Читать книгу A Companion to African Literatures - Группа авторов - Страница 39

The military regime (1974–1991) that allegedly “hijacked” the popular revolution massacred former imperial officials whom they had arrested and detained. Because of this heinous act, the nation was disturbed, distracted, and troubled. This act was a starting point for the violent crusades such as the “Red Terror” that were later inflicted upon the revolutionary students, whom the regime considered as its adversary. It was also a signal of the nation’s downfall as it was swamped in a widespread famine, higher risk of destitution, mass migration, ethnic fragmentation, and protracted civil war. These were the authors’ nightmare and eventually became real.

From the very beginning the military junta dictated hibretesebawinet, a superficial adoption of Marxism‐Leninism, in order to consolidate its power and restore Ethiopia’s unity. The post‐revolution Amharic literature was forced to concretize this hybrid ideology and indoctrinate society with it. Consequently, many authors were forced to reinterpret the national history and to reconstruct the nation and national identity in line with hibretesebawinet. Some of the popular novelists such as Girma and Zerihun had to rewrite their own pre‐revolution novels. This rewriting process involved revisiting the titles, narrative forms, and characterization and making changes in conformity with the era’s politico‐aesthetic preference. Zerihun’s Yetewodros Inba (1966) was changed to YeTangut Mistir (Tangut’s [a name of a marginalized character] Secret, 1987). Girma’s Yehillina Dewel (The Bell of Conscience, 1972) was also changed to Haddis (1983, after the eponymous revolutionary hero of the novel). While the state prescribed socialist realism as the official standard for art, the “progressive” theorists such as Debebe Seifu, a celebrated poet and literary scholar, made literature partisan and explicitly dictated it to serve the class struggle (Seifu 1988). Ayalneh Mulatu, a poet, playwright, and advocate of socialist realism, stated in his Amharic book, YeAlem Sinetshuf Qignt (Survey of World Literature, 1985), that “Our revolution’s continued strength and the establishment of the Workers’ Party of Ethiopia helped us to have a much better understanding of Marxist‐Leninist literature.” Mulatu continues in prescriptive tone on how the literature functions: “Marxist‐Leninist literature is an essential part of the Party. Hence, this will develop Marxism‐Leninism’s philosophy. It warrants truth in the literary world” (1985, 27–28).

The state that was using Marxism‐Leninism as a guiding aesthetic principle and legitimate hermeneutics had a censorship secretariat that closely monitored literary production. Even if Ethiopian literature had for long been subject to censorship, this period was different because it was highly intensified. The censorship’s main responsibility was to ensure the production met the ideological aesthetic and protected the party. Publishing any literary work without going through the formal procedure was strictly punished. Thus, many authors were imprisoned, their books were collected and burned, and some even lost their lives. For instance, Be’alu Girma (1938–1984), whom we discussed earlier, was killed because of his novel Oromai (1983). Hence, it is not difficult to imagine how the post‐revolution literature emerged out of this devastating situation where everything smelled of death and ruin and the creative enterprise was in an abyss of fear. After the collapse of the government, interviews with people who used to do censoring were proof of how the system “forced authors to flee their country, send them to prison, and death” and emaciated and ruined the art (Kebede 2014, 73). However, they also argued that censorship had a positive impact. One of the merits they discussed is how censorship could have “saved the author’s life.” They argued that “had Oromai gone through the proper channel, we could have prevented its publication and saved the author’s life and his memory from disappearing like Moses’ burial place” (Kebede 2014, 73). Though the logic of this sympathy may seem absurd, I think it clearly shows the existential dilemma of the period’s literature.

Of course, in this period there were few accomplished literary arts that were produced in line with literary nationalism. In this regard, Debebe Seifu’s powerful poem, “KaKsum Chaf Aqumada” (literally “putting a leather sack on top of the Aksum obelisk,” 2016 [1975]), can be a good example. Seifu’s “Aksum” is one of the obelisks that were created by the powerful Aksumite Empire and are now considered as “unique masterpieces of human creative genius” according to UNESCO.² It is a stela that has been standing for thousands of years without falling. Aqumada in the context of this poem is a leather grain bag that is traditionally used to beg for grain. The gigantic obelisk that is more than 23 meters tall signifies ancient Ethiopian civilization. The leather sack with poverty and beggary entrenched inside is the emblem of national shame. So, the question is what does putting the aqumada up like a flag on the obelisk that captured the world’s attention and bolsters national pride signify, when clearly the two objects are diametrically opposed in terms of what they symbolize – one implying dignity while the other suggests poverty and degradation?

In the poem, the aqumada travels to the fourteen provinces including Eritrea, which was then part of Ethiopia. The aqumada’s starting point was the northern province of Tigray – the home of the obelisk. Tigray asks its neighbor Wollo to lend it 10 kilos of grain. Though Wollo did not have the requested amount of grain, it did not want to make its neighbor feel ashamed by just saying “I don’t have it.” Thus, it made its neighbor’s hunger its own and asked Shewa. Shewa did the same. The begging aqumada traveled the same way from north to east to south to west and finally back to north, and reached the thirteenth province, Gojam. Gojam begged its neighbor Eritrea. Eritrea sent the message:

It was its relative’s impoverishment and its grave misery

Eritrea was in pain, blood flooded out of its eyes

Sent a confidential letter to Tigray

“Please send me 10 kilos of grain, I am dying of hunger”

(Seifu 2016, 159)

Each province not only detested disclosing that it could not help but also did not want to reveal its neighbor’s problems – it considered its neighbor’s hunger as if it were its own. That is why Eritrea did not know the aqumada originated from Tigray. There are so many significations attached to the fact that the aqumada reached its origin empty. Firstly, all the provinces are in hunger; however, because of their dignity, they were struggling in hunger behind closed doors. Secondly, each province won’t hesitate to share its neighbor’s ill fate – it brought itself down without disclosing its neighbor’s hunger and misfortune. The “I” and “they” binary have disappeared not only in words but also in thoughts as each province takes the pain on itself and carries it within. Thus, the aqumada that reached Tigray was not “empty” but filled with the shared compassion and empathy from each province. As a result, the moment Tigray identified that the aqumada was its own, it stated the following:

“My brothers and I, all of us, – all of us

Our love pours out of the empty aqumada

This is our unity

This is our culture”

(159)

Shame and embarrassment have been transformed into an unprecedented opportunity that creates a sense of national belonging. The “empty” aqumada has become an embodiment of compassion and empathy that are part of the moral content of the national identity. It is this shared identity with everyone’s uniqueness etched within that is placed as a flag upon the Aksum obelisk. Nevertheless, this national vision could not be sustained as it was dismantled following the 1991 ethno‐nationalist force’s military victory. What came next was Eritrea’s secession from Ethiopia and the replacement of the existing provinces by an ethnic federal structure.