1.    Shielded

High above the north pole, close to Iceland, “Welcome, Mr. Abraham. Thank you for being a Diamond Medallion member. May I offer you a glass of champagne?” a flight attendant asked as I settled into my recliner seat on a flight from Amsterdam to Seattle. “What would you like for your main course?”

I decided to decline one of the best elite services that any business traveler enjoys when flying first or business class with the largest airline in the world. I spend 50% of my life traveling across the globe , and in-flight food, even in first or business class, becomes monotonous eventually.

No main meal for me today. The first course with an appetizer, a grilled Thai red curry shrimp starter, the second course a mixed green salad bowl with cucumber, tomato, olives, and feta cheese, followed by a dessert of my choice felt too much for me. After a two-week stay at some of the most luxurious hotels in Dubai and having enjoyed the best food and vodkas Moscow has to offer, I had had enough of being pampered for the time being.

Furthermore, I had just received an email from one of the sales directors requesting my attendance at meetings with several executives and engineers of various airlines in Dubai, Muscat, and Jordan. This meant I would soon be traveling back on Delta’s first-class seats and staying in meticulously designed hotels in the oil-rich countries where luxury knows no limit – at places only the uber-rich can afford.

When I check into any of the innumerable plush and extravagantly designed hotels and restaurants around the world, a plastic card with 16 digits on the front and a magnetic strip in the back is all I need to carry to pay for all my expenses. I never have to worry about not having enough cash in my bank

When the flight attendant interrupted me with her pleasant request, I was reading a Dutch newspaper, de Volkskrant, that reminded me it was time to continue writing my book. I was ignited by the picture I saw in the newspaper depicting a child soldier with an AK-47 held firmly in his arms. He was staring at the camera with nearly lifeless eyes that revealed to me so much about what this young boy must have been going through at the very moment when the photographer, Tim Hetherington, took that picture.

I read the newspaper with deep interest and realized that the article was reporting the photographer’s death in the civil war in Misrata, Libya. So, the story was not about the young African boy I saw in the picture, but about the photographer who had passed away documenting war-ravaged places. Nevertheless, the picture was fascinating. My Dutch is very good, and I read the article with intense concentration. So many memories floated up from the recesses of my mind as I saw a reflection of myself in that little boy who, under normal circumstances, would have then been in middle school under the warm protection and tutelage of his parents and teachers. 

The caption read that he was a child soldier. I was unsure what that meant. He was a child and a soldier, but the words have so much of a negative tint to them that it didn’t sound fair to the kid in the picture. If someone told the kid that he was a child soldier who needed to be rescued from his commanders, he might even get offended. At least, in my opinion, the words “child soldier” hadn’t applied to me and I would have been offended. 

As a child, for almost five years I had roamed with an AK-47 on my back. I never considered myself a child soldier and never expected sympathy nor did I want anyone to try to save me from a perceived misery. I considered myself a full-fledged freedom fighter. Yes, by any civilized standards, it would be considered over-achievement for a 13-year-old to claim that title. But I truly believed, and still believe, that I was not a child soldier. If I have to compromise, I will accept that I was a child freedom fighter, fighting for something that was so much bigger than me that I may have not understood all its complications at the time.

Now, at 40,000 feet above the surface of our blue planet and so far from what I once called home, my memories of my life as a child fighter are as vivid as the photograph I see. 

The man sitting next to me on the flight was an executive at a large US company that provides and manages industrial power plants in the Middle East. He was flying back from Dubai to Seattle through Amsterdam. He noticed me reading the Dutch article and couldn’t help but be curious. He seemed perplexed by the fact that he saw a black man reading a Dutch magazine, intensely interested in an African story while traveling to the USA and speaking with an accent very difficult to associate with a given ethnicity or country. It simply didn’t make any sense to him and he had a hard time reconciling these unusual observations. 

After making a few gestures indicating that he wanted to chat, he finally broke the silence and asked directly if I were Dutch, from Holland. I told him that I had carried four different nationalities but I consider myself primarily Eritrean. Like most Americans, he didn’t know what or where Eritrea is. I gave him my usual canned description of the country I love so much. My pride and fascination with my country Eritrea made him more inquisitive and we launched into a deeper conversation. As much as I hate to be interrupted reading, I like to talk about Eritrea, and my energy level rises when I explain what the country has gone through to achieve its rightful place on the world map. In fact, in this particular situation, talking more about Eritrea helped me get into the right mood to write my book. 

As soon as we concluded our conversation, I unpacked my laptop to start drafting my book about my journey in life, an idea that was proposed to me by my father in 1991 when he observed that I couldn’t tell him everything I had gone through during my teenage years. 

As I write my story, the contrast between what my brain is recalling from my deepest memory cells and my real-time experience in the Delta business class cabin is so stark that I question the validity of what I am seeing, or, sometimes, what I am remembering. While I come in and out of the real world at 40,000 ft and my memory-world in the 1970s, I realize I am so lucky to have such a contrasting experience in life. It almost feels as if I am one of the actors in Avatar who were in an alternate reality world until they were relieved from it and brought back to reality (at least that is how I understood the essence of Avatar). At this point, I am lucky to have the option to go in and out at will. So, for now, I will leave the luxurious business-class cabin of Delta Airlines and go into the world that was mine at age 10.

When I was young, I was a very shy and pleasant boy. I could never say no to the mothers of my neighborhood when they asked me to do something for them, so they loved me very much. Although, we were living in a quiet and safe communal neighborhood in the suburbs of Asmara called North Paradiso, my mother would never allow me to play outside with friends as often as I would have liked. Most of the time I would stay at home, or sometimes watch my friends play soccer from behind the fence or from the top of our garage balcony. I did this watching so often that I had a favorite observation corner that shielded me from the wind and the afternoon sun. Occasionally, when my mother went away for an extended period, I snuck out and played with my friends, but I was always watchful of her returning while I was outside. 

My mother was very strict in enforcing rules at home and outside of the home. For her, it never mattered if the kids were hers or that of the neighbors. She treated us all in the same way. Hence, in her presence, all the kids in the neighborhood behaved remarkably well. To be fair, it was not just my mother; any adult seemed to have the right to interfere in every kid’s business.

I remember our neighbor who heard I smoked a rolled-up paper, resembling a cigarette, came into our house in the absence of my parents, took me to a room, and spanked the hell out of me. Another neighbor whom I occasionally used to encounter on my way back from school checked my classwork in the middle of the street and gave me an earful of “advice” wrapped with threats to make sure I stayed on top of my game.

So, the culture, in general, was based on communal upbringing. Therefore, any parent had the right to interfere and take action when the kids misbehaved. My mother was just an extreme case because she was outspoken by nature and very demanding. That was just her. She would even occasionally become aggravated if she saw parents not disciplining their kids to the standard that she thought was acceptable. Yet, as strict as she was with kids, she was very funny and entertaining with her peers. 

Like many Eritrean girls in the old days, she was forced to interrupt education to get married off. My father married her when she was only 13, and she had her first child at age 17. But this doesn’t explain her unique nature as many Eritrean women had gone through the same experience of getting married early on. She was just naturally very demanding in running the house and the neighborhood to perfection.

My father never interfered with house rules; he was very focused on education. The only time we kids got in trouble with my father was when we didn’t get good grades or didn’t do our homework on time. Since I was a reasonably good student, I never had a problem with my father. Yet, he was a very serious man who observed every detail and made up his mind based on thorough observations. He always listened more than he spoke and was not emotional or loud. In the rare moments he raised his voice, it was terrifying to the kids. When he had time to be at home, he usually read newspapers and listened to his radio. I don’t remember him ever playing with the kids. He was too serious and too occupied with work to play. 

He was the youngest of his siblings and grew up in very harsh conditions after both his parents died, which left him to be raised by his two older sisters. Despite the absence of his parents, he turned out to be a very successful and well-educated man. He was one of the few Eritreans who obtained his education abroad to become an air traffic controller. His photographs astride an elephant and next to the Giza pyramids of Egypt were some of the few impressive pictures I had seen as a kid. These were also facts that reminded me my father was a special person. At one point in his career, he became the airport manager at Asmara International Airport located in my hometown. So, by all standards, my father gained success from his commitment to hard work and his craft. To him, nothing tops education.

Sadly, when I was between the ages of 10 and 13, my father was often sent on long-term assignments to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, 800 miles away from Asmara, the city where we lived. When he was in Addis, I don’t think he worried too much about me or my siblings. At least, not to the extent that I might do stupid things that other teenagers with less strict mothers might do. After all, I was only a 10-year-old, and as long as my mother was strong enough to keep me shielded and disciplined , what could go wrong? 

Unfortunately, the strict nature of my upbringing only made me develop resistance to harsh conditions. When I did something wrong and got spanked by my mother, I’d vow to retaliate by doing more wrong things. I developed a habit of scoring even with my mother, especially when I felt the punishment was unfair or not proportional, which to my judgment at the time was often the case. If my father had known my resentment to strict rules, considering what was going on in Eritrea at the time, he would have been incredibly worried.

A Little History and Context

In case your knowledge about Eritrea’s history is limited, all you need to know for now is that it is a small country located in East Africa and was very significant to the world powers due to its strategic location allowing it to control the flow of oil through the Red Sea. The Red Sea was a vital shipping lane that the world powers wanted to keep open at all costs. The interest in this region was such that even ancient powers like the Egyptians and Ottoman Empire had set their eyes on it and were one of the first to occupy parts of Eritrea. In recent history, however, the most significant colonizers were the Italians. Before the Second World War, Italy occupied Eritrea for about 60 years on a quest for raw materials in Africa. During that time, the Italians treated the Eritrean people as second-class citizens. At the same time, they built Eritrea to be one of the most advanced industrialized countries in Africa. Benito Mussolini wanted Asmara, the capital city of Eritrea, to be the Piccola Roma of Africa. With unlimited design regulations, the architects unleashed their wildest creativity and designed a marvelous city with modern hotels, cinemas, and cafes that are now designated as World Heritage sites and protected by UNESCO. 

During the Second World War, Britain invaded Eritrea from Sudan and defeated Italy. Britain then colonized Eritrea for another 10 years, during which it looted and destroyed what was built by the Italians, as well as taught us to drive on the wrong side of the road. Britain had no desire to keep Eritrea as a colony. In 1952, the United Nations decided that Eritrea should be federated with its southern neighbor, Ethiopia, to serve the interests of the United States. During the deliberation at the UN, in 1952, the US Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles, made the following unforgettable remarks in his attempts to justify the forced and arranged marriage between Ethiopia and Eritrea:

“From the point of view of justice, the opinions of the Eritrean people must receive consideration. Nevertheless, the strategic interests of the United States in the Red Sea basin and considerations of security and world peace make it necessary that the country be linked with our ally, Ethiopia.”

With this misguided foreign policy, Dulles and his colleagues in the State Department laid the foundation for another dark chapter in Eritrea.

Within a few years, the emperor of Ethiopia annexed Eritrea, and the dream of becoming an independent nation was stolen from the Eritrean people. The US strategic interest was served by controlling the most critical sea from where the majority of oil from Arab countries flowed to the rest of the world. The emperor of Ethiopia, in return for the gift, allowed the US to establish the largest intelligence center ever built by the US on Eritrean land. More than 3,000 US soldiers were stationed in the city of Asmara to operate the center called “Kagnew Station”.

In the meantime, the Ethiopians tightened their grip on Eritrea and became ever more oppressive. Any resistance was met with deadly force. With the help of the US and Israel, Ethiopia boasted one of the most advanced armed forces in Africa. An armed struggle by a few Eritreans against a formidable power seemed an impossible task, incapable of even making a dent in the armor. Yet, as the Ethiopian aggression and atrocities against the Eritrean people worsened, the Eritreans’ resolve to fight for their freedom intensified.

In reaction to the Ethiopian aggression and after waging a long nonviolent struggle, in September 1961, the Eritrean people began an armed struggle for independence. A few brave individuals with ragtag equipment decided to take on one of the mightiest largest armiesy in Africa supported by the mightiest superpower in the world. 

2.    Hidmo Debate – Woki Zager

Despite my shy demeanor as a kid, I was a very adventurous boy. The contrast between my actions and my shy character was sometimes so strong that people wouldn’t even believe I could be guilty of the things I was reprimanded for. Yet, if I heard rumors that something was going on outside my neighborhood or even outside Asmara, I would be the first one to take the risk and go see it. Despite my mother’s strict rules, taking off to unknown places at a moment’s notice gave me a thrill I could not resist as a child. I developed a sense of confidence and normalcy when encountering extraordinary things. Partly, this could have been due to the long distance I had to travel to go to my school every day.

When I joined middle school, the influx of Ethiopian soldiers was so high they used many of the schools as their living quarters. As a result, I was assigned to go to a middle school that was located on the other side of the city. Each day, I had to walk alone for more than one hour to get there. The shortest route to my school was straight through the rough streets of downtown Asmara. Because of this, at a very early age, I was exposed to all the bad and good that took place in the city. But I never felt unsafe.

October 5, 1974; it was early morning, my friend Geremeskel and I went for a walk toward Keren road, a major artery that leads to the checkpoint located north of Asmara.  The road was unusually crowded and we were eager to figure out why. Hundreds of people were heading north to the outskirts of the city, while very few seemed to be going south toward downtown Asmara. This was odd – for the time of the day, the flow should have been the other way around because many villagers should have been heading to downtown Asmara to sell their goods and go to work.

We quickened our pace in anticipation, eager to understand what was going on. As we approached the main road, we noticed overcrowded buses heading north. Many cars trailed them, packed to capacity. We wondered at the traffic, at what could be going on, and sat down by the roadside to observe. As the day wore on, the traffic and crowds intensified. The buses plying now were carrying people not just inside but also on the roof – a space normally allocated to cargo. We noticed that the small cars too were now crowded beyond capacity, many even carrying more than five people inside. Everyone was headed north using every means of transportation – buses, cars, horses, motorcycles, and bicycles – and many were walking on foot. We wondered if evacuation had been ordered.

But the people had no luggage with them and there was no perceptible sense of panic. They were all smiling, cheering, and laughing. It seemed that they were heading to a major festival. 

After observing the crowd for a long time with bewilderment, we started asking some people what was happening. Then someone said that people were going out to see the freedom fighters (or Jebhas as they were called in Arabic). We were told that the Jebhas were a Muslim tribe who lived far away from the city, and they could be identified by three long scars on each of their cheeks. This description, which turned out to be wrong as I discovered later, fascinated me.

But something didn’t seem right. Why would all of these people head out to see the freedom fighters on the same day? It worried me to think of what the Ethiopian soldiers would do to them if they found out what was going on. 

Confused as we were, no other reason was rumored for the massive crowd of people all heading out in the same direction on the same day. So, we looked at each other and decided to go with them. As kids, we were not allowed to wander off too far from our neighborhood. But we were too excited to wonder whether we were breaking rules or worried about what punishment we would receive from our parents when we returned – or worse, whether we would even be able to return. We had no clue what the destination was. It could have been 5 miles outside Asmara or 50 miles. We simply didn’t know and didn’t care. We just wanted to follow the crowd and see what was going on.

So we began walking toward the northern security checkpoint less than a mile away. With us, hundreds of people were walking, cycling, driving, horse-riding … you name it. The Ethiopian checkpoint was overwhelmed with the massive crowd heading out. Not knowing what was going on and not having received any instructions out of the ordinary, the soldiers let everybody go. After all, people coming into the city were their main security concern, not people going out. 

Once we had passed the checkpoint, the scene became very chaotic. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Buses, loaded beyond capacity with chanting people and their speakers blasting popular music, raced through the winding two-lane highway. It wouldn’t be surprising if the bus drivers were making multiple trips that day. It was as if a movie was about to start and we were going to be very late. We felt that unless we got on one of the buses, we would not make it to wherever we were supposed to be going. We began to feel anxious and desperate.

So Geremeskel and I collected large rocks from the roadside and lined them up across the highway to force the buses to stop or at least slow down so that we could hop on. Overloaded as they were, if a bus slowed down, people would climb up to sit on top of the bus, elbowing everyone for room to sit. Compared to the people who were on the road, I was most likely the youngest and the weakest of all.

I tried to climb a bus a few times but was thrown off by more muscular guys and never made it up. It was the survival of the fittest. Geremeskel, however, after several failed attempts, managed to hop on to a bus, and before I knew it, he was gone. After a while, the larger buses started to simply drive over the rocks we had laid out. The rocks started flying like projectiles when hit by the tires, which turned the area into a dangerous place to be standing in. 

With my friend gone, my only choice now was to keep walking, following a huge crowd of mostly men. When it became clear that it was not possible to board a bus, people started to walk away off the highway and onto a dirt road that was a shortcut. The road took us through valleys, mountains, bushes, rivers, and villages. We walked for miles, but I don’t remember being tired. I was blindly following the crowd in whatever direction the invisible first person seemed to be leading us. We reached a small village along the dirt track. I recall an old lady coming to me and giving me water. She asked me to take off my sweater and she wrapped it tightly around my waist. This was meant to support my back for the long haul. That was an indication to me that I still had a long way to go before reaching the destination. 

After hours of walking, I sensed that we were getting close to our destination. People began to walk faster, their faces elated as if they were about to meet a long-lost friend or family member. The main asphalt road that we had departed from a few hours earlier was now visible and seemed to have ended at a single focal point with hundreds of vehicles. From there, a dirt road branched off the highway and led the way through a winding road resembling a slithering snake. We could see the plume of dirt thrown into the air by the hundreds of buses and cars that were heading toward the top of the hill. The road led to the town of Woki Zager.

The long queue of cars and buses winding around the hills was barely moving. As we got closer, we could see people jumping off the buses and starting to walk. Our path eventually intersected with that of the buses. The only difference was that the buses and cars were not moving anymore but we still were.

The town of Woki Zager had never seen such a crowd and concentration of automobiles since its inception. It was only a small town at a top of a hill. Its master plan, if there was one, was designed to accommodate animal traffic, not buses and cars. The hundreds of cars and buses couldn’t find parking, so they were stranded on the road. The town, for that single day of its existence, became the Mecca of Eritreans. Every Eritrean who could afford to be there was there. Even I, a 10[MM16] -year-old boy who knew nothing about the purpose and goal of this gathering, was determined enough to make it there.

Once I entered the town, I tried to figure out where I was supposed to go, but it looked very chaotic to me – everyone was going off in different directions. It seemed as though everyone was searching for something.

Soon, for the first time, I saw a freedom fighter directing the crowd to a location in the town. I was fixated on the freedom fighter. I didn’t care where I was heading – I just wanted to look at him for as long as I could. Then more freedom fighters joined, and a little later a few more appeared. They looked like they were from a different planet. They had bony cheeks and thick afro hair. Their military gear didn’t look like that of a conventional army; the fighters wore tight shorts and plastic sandals. Some of them had large vertical scars on their cheeks, caused by deep cuts they endured as part of their tradition in the lowlands of physically marking one’s identity on their face. To me, these marks made them look like they were different creatures. Some of them spoke different languages. Yet, these were Eritreans from the lowlands whom I had never seen before and never known existed.

The scene, the fighters, traditional homes, goats, cows, chickens, the smell of manure, and everything I could see across the landscape was new to a city boy like me. The impression that the town of Woki Zager left on me was so strong that as I write this book, 46 years later, I vividly remember the feeling … I was enjoying all that was new to my eyes.

Unknown to me, serious activity was underway. While everyone was quietly sitting and standing around, a few freedom fighters were standing on top of traditional homes called hidmos and loudly debating. The discussion, I learned later, was about how to settle the ideological differences between two groups of freedom fighters so they could join hands in defeating the Ethiopian army. 

Thousands had traveled from Asmara to attend a historic moment where the two groups – the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) and the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) – would merge into a single organization. As a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t understand the significance of what was at stake or what was taking place, let alone the differences between the two groups.[1]

But for all those who took a day off and risked their lives to come to this town to reconcile the two movements, it was a monumental task. For if they succeeded in uniting the two groups, it would go into the books as one of the most significant achievements ever recorded in Eritrean history. 

My time in Woki Zager felt short and somewhat insignificant compared to the journey to get there. After a long day of debating, the meeting ended, and it was time to go back to Asmara. By then the sun had set, and walking back through the shortcut in the darkness was no longer an option. So, people started walking on the main road back to Asmara. 

I tried hard to find Geremeskel in the crowd. But the place was so crowded I was unable to find him. I worried that my trip back home would be difficult. It was getting dark and I dreaded the idea of heading home on foot.

Fortunately, thousands of other people were headed back home to Asmara, and all I needed to do was follow the crowd, just as I had in the morning. We left the town and made our way down the hill toward the main asphalt road. The narrow dirt road that was built to serve horse buggies was completely jammed with cars and buses. Since it was dark, people were no longer taking the risk of climbing onto the roofs of already crowded buses. They preferred to walk.

I felt comfortable in the crowd. Before reaching the asphalt road, it was slow-moving traffic, similar to the traffic after a football game in the US. The dust coming off the tires made it very difficult to walk alongside motorized traffic, but we had to – there was no other choice. So, covering my nose with my sweater, I walked down the hill and made it to the main asphalt road.

Once we reached the asphalt road, the buses started to speed up and disappear into the distance toward Asmara. While thousands of people were walking to Asmara, a few smart people were walking in the other direction toward Keren. They would catch a bus coming from Keren before it reached the intersection point where hundreds of people were waiting.

Amid all the noise and chaos, a man suddenly approached me and asked in a concerned tone, “Whose son are you, boy?” [2] I told him that I am the son of Abraha Tesfaghiorghis. He asked, “Abraha? The air traffic controller who works at the airport?” I nodded, “Yes.”

Shocked, he immediately grabbed my arm and instructed me to stay by his side, adding that he would not allow me to walk back to Asmara, but would get me on a bus with him. He explained that he knew my father, and would ensure my safe passage home.

I felt like an angel had descended from the heavens to save me from what could have been a very long and exhausting walk. We turned around and walked toward Keren for about half a mile to catch a bus before it reached the crowd. After a long wait, a nearly empty bus came from Keren and we hopped in.

As we reached the intersection where the crowd was waiting for a bus, while others were walking toward Asmara, I could only imagine how lucky I was to have met this man. To this day, I don’t remember his name or how we were related. But, when I was cruising on the bus and passing by the crowd that was moving on foot like a snail in the darkness, I appreciated him so much. 

Moments later, we arrived in Asmara. As the bus slowly moved through the crowded road, I saw hundreds of people lined up on both sides of the road, waving hands to the triumphant heroes who had managed to unite the two groups of freedom fighters. The scene was very similar to that of Ethiopia’s King Haile Selassie’s visit to Asmara when thousands of people were forced to line up to greet him. The only difference this time was that nobody had forced the people to greet the “kings of Woki Zager”. Amongst the hundreds of expectant were my parents and the entire neighborhood who were eagerly awaiting my return. 

For a child of my age to disappear for a full day in such a tense situation must have been extremely worrisome for my parents. This was exhibited when I jumped off the bus and appeared in front of the crowd and my family. My family started crying with relief. I can only imagine now what they would have felt. I have a 12-year-old daughter now when I’m writing this, and can’t fathom her in any way doing what I did then. But at the time I was so proud of my accomplishment. I had attended a historical event, while many of my friends and family had simply stayed at home or hadn’t even known of the event.

Just like a wildebeest calf, traversing the plains of the Serengeti under the protection of the herd, I had miraculously returned home safely - but not unaffected. With my mind full of idealistic fantasies, and visions of an independent Eritrea, the Hidmo Debate and everything I had seen during this trip sparked an obsessive fire which would alter the trajectory of my life. More importantly, it shaped my perception of myself. Nobody could say I was just a little boy anymore. I felt like I was the toughest kid in the neighborhood – a full-fledged adult who had managed to take on a challenge that few can claim to have done.

Although my return to Asmara was uneventful, I learned later it could have been a bloodbath of unprecedented proportions. Later that day, the Ethiopian generals had realized what had happened and had ordered their soldiers to kill everyone who was coming back from visiting the fighters. It was rumored that military leader Aman Andom later overruled the order and averted the disaster. Andom was the highest-ranking Ethiopian general of Eritrean descent. He was later killed during a coup d’état by the brutal Mengistu Haile Mariam who later ruled Ethiopia with an iron fist.

3.    Friday Evening - Asmara

On the evening of January 31, 1975, a Friday, Asmara’s peace was suddenly disturbed by a streak of nonstop gunshots and explosions. My father was not home yet. He had gone from work to the city center to buy me shoes in preparation for our trip planned the following day to visit his birthplace some 60 km  outside Asmara. It was to be an exciting trip. A Land Rover was already parked in our garage loaded with gifts and other necessities we planned to take to the village.

But the gunfire wouldn’t stop, and my mother and a few adults in the house visibly began to worry about what was going on, and, more importantly, whether my father was safe. They locked all the doors and waited for my father to show up. I had no clue what was happening. This was the first time I had ever heard gunshots and I was simply too young to comprehend the situation. I was just eager for my father to come home so that I could see my new shoes.

Late in the evening, my father arrived home and everyone was elated. I too was happy, but for a different reason. While my father was narrating his ordeal to the adults, I quickly unboxed the new shoes, put them on, and burst into the living room. I excitedly bowed down to each adult asking for their blessings. This was a tradition kids learn from an early age: for any gift you receive, you have to bow to your elders and ask for their blessings. That was what well-mannered children did. But this time the reaction I got seemed to indicate otherwise. In a matter of seconds, the mood in the room changed from sober and concerned to laughing at me. They were terrified for their lives and there I was, completely oblivious to the shootings, concerned about my new shoes and the protocol for blessings. This made me feel like the clown of the evening. Needless to say, the next day, the long-awaited trip was canceled and the Land Rover remained parked in our garage for a long time.

That Friday evening heralded a new reality in Asmara and my personal life. From that day on, the sound of machine guns and mortar became part of my day-to-day life and those of many millions of Eritreans. Over the following few days, Ethiopian soldiers went on a rampage through the city. Civilians were dragged out of their houses and executed. According to sources, up to 3,000 people were killed in the city, making it the bloodiest moment in the history of Asmara. Life in Asmara changed forever, and what followed was repression and the unleashing of deadly force against any civilian that was suspected of aiding Eritrean fighters. Death roamed the once-peaceful and calm streets of Asmara.

The fighting, which originally started with poorly armed fighters in remote areas, expanded tremendously and reached the outskirts of every major Eritrean town, including the capital, Asmara. Ordinary people who knew nothing about the war that had been raging in remote mountains started to take notice. It was at this point that the otherwise tranquil and peaceful Asmara started to feel the tension. For me and many other kids, it was impossible to understand how high the stakes were and just how horrible the situation was about to become.

The daily fight that took place mainly at night was a source of deep curiosity for me. Although the sounds of ear-piercing machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades were terrifying and everyone in the neighborhood was praying, I started to idealize the fight that took place in the darkness and I wanted to hear more of it every day. The sounds of mortars, rocket launchers, and heavy machine guns started to become music to my ears, especially when it was at a safe distance from where I lived. I got very disappointed when the city was occasionally silent in the evenings.

Many homes in Asmara were hit by bullets and few homes were demolished by artillery. To me, this was sensational. The bullet holes on the walls of a home signified the family’s involvement in the battle. Obviously, I wanted to see our family be involved as well. Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I ran to the front of our house and scanned the walls for a bullet hole. To my disappointment, after months of waiting, no bullet had hit our house.

Nevertheless, I was so desperate to see a bullet mark on our house that I decided to make it happen. One day, I grabbed a key and started to dig a hole resembling a bullet mark next to the living room window. I figured the closer I place the hole to the window, the more exciting the story was going to be. I finished my artwork as best as I could and it was time to hear the reaction of my family members. Every guest who came to our home was shocked to see how close the “bullet” came to entering our house.

Apparently, I did such a great job, my father has been telling the story for more than 40 years confidently. When I recently broke the news to him, the look on his face was not amusing. His expression read “you are a stupid kid, you made me tell a false story for my entire life”. He is right; I was a stupid kid who thought war was a game. After all, I was only 11 year old, I had no idea of the pain others were going through or the people being killed every time. I enjoyed the sound of machine guns. Yet, every evening, people were dying, and tremendous suffering engulfed the city. 

Every time an Ethiopian soldier got attacked by Eritrean fighters, the soldiers caused terror and bloodshed among the civilian population of the city. In search of hidden freedom fighters, they would go door to door terrorizing and killing people. Dead bodies were transported in trucks to mass graves. In every corner and every major building, Ethiopian soldiers were stationed to guard and bring order. The Ethiopian government brought so many soldiers to Eritrea that local schools were converted to military camps. The asphalt roads started to disintegrate due to the heavy traffic of tanks and trucks going in and out of the city. The Ethiopian soldiers didn’t speak any Eritrean languages and were unable to communicate, and as such, they had no understanding of what the population thought of them or just how much they were hated. All they knew was that the source of the freedom fighters were the Eritrean people and therefore the people were the enemies of the soldiers and had to be punished. 

 The soldiers were stationed everywhere in and around Asmara city. Traveling outside the city was a very dangerous thing to do. Asmara was under military curfew and surrounded by heavily armed Ethiopian soldiers who lived in constant vigil due to the daily attacks mounted on them by the Eritrean fighters who dug trenches around Asmara, poised to take control of the city any time. 

Given that our house was on the outskirts, we were in a danger zone. I remember at one point the soldiers taking positions so close to our home that my father decided to evacuate the family in a rush. Just before the curfew hit, he borrowed a car, a Volkswagen beetle, from our neighbor, loaded the entire family – six kids and my mother – and drove us to the center of the city to drop us off at a friend’s house deemed safer.

It was a thrilling ride! There was not even a single car in the streets of Asmara and my father was racing through the streets as fast as he could. I didn’t want the ride to end. We stayed there for two weeks while my father and other men stayed back. Fortunately, nothing happened and we returned home. But the tension was felt everywhere and in every home. 

Many youngsters began to leave the city, some to escape the danger and others to join the freedom fighters; the news of people disappearing never stopped. Every day I went to school there was fascinating but terrible news about my peers, ranging from “someone left the city to join the fighters” to “someone got killed”. Eventually, older boys whom I looked up to, as well as my closest family members, began leaving Asmara to join the liberation front. Two of my uncles and a young man who rented the extra room in my childhood home also left. The horror stories I heard every day at school, coupled with the pictures forming in my mind about the nightly battles fought by my uncles and friends, brought me to one conclusion: I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to join the freedom fighters and avenge the bloodshed. 

I recall drawing pictures of how I imagined the war to be. My pictures would show one single Eritrean fighter burning many tanks and the Eritrean flag being raised in Asmara and so on. My mother would immediately tear up these pictures and burn them since the Ethiopian soldiers were performing routine searches. These pictures being found in our home could result in my parents being executed on the spot. But, as a kid, I didn’t see the danger or the suffering of my people. All I could see was the “bright side” of the war. I had dreams of going out to join the freedom fighters and coming back triumphantly. I never thought of myself dying or not making it back. I dreamed that Eritrea would be free and I would be one of the first fighters to enter my hometown, with an AK-47 strapped on my shoulder. So, at 11 years old, I was desperate to join the freedom fighters and find out if my imagination could turn into reality. 

Researching how to search for and find freedom fighters became my primary preoccupation. In the absence of the Internet and social media, I would listen intently when adults spoke about the freedom fighters and stories of battles. My favorite person to learn from was my grandfather, Aboy Tseghay, whose two kids had joined the liberation front.

In the mornings, after his night shift at the famous building Fiat Talero, he would often come to our home on his shiny bicycle and bring us freshly baked Italian bread (bani samarco). My mother would make him traditional coffee – which is a ceremony that takes a few hours to complete. They would chat about how things were going and what the latest developments were on the battlefields. To avoid getting into trouble or having the children overhear them, they would use obvious code words to refer to the liberation movement and most often refer to them as “our sons”. 

These coffee ceremonies were my favorite moments. I would get to hear some grown-up talk and inflate them with my augmented imagination. The stories I heard at home and school made me more determined to join the freedom fighters at all costs.

4.    Foolishness - Mendefera

The trip I took to Woki Zager only emboldened me. I was invincible and I felt like nothing could stop me from exploring new locations. As the months passed, the fighting around Asmara intensified and Asmara society evolved. More people joined the liberation front, and schools now became places where unconfirmed news would circulate. These stories always highlighted the heroism of Eritrean fighters while making fun of the Ethiopian soldiers. Many songs were written to highlight the political situation in Eritrea, but they would always contain hidden meanings. The interpretation of songs became an art of its own. Any love song could be twisted to also mean love for Eritrea. Initially, the Ethiopians were oblivious to how these songs were strengthening nationalism, patriotism, and heroism amongst the young generation. 

As the songs became popular and people started talking about them more openly, the Ethiopians banned these songs from being played on the radio. People could only hear them on a tape recorder if they had one. Then, even tapes were forbidden, and if you were found listening to any Eritrean songs, you ended up in jail. The tightening of control over the population made things worse. Youngsters started to organize themselves to support the liberation movement in any way they could, from getting supplies out of Asmara to collaborating with the fighters to assassinate Ethiopian leaders in the city. The city became a haven and a nest for the freedom fighters. 

If any Eritrean was discovered to be collaborating with Ethiopian soldiers, they would receive warning letters from the liberation movement instructing them to stop their activity or face assassination. For those who refused to stop working with the Ethiopians, after three warning notices an assassination squad was sent to seal their fate. The assassinations of both Ethiopian leaders and Eritrean collaborators were often conducted in broad daylight.

Mr. Tesfatsion, our neighbor, who was suspected of collaborating with the Ethiopians, was gunned down in front of my eyes, only 300 ft away from our house. During lunch hour, he was coming back from work on his bicycle. In Asmara, all offices close during lunch hour and everyone goes home for lunch. Right as he reached the intersection of our home, two men, also on a bicycle, approached him from behind and I heard two gunshots. As I focused my attention on the scene, I saw Mr. Tesfatsion, who was a very heavy man, fall off his bicycle. Realizing that this was a murder, I ran to my home. Sadly, the only way to go to my home was to pass his fallen body. As I ran past Mr. Tesfatsion’s body, I couldn’t help but take a quick curious look. Blood was streaming from his head and being soaked into the brown dirt. It was not my place to help. I don’t know how long Mr. Tesfatsion lay there before he died. The two assailants disappeared. At Mr. Tesfatsion’s funeral, his son vowed to avenge the death of his father and joined the list of collaborators. A few months later, he too met the same fate as his father. 

The freedom fighters tasked with assassination missions would often use bicycles to move around the city and escape fast. So bicycles became the next target of Ethiopian soldiers and the population was forbidden to ride bicycles. This brought immense hardship to the majority of people who used bicycles as their mode of transportation. Ethiopian soldiers could no longer trust any Eritrean in the city. Villagers who brought their load of goods to the city to sell were suspected of helping freedom fighters smuggle weapons into the city.

All these restrictions made the city very uneasy to live in. People started complaining openly, and whenever there was an opportunity to chat safely, the conversation would be about what the freedom fighters were doing. 

My grandfather, who used his bike to come and visit us frequently, could no longer do so. He could neither afford the bus fee nor walk the long distance. He used to always let me ride his bicycle when he came home. The ban on bicycles affected me personally and I became very angry. I became a victim of this rule directly, which fueled my frustrations.

The once beautiful and enjoyable city of Asmara became hell on earth. The freedom fighters began targeting the industry sector, destroying facilities, and creating a shortage of goods in Asmara. This certainly helped the liberation movement in many ways. The Ethiopians struggled to supply their army with basic needs. Many young people also began to join the freedom fighters after seeing that they had the upper hand. On the flip side though, civilians living in Asmara no longer had access to necessities like water, sugar, oil, and grain. In every house, mothers gathered the family for a daily choir and evening prayer, pleading loudly with Saint Mary and every other saint that they thought God might listen to. With each passing day, despite the overflow of prayers, the city became more unsafe to live in, and thousands began to flee to the nearby villages and towns.

For me, all these problems were a source of curiosity and excitement, but for my parents and others, living in these conditions was unmanageable. Fortunately, my father worked at the airport as a traffic controller and he asked pilots and his friends to bring supplies for him from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. This meant that, unlike my family members and neighbors, we had no noticeable shortage of supplies at home, at least not to me. Our immediate family members were also fortunately not affected from the brutal Ethiopian secret service who made the killing of young suspected Eritreans their daily routine.[MM21] [AM22] 

Living in a city teeming with horror stories and rumors, it was very easy for me to have an open discussion with my friends about my obsession with leaving the city to see the fighters. One day, I asked my friend Tedros to accompany me to the city of Mendefera to find the fighters. Mendefera was a large town occupied by Ethiopian soldiers. I had never been to Mendefera before, and it was a challenge to figure out how to get there. The exit checkpoint to Mendefera was on the other side of Asmara. I had very little knowledge about the area and I needed someone to help me out. Tedros was one of my best friends and his mother was ten times [MM23] [AM24] stricter than my own. She was a tough lady, and all the kids in the block were afraid of her. Just one look directed from the angle of her eyebrow would terrify any of us. So, messing around with Tedros was not such a good idea. But adventures were what made things fun for me. So, Tedros became the first friend whom I convinced to share my journey. Yet, my choice of Tedros was coincidental, not planned. If I were to be sensible, Tedros would be the last person I would want to take on adventures like the one I was planning. He was a city boy who was used to living a luxurious life. His parents were relatively rich and his life was too regulated for what I had planned. Still, he was my favorite friend and destined to taste what I had in store.

After a short discussion, Tedros and I agreed to head to Mendefera located 45 miles southwest of Asmara. With Tedros being a rich boy, and me knowing the location of my mother’s purse, there was no issue with finding enough money to sustain us for a day. So, we decided to go to the bus station and purchase a bus ticket for Mendefera. This decision for two 12-year-olds was outrageous by any standard in Eritrea but we did it anyway.

The last time I had boarded a regional bus was before the war situation in Asmara had intensified – when our entire school was going on an excursion to Keren. The memory of that trip had left me with an incredible feeling that was still fresh in my mind. The popular songs playing in the bus, as it drove up and down the winding roads to Keren, left me with an impression that was hard to describe in words. That made me forget that I was embarked on a very dangerous adventure this time. I was excited to experience a great bus ride to Mendefera.

Tedros and I didn’t know what to expect once we got to Mendefera, a city we had never been to. We had no idea where we would go after reaching Mendefera to find the fighters. The fighters could have been 10 miles outside Mendefera or 40 miles – we had no clue. But for me, the idea of experiencing the unknown was all the motivation I needed.

We boarded the bus together with more than 50 other people. The cargo in this bus was very different from the one I had taken during my excursion to Keren. Most people were going home after a business trip to Asmara or were heading to Mendefera to do business. This meant that people had all kinds of luggage.

The most annoying load was chickens stuffed in the overhead compartment. The smell of the chickens combined with 50 people packed in a small bus with no air conditioning was too much for us two city boys. On top of this, the road to Mendefera entailed some sharp turns and ravines that had ended many lives. HastlyHastily  planted crosses at many curbs served as a reminder of the lives lost.

Some people suffering motion sickness started throwing up as the bus drove. The vomit thrown up out of the windows carried on the wind and smashed onto the windows behind, creating a pretty disgusting painting. To add to it all, the songs that I was looking forward to listening to were not being played since by then the Ethiopians had forbidden any Tigrinya songs from playing anywhere. So, the bus trip was not pleasant at all.

After a few hours of driving, we arrived at the Mendefera bus station safely. We were happy to get out of the stinky bus and get some fresh air. But a few minutes later, we were confronted with the jarring reality that this was not our destination and that we would now have to find a way to get out of the city to the remote villages to meet the fighters.

Upon our arrival in Mendefera, achieving our goal of meeting the fighters seemed impossible. The city was too large and maze-like. We felt overwhelmed. But despite all the distraction and sense of being lost, we never lost sight of the purpose of our visit – to see the fighters and possibly join them. 

We didn’t have a map of the city and we didn’t know who and what to ask for. In addition, time was not on our side. Even with all the odds stacked against us, we were in a good mood. After a short discovery walk in the city, we decided to rent bicycles. Luckily for us, bicycles were not forbidden in Mendefera at that time. Bicycle rental was by the hour and we didn’t have enough money for a full day. In addition, our goal was to move out of the city. If everything went well, we might never return to the city. So, we decided to take a very bold step that could have been very dangerous and landed us in jail. 

We stopped two teenagers we met in the city and asked them if they knew where the Eritrean fighters were in the vicinity of Mendefera. For any person with common sense, the expected answer to our question for obvious safety reasons would be, “No, we don’t know,” followed by “How stupid can these two dorks be?” However, teenagers seem to share the same inherent stupidity everywhere. After a short deliberation, the two boys told us to go to the nearest town called Adi Mengoti – that we might be able to find them there. If we did not, we would have to try another town a few miles further. 

Encouraged by the cooperation we received, we further asked, “What is the best way to get there?” They gave us directions and told us how long it was going to take on foot. But with some cash in hand, we were in no mood to walk. The best idea we could come up with was to rent bicycles. But how would we return them if we decided to go further on? So, we asked them if they would ride with us to the town so that they could return the rented bicycles for us. Ironically, we were concerned about who was going to return the bicycles to the renter, but we were not concerned whatsoever about who was going to return us home. The two teenagers volunteered to return the bicycles and agreed to join our game of innocent adventurism, thereby risking their lives as well. 

We rented two very old cycles. The renters, I am sure, thought that we would rent the bicycles for an hour of pleasure ride. With two persons on each bicycle, we started our journey to the nearest exit checkpoint. Since the teenagers were older than Tedros and me, we trusted them unconditionally. They knew the way to Adi Mengoti and they rode the bicycles. As we zigzagged through Mendefera, Tedros and I were enjoying the city as if we had come sightseeing. As we reached the outskirts of Mendefera, the checkpoint became visible and the crowd of people on the streets thinned. It was only then that it hit us that this was no picnic but a serious trip that could change or end our lives forever. 

At the checkpoint, none of the guards detected the very unnatural composition of our team or the nervousness we were feeling. I am not sure what my friend Tedros, who had never crossed any checkpoints before in his life, was thinking, but he surely didn’t look nervous or shifty, else we would have been in trouble. So, we passed the checkpoint and headed toward Adi Mengoti, riding across rolling hills that seemed to never end.

We reached the town and started asking the villagers where the liberation fighters were in the area. None of the villagers was willing to tell us since they were suspicious that we might be operating on the instructions of the Ethiopian soldiers in Mendefera. After we told them our story – that we had come from Asmara – the villagers became even more suspicious. For them, this was an unlikely, unbelievable, and stupid story that could only be made up by teenagers. So, our chance of getting any information was nil.

Frustrated by the lack of cooperation and unavailability of other options, we decided to return to Mendefera and head to another town on the other side of Mendefera. On the way back, there was little conversation and excitement. Our butts were soure from riding on the unpaved roads sitting on cushion-less bicycle seats.

By the time we reached the city, it was already getting late and we were very hungry. After a lot of arguments, we decided on a sensible course of action. We told the two teenagers to return the bicycles and that we would come back another day to try out another town. We thanked the boys for their help, gave them money to pay for the rental, and headed toward the bus station. At that moment, we were not sure what we were going to do next. Would we stay in Mendefera for the night or go back to Asmara?

It was getting late and for safety reasons buses did not depart after 4 p.m. The steep ravines and sharp turns of the road to Asmara were very dangerous. So, we seriously contemplated finding a cheap hotel to stay the night in Mendefera. Little did we know that hotels would never accept 12- and 11-year-old boys to stay in their hotel boys without adult supervision, not to mention the exorbitantuberant amount of money they would ask.

Luckily, while we were looking for a food place, we saw a small bus on the main road to Asmara loading people. Instantly, we ran to the bus and asked the driver if he was heading to Asmara. He said it was the last bus heading to Asmara for the day. We immediately boarded the bus and headed to Asmara despite our empty stomachs.

Once on the bus, Tedros and I realized we had serious work to do on what we were going to tell our parents. Especially for Tedros, this was a very important consideration. He was afraid his mother was going to tear him apart for the irresponsible action he took. Realizing our houses were located next to each other with only a fence separating them, I feared the violence could easily spill over to my house. I started to worry about how my mother was going to react. The proximity of Tedros’s house would affect how I was going to be inducted back into my own home. Unfortunately, with the packed bus, we couldn’t talk loudly about our problem, so we suffered quietly for hours thinking of the many horrendous scenarios that might unfold once we reached our respective homes.

We arrived at the Asmara bus station safely and rushed to our homes, a 30-minute walk away. We were pressed for time for two reasons; first, we only had 30 minutes to get our stories straight in case we were cross-examined by our mothers. Secondly, the 7 p.m. evening curfew was approaching fast and we couldn’t afford to walk slowly or take time to think about our story. As such, the walk which would have otherwise seemed very long felt like seconds. Before we knew it, we arrived at the front doors of our homes and it was time to say goodbye and wish each other good luck.

As I walked alongside the fence, past our main villa toward the two service rooms in the backyard, I could imagine the yelling and screaming in Tedros’s house. The shear thought of what could happen to Tedros sent chills down my spine. I was terrified that his mother would come into our house roaring and that soon I too would join the screaming. Luckily, his mother refrained from taking this quite plausible action and I was spared. 

As I faced my mother, I could tell she felt helpless. With my father gone for an extended work assignment in Addis, she could only handle so much. I had a nonviolent welcome from my mother. However, I paid a big price for my actions. Tedros was now forbidden from going outside or playing with me for an indefinite time. Not surprisingly, I was seen as a very dangerous kid who had to be avoided. I would have done the same if I were in his mother’s position.

The Mendefera visit was not a successful undertaking. On the contrary, I lost my privileges to play with my best friend and learned that finding freedom fighters was not a simple undertaking.