters, perhaps as few as 300. The progressive group, later labelled as the Menkae, argued for closer civil relations, separation of civilian and fighter administration, improved medical services, and better weapon storage to avoid damage from the elements. They proposed establishing an intelligence unit to track the enemy’s positions and strengthen the army’s strategic capabilities. They also advocated for providing basic education to civilians in liberated areas and ensuring that all fighters were politically aware. Furthermore, they suggested developing structured foreign relations and maintaining close connections with the Eritrean diaspora to secure necessary resources.

These proposals were drafted in Gereger, Sudan, before I had joined the front. The leaders of PLF1 and PLF2 then met to discuss their current positions and decided that, to strengthen the movement and avoid being vulnerable to the enemy, they should unite. Isaias and Ramadan led the unification effort, while the Obel group decided to stay out until they gained a clearer understanding of the situation. Following the unification, about six to seven Haylitat units, each with 50-60 fighters, were formed.

The progressives, now labeled as Menkae, argued that given the unification of the two fronts and the growing strength of the movement, the drafted structures should be implemented. They believed that rules should reflect the circumstances of the front, regardless of one’s educational background. They also opposed certain practices, such as the policy that if a fighter deserted, not only would he face the death penalty, but his family would also have to compensate for his weapon. The Menkae contended, “Our families did not send us to join the struggle; they expect us to be in Addis, Sudan, or even dead. Why should they be made to pay for our choices? If we desert, we deserve punishment, but our families should not suffer for our decisions.”

Isaias exploited their arguments to accuse them of undermining the unity of the two fronts, claiming they sought to divide and destroy the movement at a time when victory was near. He branded them as opportunists who aimed to disrupt progress. He also manipulated new cadres like Wuchu, who were uneducated, by claiming that the Menkae—labeled as elitists in “bell-bottom pants”—were trying to suppress the less educated and seize power for themselves.

Many of us were new, inexperienced, and still students. We proposed that any confrontations be resolved democratically and that those accused should be given a fair hearing. We also opposed the ongoing violent clashes with the ELF (Jebha), suggesting that, as fellow Eritreans, we should seek a resolution through mediation by respected elders (Shumagelle), instead of prolonging the conflict and losing fighters unnecessarily. Isaias and his group dismissed these suggestions, arguing that, “The ELF tried to wipe us out, and we survived. Now, should we ask for forgiveness for their guilt?” This stance further isolated the Menkae, who were accused of conspiring with the Obel group to stay neutral until the Menkae seized power.

During that time, Ethiopian EPRP fighters like Berhane Meskel were in Sahel for training, and the Menkae were accused of telling the EPRP to wait until they came into power. Within the front, the Menkae were also falsely charged with being regionalists who sought to divide the movement—an accusation fabricated by Isaias (similar to what’s happening today). Those of us who called for a peaceful resolution were imprisoned. We were made to sit under trees during the day, and at night, we were taken away one by one to remote locations, where we were beaten severely to force confessions. Eventually, we had to comply just to end the torture. They then told others that we had recanted because we were unaware of the full situation. Most of us, students, endured these beatings. Some of us are fortunate to have survived, perhaps just to be able to tell our story. Survival was extremely difficult due to constant hunger, thirst, and other harsh conditions.

As prisoners, we could not move even an inch without permission. If a snake approached us, we had to ask the guard for permission to move. We were infested with lice, and even those suffering from diarrhoea had to ask for permission to relieve themselves, often being told to wait until they soiled their pants. When that happened, they were accused of doing it intentionally to create a foul smell and were beaten as punishment. I witnessed many such beatings inflicted on severely dehydrated and weakened prisoners. It’s hard to believe the extent of the cruelty shown towards fellow fighters.

Prisoners were often tied to trees, sitting with their backs against the trunks, each group guarded by three guards. We were completely isolated, forbidden to speak to one another. If someone needed to urinate, he had to ask for permission, and the usual response was, “Wait.” If a fighter in distress asked another prisoner for a blanket without the guard’s permission, he was accused of sending coded messages. Even when the prisoner truthfully explained the situation, he was beaten for not seeking prior approval. These punishments included being tied up by both hands and legs, beaten, and then left out in the sun for the entire day.

There was a plant called Ubel, which grew along riverbanks and twisted like a whip when dried. Being beaten with it caused horrific injuries, turning backs into open wounds. Some prisoners died from such beatings. Those who cried out had their mouths stuffed with cloth, leaving only their eyes to convey their pain. I experienced this myself and saw it happen to others. Despite everything, we continued to serve the front, refusing to flee, knowing that if we did, those left behind would bear even greater punishment.

When prisoners were taken to the "toilet," we were lined up in groups of two or three. The first line had to remove their pants and kneel, facing the guards, while the next line faced the opposite direction. It was a degrading and humiliating process.

I remember seeing four female fighters during my early days in captivity. We lived near the riverside, and these women would come to visit. Later, a fifth woman, Abeba Haile, joined them. Abeba, now living in Europe, is the wife of Stephanos Bruno. Other female fighters, like Dehab Tsafatsion and Aberash Melke, were executed. Werku Zerai and Maasho are still living in Asmara. Abeba, a former airline hostess, was imprisoned even though she had only been in training when the Menkae issue arose. Because Maasho came from a peasant background, she was considered uninvolved and released. Abeba, although initially imprisoned, was treated more leniently due to her background and connections. In 1976, she attempted to write a book about women—a handwritten diary—but it was viewed negatively by the leadership.

 

 

 

 

The torturers were eventually targeted and eliminated, accused of being part of the “Yemeen” faction. We were told, "They beat you, so you should do the same to them," but we refused. This was part of the strategy devised by the leadership—to incite us to seek revenge, thereby making us complicit in their plans. It was a difficult and painful time. Reflecting on these events in the video, I received a call from someone named Kidane, now living in Canada, who said I had shared his story. He didn’t remember me at first, but I reminded him that he was from the Akhria area in Asmara, and during our phone conversation, his memory slowly returned. He was one of those who had been brutally beaten. I reminded him of when we met in Amader, Tsellima after he joined the ELF, and I had asked him what had become of our oath. He recalled the conversation but not me personally.

Many fighters were told they were simply being misled by others in their circles and urged to “come to their senses.” The leadership tried everything to turn fighters against their comrades, but they responded by saying, “We acted innocently, seeking democratic solutions. We didn’t want to hurt anyone. We’re not regionalists. We have nothing to do with these fabricated accusations.”

Most of the people who beat us are no longer alive—they have already been martyred. I remember one of them, Tekie, who died in the battle of Genfelom near Keren. He was a Hayli leader in the Deboloch division and came from a peasant background. Isaias convinced these fighters that the educated members were trying to take control away from the masses. But we were all there to liberate our country, without any thoughts of personal gain or future power.

The sacrifices were immense, and many peasants died quickly, forcing us to recruit new fighters aggressively. Isaias used everyone for his power consolidation, even until the time of liberation. He had carefully planned how to manipulate each group. The PLF1 (Ramadan group) consisted mostly of fighters from the Red Sea areas like Hirgigo. Their leadership included figures such as Ramadan, Ibrahim Affa, Alamin, Shehem Dankalay, and Hilal.

When Musie and others initiated their movement, leaders like Alamin and Ali Said Abdella supported them. However, they later betrayed the movement, allowing Isaias to sway them. He convinced them that the Menkae were using them, with deep-rooted motives to undermine the struggle. He painted the Menkae as opportunists who, just as victory was within reach, sought to reverse all the progress made.

The movement wasn’t motivated by regionalism or religion; it arose from the difficult circumstances and genuine grievances. Recruited fighters first gathered in Durfo, outside Asmara, before traveling through Ginda and Sheeb Gidgid near Hergigo. From there, we moved down to Semhar and traveled north along the coast. After six days, we reached Karora, a border village between Eritrea and Sudan. Since we didn’t know the land well, we relied on the Rashaida tribe as guides, who were paid for their assistance. We did not trust Tigre speakers. The ELF targeted the Rashaida, but Shabia treated them with respect, so they became good spies for us, providing information on Ethiopian positions and helping us evade enemy patrols.

New fighters, particularly those from the cities, were often beaten to keep them moving despite hunger and exhaustion. We questioned why new recruits were being mistreated, arguing that everyone was there to fight for independence and that democratic principles should govern us. Cruelty towards fighters would only alienate the civilians and weaken the struggle. We urged the leadership to provide adequate food and set up stations at water points to strengthen the fighters’ endurance.

During Taalim (training), Isaias was our commissioner, educating us. When we shared our concerns, he responded with pride and arrogance, dismissing us as spoiled city boys accustomed to being pampered by our families. He instructed the guides to bring us to our destination “by any means necessary.” Even within Isaias’s circle, there was favouritism. Some, like Said Idris, were discharged from the front. Our questions about why some were executed as spies without due process made Isaias uncomfortable, fearing future accountability.

Despite having every reason to flee, many of us chose to stay. We were stationed near the Sudanese border, with Ethiopian military bases close by in Karora. Yet, our commitment to the struggle for our people was stronger than the desire to escape. Woldemikael Haile saved many by turning away weak or very young recruits, encouraging them to support the struggle from civilian areas instead. He was accused of rejecting potential fighters, but he stood firm and did not fear Isaias.

Isaias was wary of strong figures like Woldemikael, Ibrahim Affa, and Mesfin Hagos—brave men within the leadership who, despite everything, endured tremendous hardships. The leadership committee, including Mesfin, Isaias, and Ramadan, controlled the fate of those accused and persecuted. Looking back, it’s remarkable that we survived it all. Why did we remain so complacent in the face of such injustice and brutal beatings? Why didn’t we flee when Sudan was not far away?

Now, I see how strong we were to endure so much.

Mesfin fears that he will one day be held accountable for the injustices he was involved in. He once held a prominent position and a respected name, but the past now haunts him.

Musie and the others were initially imprisoned in Gereger Tebeh, like the rest of us. There are two places named Gereger: one in Eritrea and one in Sudan. Later, our base was moved to Bleqat, and the prisoners were transferred there as well. Bleqat is about a three-hour walk from Gereger, both located in the Sahel region. Tebeh is a chain of mountains separated from Bleqat by a river.

We, the army, were later informed that the decision had been made to execute the Menkae members, but we weren’t told how it would be carried out. After we were released, some of those who remained told us that the prisoners were taken away one by one. A friend of mine, now residing in Atlanta, was imprisoned after my release. He explained that the prisoners were taken away in handcuffs—chains known as ganshur, which could be sourced from either Sudan or Ethiopia. After each prisoner was taken away, only the handcuffs were returned, signaling their deaths. Initially, we thought they were taken to a "court" for a trial, as we assumed such a thing existed. We even believed that some might have been reassigned to Haylitat units or discharged. But when we noticed that only the handcuffs were coming back, it became clear that this was a killing practice. Seeing the handcuffs return, one prisoner remarked, "When will it be my turn?"—fully aware of what awaited him. Yet, what could any of them do? They were completely isolated, unable to speak to or even see each other for the entire year.

The executions of the progressives became known because these individuals were long-serving fighters, highly educated, and served as political commissioners. Many others were killed without any mention because we were constantly on the move and caught between battles. When fighters were taken away under various pretexts, we often assumed they were simply being transferred. Some were accused of being spies, and those who knew of their innocence are no longer alive to tell the truth. While there may have been spies among us, they should have been charged and tried democratically—not tortured and beaten to death during interrogations.

I know Memhir Tesfu Zewde, and his account is true because he was also a prisoner. In an audio interview, he mentioned that the Menka members were slaughtered with knives. He himself was once told he was being released, only to be taken away to be killed. Fortunately, the Sudanese intervened and rescued him, even though he had already lost a leg. He was imprisoned, released to fight, and then re-imprisoned multiple times.

In his 1973 document, Destructive Movement, Isaias labeled the progressives as spoiled individuals with class problems. But they were far from spoiled in meda—they endured immense suffering. The female fighters, too, had shed any traces of city upbringing. Even basic necessities like sanitary pads were unavailable to them. They were beaten like the men and subjected to the same cruel punishments. Every month, prisoners were beaten to extract supposed secrets. Many brave fighters cried out in pain during these torturous sessions.

Those like Sebhat and Petros were part of the movement but secretly passed all information to the leadership and were subsequently absorbed into the leadership circle. Sebhat has forgotten comrades he fought alongside for 30 years, let alone those from that time. The beatings were carried out under the supervision of Solomon Woldemariam, who personally inflicted and ordered the violence. Naizgi Kiflu was also involved in carrying out the beatings.

The leadership, including Isaias, never liked Solomon, whom they considered a scoundrel. There was internal disagreement within the leadership, and the Menkae crisis was used as an excuse to settle scores. They accused Solomon of being a regionalist and isolated him. Musie and others defended him, questioning why he was being singled out. He was manipulated into believing that the Menkae were using him to seize power, turning him into their adversary. He was made head of Halewa Sewra (the Security Apparatus) and took charge of ordering and carrying out the killings of the Menkae members. Eventually, he too was eliminated and died a horrible death.

Isaias gave Solomon free rein to commit atrocities, knowing that he would later use Salomon’s actions against him. After Solomon had spilled much innocent blood, Isaias portrayed him as the chief executioner and blamed him for the crimes, distancing himself from the violence. 

Due to these actions, people began to lose faith in the revolution, seeing that Isaias was placing his handpicked individuals in key positions. Solomon, despite seeming composed and agreeable on the surface, was in reality a harsh and ruthless individual. We disliked him because he was responsible for the deaths of so many people and acted as a staunch regionalist. Whatever Isaias initiated, Solomon followed. It was as if they shared a mutual understanding, despite appearing to dislike each other.

Later, Teklai Aden was brought into the Central Committee. His arrival intimidated others, and he even began confronting and beating Solomon. It all seemed like a staged drama. Anyone who sought the truth ended up dead. Teklai was aware of the Menkae movement but was too afraid to join it. Having spent several years in Aden, he spoke Arabic, unlike us who were from Asmara. He was a university student and had read many books. He rose from being a Hayli leader to the Central Committee after the Guba-e, but with little support, as he had not yet matured politically.

Others were also quickly brought into the Central Committee. Eventually, Teklai was made head of Halewa Sewra (Security Apparatus) and began using his authority. He was known to be a drinker and a womanizer. He lived in Dekemhare until he was recalled to Sahel to lead Halewa Sewra. He frequently clashed with other leadership members like Ali Said Abdella and Duru, engaging in heated arguments. It’s unclear what his disagreements with Isaias were, but his true character soon surfaced, and he was accused of corruption. This was during the mizlak(retreat)  period, a time of intense scrutiny and purging.

There were reports that Isaias rebuked him (referred to as "megnahti"), but only they know the details. We only heard rumours of their disputes. Suddenly, we learned that Teklai had defected and revealed many secrets. Although we didn’t see his writings or radio interviews in meda, we assumed the leadership suppressed the information from reaching lower cadres. It might have circulated abroad, but we were discouraged from listening to his words.

Duru was not involved in the Menkae situation—he was imprisoned by the Ethiopians at the time. Haile Menkerios wasn’t in the leadership then either. I can’t recall who was on the charging committee, but it was said that Adhanom boycotted the committee. As a result, he faced retaliation and was marginalized by Shabia.

Solomon clashed with Tewolde Eyob and Asmerom. Isaias criticized Solomon for making negative comments about them. Musie and others defended Solomon, arguing that old criticisms shouldn’t matter now. Musie insisted that Solomon was a democratic person and questioned why he was being isolated, which led to the meeting ending in disarray. Musie called for the front to advance democratically and warned against bringing old feuds into current matters. He urged everyone to observe what was happening.

During another meeting, Musie criticized Tsegai Keshi for walking out, saying that meetings were not like handkerchiefs (mendil) that one could pick up and leave as they wished. Tsegai retaliated by hitting Musie, and the meeting descended into chaos. Musie was sent to the clinic while Tsegai was temporarily detained under military rules. At the time, I was new to the training center where the clinic was located, and three days later, Musie rejoined us.

We were all stationed by the same riverbank. Fighters would often come to speak with us, and that’s when I saw Musie for the first time—his head bandaged. Fighters were sometimes made to dig, told it was for planting trees or building latrines, but once enough trenches were dug, they themselves were executed and buried there. Some were shot by the riverbanks. We were told an “investigation” had been conducted, but we had no evidence. Because we didn’t know all the fighters personally, we sometimes didn’t realize who was taken away from us.

The Menkae case drew attention because they were well-known fighters and political cadres, visible within the military for their activities. When we saw them being taken away, it became known that they were being sent to Halewa Sewra. With no further news, it was understood that they were executed. There was no need to create additional noise to silence the killings. In such isolated areas, a gunshot could be attributed to hunting apes, snakes, or birds, or even testing new weapons. Hearing shots didn’t necessarily raise alarms.

During a fierce battle with Ethiopian forces from late December to mid-January, as the military in Ethiopia revolted against Haile Selassie, Ethiopian troops launched an offensive into Sahel. Five fighters, including Amr and Alem Negassi, who had joined only three months prior, were martyred. The others I remember were Haile and Osman Drei. We were told the outcome: five martyrs, several wounded, and a difficult fight amid food shortages, but that Ethiopia had lost its morale. A short note was read to us to inform us of these losses.

The Menkae were executed in Bleqat. After moving from Gereger to Bleqat, an uninhabited area near Algena, which later became an Ethiopian military base captured by us under Adhanom Gebre Mariam’s command, rumors of their executions began to spread. Some Menkae members managed to escape from the prison. The ELF later claimed that Menkae members were killed and shared this information in seminars and gatherings. On January 23, 1977, during a conference, the ELF announced their executions. Until then, we hadn’t known the full extent of what had happened. While we were engaged in battles, many details were kept from us.

After the Menkae episode, Halewa Sewra became fully operational. I first read Isaias’s document Destructive Movement in 1976, but I don’t know when it was originally released. We learned about it publicly only after being educated as cadres during the 5th Zuria (batch). Each Zuria consisted of 150 to 200 fighters gathered from various Haylitat and Kifletat units for cadre education.

Mesfin Hagos was one of the top leaders at the time, and nothing happened without his approval. Isaias was the chairman, with other members including Mesfin, Solomon, Tewolde Eyob (later killed as part of the Menkae), and Asmerom Gerezghier. From the PLF1 leadership were Ali Said Abdella, Ramadan Hamed Nur, and others whose names are less known. Alamin and others were chosen as committee members to oversee the Menkae executions. If all this comes to light, it will lead to a reckoning and backlash (tewatet, sahabo guteto). The committee consisted of six to seven members, and leaders like Mesfin were at the top, bearing significant responsibility.

Tewelde Eyob, a courageous member of the leadership, was ultimately killed despite never signing off on the executions. He advocated for resolving the situation democratically. When others labeled the Menkae movement as destructive, Tewelde disagreed, saying, "This is a conflict, not a destructive movement. We can guide them back on track; this isn’t a criminal matter." Yet, he was accused of being against Shabia and was eliminated.

The Menkae movement began in September, but Isaias only acknowledged it in January. There was a lost paper written by Tewelde Eyob that stated, "At the Adobha meeting, we condemned the ELF for killing our youth. This will be our eternal condemnation; the situation must be democratically resolved." As a result, Tewelde was accused of being a Menkae sympathizer, secretly removed from his leadership position, imprisoned in June or July of 1974, and executed like the rest of the Menkae. Everyone knew he had been killed—no secret stays hidden forever. Some of these secrets are revealed through whispers among the leaders.

Goitom Bisay, who was initially appointed as a mediator in the first committee to study the conflict, declared that the Menkae had valid points and that the proceedings were flawed. He was consequently labeled as a Menkae supporter, stripped of his responsibilities, and disappeared. It was rumored that he was writing a book for the front and translating documents before his disappearance.

Wedi Fenkil was a well-known fighter, and Dr. Bemnet, a Menkae suspect, was from Addis and attended the cadre school. He had asked about the Menkae situation, which raised suspicion. Though I never met him, it was said that he detonated a bomb, killing himself. He had attended the same school as Yohannes and Musie and sought clarification on the movement. This led to him being closely monitored and then disappearing. Often, when someone tried to escape, it was later reported that they "killed themselves" or "died while attempting to flee," even if they were well-liked.

After 1973, we were discouraged from asking questions about our comrades or ourselves. When a fellow fighter was taken away, we remained silent. New recruits were told about the Menkae as a cautionary tale. Anyone seen reading Marx, Lenin, or Mao was immediately viewed with suspicion and assumed to be a Menkae sympathizer. Consequently, many stopped reading out of fear. Unlike us, the ELF embraced both the weapon and the book. Many fighters pretended to be uneducated to avoid the fate of those who were targeted for their intellectual curiosity.

During the struggle, it was not safe to write or speak out against Shabia. While the ELF published much against Shabia, we dismissed their writings, believing them to be full of lies. As Shabia accused ELF of being a feudal group incapable of liberating Eritrea, we too belittled them. Some of the ELF’s claims were exposed as fabrications, leading us to distrust everything else they said.

Haile Selassie Gebremedhin, a highly educated leader of the Menkae, was arrested by the Ethiopians in Ala in 1970. His family managed to secure his release by bribing officials and claiming that he had planned to surrender. He questioned why the Menkae movement was being treated so negatively and suggested that it should be analysed and understood, sharing his thoughts with Isaias. Many fighters who initially supported the movement switched sides when the imprisonments began. Alongside Haile were John, Afwerki, Tareke, Russom Amma, Dehab Aberash, Werku, and Debesai G. Mikel—Debesai was taken from the frontlines later than the others.

Some managed to escape from prison. I recall one fighter named Wedi Blatta, also known as Mayila Tsenadegle, who joined the ELF after escaping and was martyred in battle. It was said he revealed many secrets, which might be documented in the ELF archives. Abraham Tewelde died three years before the Derg came to power. I had heard he was a brave man. Haile Jebha, one of the Menkae torturers, was later killed for his brutality. Teklai Aden joined after the Menkae period had ended.

As prisoners, we weren’t kept together in a typical cell. Instead, we were ordered to build a fenced enclosure, similar to one used for livestock, and were held there. I can’t remember all the names of those involved—only the leadership and a few familiar faces remain in my memory. Fighters were taken away from the frontlines and never seen again. When fighters from Addis or abroad arrived, having heard about the Menkae executions, and inquired about it, they were viewed suspiciously and often made to disappear as well.

Petros Yohannes began raising questions from the United States, asking why fighters were being imprisoned for demanding democracy and what made the Menkae different from ELF. He questioned why Shabia split from the ELF if democratic principles were a problem. Though I never met him, he was said to be a brilliant person. Word spread that Petros Yohannes had entered meda from the U.S. and was killed. It was rumoured that he was detained under the guise of being invited for work in meda. Another example is Meriam Hagos, who was invited to meda to see the progress of the struggle but was forced to stay until the end. No one knows what happened to people like them.

Although we never saw them, we heard rumors. The truth has a way of coming out, with people saying, "So-and-so was taken away and killed," just as it happened to those who came from the U.S. Even now, the situation remains the same. Those who disappeared are never spoken of openly; they are simply erased from history, and their stories remain untold.

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 In 1986, a major fighters' movement emerged, sparked by poor living conditions and growing disparities between the fighters and the leadership. I heard that some of those who initiated this movement were taken away and either killed or made to disappear. Others, realizing they were at risk of being executed, fled to Sudan. Some of these imprisoned fighters are still being held to this day.

After liberation, Bitweded was initially appointed as the administrator of Assab. Later, he was arrested, and although everyone knew about his imprisonment, no one has ever officially questioned his case. Some claim he was accused of theft, while others say it was because he refused Isaias’s orders to send goods to Ethiopia, insisting that they belonged to Eritrea and demanding written orders as proof. It’s said that Bitweded dared to challenge Isaias. Another rumour suggests he was accused of smuggling goods to Ethiopia, and when the fighters involved were caught, they blamed him, saying it was on his orders. As a result, they were released, and he was detained in their place. To this day, no one knows the true reason why Bitweded has been imprisoned for 13 long years.

It’s understandable that people inside Eritrea are afraid to ask questions, but what about those abroad? They have also been systematically silenced. The message was clear: “You can’t enter Eritrea—Shabia’s reach is long, and it will find you.” When I first came here and started speaking out against Shabia, people began to avoid me, even those I had known for many years. They told me I was already considered a condemned man by the government, and they feared being associated with me.

People are afraid of being imprisoned in Eritrea simply for being seen in my company. It’s obvious at gatherings like funerals—they stare at me, and when I look back, they avert their eyes, even those loyal to Higdef. False reports and rumors are spread about us, especially in a democratic country like the USA. What does democracy mean if we can’t ask questions? What does it mean to have fought for so many years, to see comrades martyred or to become disabled, only to be treated this way?

I fought for my country to see a free and democratic government, a country where everyone can live freely. That’s why I chose to speak out. Who should be the truly free person? It should be all the people, with equal rights. Those who fought for their country should not be regarded as enemies.