Читать книгу A Companion to African Literatures - Группа авторов - Страница 40

After 1991, the government led by the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), which ousted the military Derg regime and is still in power, created a constitutional transformation by establishing a federal system based on ethno‐linguistic lines as opposed to territorial boundaries. Through this constitution, the “ancient” Ethiopia was literally destroyed and replaced by a “new” Ethiopia that is based on ethnic politics. According to Jon Abbink, “It is, purposely or not, set on the further strengthening of ethnicity as a political identity and as the vessel for ‘democratic rights’” (1997, 173). Recognizing ethnic rights that were neglected by previous regimes can be considered as a strength for this ruling. However, the cultivation of ethnic fetishism with the inclusion of the right to secession in the constitution and the consideration of Ethiopia’s ancientness as a taboo and dissociating itself from it have become critical problems leading to its failure.

The Amharic language in the post‐Derg period has been systematically challenged to prevent it from fulfilling its role of national integration that began during the reign of Emperor Tewodros II. Surely the era of ethnic nationalism that is still in the air since 1991 is a literary and political engagement period for Amharic literature, which has been forced to struggle for survival. During this period, Adam Retta is the champion in every way by any measurement.

Retta, who has been writing for the past three decades starting around the last years of the military regime, has established his own aesthetic identity that made him a prominent writer in Amharic (read Ethiopian) literature. For the longest time he has been preoccupied with the human condition in general, and the predicament of modern man in particular. For instance, in Mahilet (1988), a collection of eleven magnificent stories, the primordial egg, which is an archetypal symbol of creation throughout the world of mythology, is the dominant vehicle for the manifestation of such literary exploration. Following the establishment of ethno‐linguistic federalism, Retta has made a perspectival shift from “universal humanism” to “Pan‐Ethiopian nationalism.” This would then force into existence another shift, which is a shift from the primordial egg to a cultural symbolism, namely, injera made of teff.

Egg symbolism is a rich poetic strategy that signifies internal forces and high‐level cosmic order. Thus, the primordial egg is not something that can easily be substituted. The shift should go beyond superficial nativism, which makes it a very difficult task to find an equivalent cultural symbol that can replace the egg. In my opinion, Retta has prodigiously accomplished this task by creating an original and deep indigenous symbolism. Teff is genetically complex and hermaphroditic, rich in nutrition, diversified in color, and is the “smallest grain in the world” – 1/150th the size of wheat (Ketema 1997). Teff is designated as one of the ancient grains. “[T]he genetic diversity for teff exists nowhere in the world except in Ethiopia, indicating that teff originated and was domesticated in Ethiopia” (Ketema 1997, 12).³ This grain is not only consumed in almost every part of Ethiopia but also shares the name itself. Teff has closely similar names in all three major linguistic groups in the country – teff in Amharic, tafi in Oromiffa, and taf in Tigrinya. Injera, which is a large, flat, round, spongy, and somewhat sour bread that looks like a giant pancake and is mostly served with a variety of meat stews and cooked and raw vegetables placed on top of it, is a national dish “responsible for about 70% of the Ethiopian population” (Daba 2017, 50). The authentic injera that is produced from teff flour is known for its organoleptic properties – good aroma, flavor, texture, and quality. As a result, teff and injera have become synonymous with one another.⁴

On this understanding, then, teff‐injera is one of the shared values that is anchored in the common remote past that Ethiopians claim collectively. The current wave of its socioeconomic benefit and cultural influence⁵ can help foster a sense of collective success and a feeling of national pride. This kind of historical, cultural, and socioeconomic potential can serve as a fertile ground to create a sense of belongingness by encouraging mutual respect and a healing space for the disintegrated national psyche according to religious, ethnic, or linguistic criteria. For the last thirty years, Retta tried to use this national obsession as an artistic projection for the reconstruction of the new past and the building of a new nation. Teff‐injera for Retta is a source of serious observation and artistic contemplation. It is a “root metaphor,” which embodies a durable Ethiopian ontology and world view. He believes that Ethiopia can explain its existential minutiae with injera. In one of Retta’s short stories, the narrator says “teff‐injera is the highest in the ranks of bread. Its life from cultivation to excretion has to be presented philosophically. If you don’t understand it, it will be a lie to claim that you care for the people” (Retta 2009, 233). In his short story “Beles,” he rewrites Genesis. Beles is the forbidden fruit that Adam and Eve ate, violating the laws of heaven. The heart of the fruit is made up of teff. Therefore, if we say that this fruit is a fruit of knowledge, then its heart, as a vital part, will be a source of cosmic consciousness. That is why their eyes opened the moment they tasted the source. In this story, the nature of good and evil, the idea of humanity and its predicament have a new dimension (2009, 127–175). In the novel Mereq (literally “Sauce/Broth,” 2014), injera becomes a utensil for both identifying and determining destiny. Retta, who says that “even if eating injera may seem easy, it requires talent and healthy fingers to twist as needed” (2009, 232), makes eating injera a custom‐based artistic activity. In Yiwesdal Menged (2011), gursha (the activity of feeding injera to one another to show love and respect by tearing pieces of it using one’s hand and rolling the stew inside) will be transformed into a sculpture. The “sculptor” tries to create a gursha statue using different shaping techniques – carving, welding, assembling, etc. – governed by aesthetic principles such as proportion, scale, and balance. Injera is eaten with bare hands without the need for using silverware; the interaction between one’s fingers and injera becomes a musical expression (175–176). Finally, Retta, after studying the nature of injera, invented his own style called “hitsinawinet.” Hitsinawinet defies conventional disciplinary boundaries, established narrative principles, and traditional genre distinctions. It breaks centrality, binary thoughts, and hierarchy.⁶ Retta’s epic 940‐page monumental novel YeSinibit Qelemat (The Colors of Adios, 2016) was the fruit of all his previous works. It introduced him to the public and made an impact. This novel is highly innovative and experimental and at the same time recognizably “Ethiopian.”

YeSinibit, basing its narrative in Nefas Silk – one of the oldest places in Addis Ababa – manifests the multitudinous relationships between the surviving 1960s and 1970s revolutionary generation and the one that followed. I believe the novel is primarily a “national project” that envisions the resurgence of pan‐Ethiopianism. The three reciprocated plot lines in the novel tend to suggest that its main purpose is the revelation of this vision. The strongest signal for the resurgence is the Menkobia–Mittk–Makuta line. Menkobia, the son of kings, is a semi‐superhuman being who has lived for more than 5,500 years in Ethiopia. Though Menkobia spent his years looking at prominent women like Makeda (Queen of Sheba) in their beautiful palace gardens, he has fallen for Mittk, a young, destitute street vendor. Menkobia sleeps with the virgin Mittk in her dreams at her house, describing it as “slaves in the old days used to have a better shelter” (2016, 615). Their son, Makuta, is the unique creation of this mysterious intercourse. Retta’s attempt, therefore, is to present the resurrection of the nation through the new “national” myth that was built on the old and new values. The resurrection is completed by replacing the grand narrative of Solomon–Sheba–Menelik, which has long been challenged for its sectarian nature, with the Menkobia–Mittk–Makuta story.

In this context, I would like to introduce Ethiopia’s poet laureate, Tsegaye Gebre‐Medhin (1936–2006), to further elaborate Retta’s discussion. Although Gebre‐Medhin and Retta have differences in age, choice of genre, and ideology, their closeness in the self‐conscious invention of national myth makes it potentially easy to make a comparison. Their literary depiction of nationalism is profoundly oriented to mythic consciousness – a consciousness which is, in Ricoeur’s terms, “not just nostalgia for some forgotten world” but rather “a disclosure of new and unprecedented worlds, an opening on to other possible worlds” (Ricoeur and Kearney 1978, 117–118). Both authors recreated the old fabrics with a new design and essence to realize their vision of reinvigorating a new nation. They executed this in two ways: by creating a “modern” mythic framework and by domesticating the “foreign” myths using folk concepts and indigenous poetics. As a result, they produced two ontological benefits for their arts – creating time‐depth and producing coincidentia oppositorum (coincidence of opposites). The coincidence of opposites is the unity of contradictory entities, for example, the infinite and finite, conscious and unconscious, divinity and humanity, eternity and temporality, virginity and maternity. This coincidence, however, is not unexpected or arbitrary; it is intentionally designed.

Gebre‐Medhin’s mythopoeia works with magnificently established national symbols such as majestic rivers like Abbay (the Blue Nile’s home name), charismatic emperors similar to Tewodros and Menelik, and the historical battlefields of Adwa and Mekdela. In addition, he is known for using these battlefields and heroes to inbreed other themes. The existence of a common enemy is one of the major themes formed through this process. For instance, in his collection of historical plays, Tarikawi Tewinetoch, published in 2011, this was a strong motif that tied all the five plays together. A common enemy, like the rivers that cross the country, is a nation‐building mechanism and powerful bonding factor that transcends sectarianism in the heterogeneous Ethiopia. Retta transforms Gebre‐Medhin’s elitism into “history from below.” Unlike Gebre‐Medhin, Retta’s national imaginary encompasses common entities – a beggar who is named the unborn messiah, a bartender who had a vision about him, and an impoverished tomboy who gave birth to him. Retta transforms ordinary entities that are neglected and ridiculed into national characters after enriching and enlightening them. For instance, in YeSinibit, Retta elevated Sinzro – the central trickster in Amharic folktales – to a primordial archetype entity by cleaning his wily persona and giving him another substitute name, “Menkobia.” Sinzr in Amharic, the modern Ethiopian lingua franca, indicates the span of a hand while menkob in Geʿez, the ancient Ethiopian language, means “thumb.” Both terms denote dwarfism. Thus, the transition from “Sinzro” to “Menkobia” is not a matter of code switching; it is a meaningful transformation of entities. In YeSinibit, Mittk is also an outcome of similar augmentation. If we start from the Amharic word mittk, it means “substitute.” The question is, whose substitute is she? Mittk is the substitute for her brother Tesfaye (meaning “my hope”), one of the teenagers who were brutally massacred during the Red Terror. Mittk wears a scarf with a green, yellow, and red frame; she is the woman who feeds a stray dog from her own poorly packed lunch. The virgin who gives birth, appears in dreams and visions with milk and flames, the moon and the sun, is the replica of the Holy Virgin. Mittk’s gynaecologist, Dr. Yoseph, has a helper role like his archetype, Saint Joseph. Moreover, she is the substitute for the Queen of Sheba. In the novel, Mittk is represented as a woman of contradictions – her childhood friends call her “Kebe,” a man’s name, and she possesses both femininity and masculinity with harmony. She also serves as an embodiment of motherhood with virginity, and dream with reality. Considering Mittk’s indeterminate, ambiguous, heterodox state of being, her relationship with Menkobia, who claims to “come from the start of time and the first country” (501), seems to be a unification of primordiality with postmodernity.

The nationality and religion of the new romance with a foundation on the Menkobia–Mittk–Makuta tradition is “Pan‐Ethiopianism.” In YeSinibit the old Ethiopian national characters will enjoy new identity through rebirth. For example, the Ethiopian composer and choreographer Saint Yared (505–571 CE) has become Menkobia’s student with a new secular identity. All these efforts have come along to build a new national identity and nation formation. Makuta’s mysterious birth substantiates this conclusion. Makuta was born and raised in “Beza Clinic” – a place that serves as both house and clinic. Beza in Geʿez is a theological term that has a similar meaning to “redemption” and “salvation.” The first redemption is the interconnectedness of man with place and nature; the reinstitution of genius loci. Because this chapter of the novel is written in Geʿez and old Amharic, it deepens with time, taking us on a journey to the country’s ancient culture and history. Thus, the second redemption is the reunion of the people with their history and culture. Makuta in Geʿez means “hope, anchor, promise,” making the son of Menkobia and Mittk a symbol of the national imaginary.

This kind of image, a vision of spatio‐temporal wholeness, will serve as a fertile ground to rebuild national identity and a platform to imagine the nation as a political ideology and, indeed, a socio‐cultural expression. In order to achieve this, as Benedict Anderson superbly noted, there is a need to have “deep time.” “If nation‐states are widely conceded to be ‘new’ and ‘historical,’ the nations to which they give political expression always loom out of an immemorial past, and, still more important, glide into a limitless future. It is the magic of nationalism to turn chance into destiny” (1983, 12).

Regarding nation building, we can infer three basic significances from the novel. The first significance that YeSinibit presents is the option to form a new nation‐state that encompasses both old and new values. The creation of time‐depth, higher than the 3,000 years of the Solomon–Sheba–Menelik myth through the 5,500‐year‐old Menkobia, is the second contribution. Thirdly, the Menkobia–Mittk–Makuta tradition has now become a concretely “limitless future” through Makuta. (The old myth was missing this dimension.) As a result, the new myth has gained “eternity” through a higher time‐depth than Solomon–Sheba–Menelik.