Sucking on a Bullet

Coming Face to Face With a Modern-day Tragedy in Northern Ethiopia

by Billy Jackson

Special to G21 Africa

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Billy Jackson

When I saw the cook stride between tables through the restaurant towards the kitchen, struggling under the weight of half a cow still dripping in blood, it became apparent that my worries about the freshness of the beef were unfounded (these worries were quickly replaced by concerns over sanitation!). Instead of concentrating on the still recognizable mass of meat passing through the room, however, I decided to pay closer attention to Tamrat, the leader of our team of field monitors.

I felt fortunate to have been permitted to tag along with a USAID (United States Agency for International Development) field monitoring team on their sojourn into eastern and central Tigray, the northernmost province of Ethiopia. Their assignment was to monitor and assess several relief projects being implemented by NGOs but funded by USAID. Our journey would include these project sites, the ancient city of Axum, as well as areas affected by the war that had ended just one year before.

If you ask an Ethiopian what the war was all about, most won't be able to give you a definite answer. Most consider the war to have been one of pride. Both countries (Ethiopia and Eritrea) emphatically deny that it had anything to do with economics. Fighting for a small strip of desert-like terrain doesn't explain the loss of an estimated one hundred thousand soldiers, either. Perhaps it was a compound of egotistical leaders and a tension that has been on the verge of bursting for the last thirty years

On May 6, 1998, the war officially began. Only two weeks after the fighting broke out, Le Monde Diplomatique predicted that "[t]he future victims of this resurgent hostility are already marked out: the hundreds of [thousands] of Eritreans living in Ethiopia, mostly in Addis Ababa, and the thousands of Ethiopians, especially Tigreans, working in Eritrea." The real victims, however, were those hundreds of thousands of civilians living within or near the area of conflict. Later on I was to find out just how many lives had been tragically altered by the hostilities that mediators have described as Africa's "most senseless war."

Two years after it had begun, a peace proposal that was accepted by both sides ended the killing and UN peacekeepers were stationed to monitor the area. Though fighting stopped, the affects of the conflict will be felt for many years to come. "The cost of war was an absolute disaster," says Patrick Gilkes, an expert on the region based in London. "They spent a fortune on weapons they couldn't afford. Now you have people coming back from the war, soldiers being demobilized, bodies coming home, people saying: 'What was this all about?'"


Close to eight hundred kilometers from Addis Ababa, Mekele is a sizable town spread out along a wide valley floor and flanked on three sides by steep ridges that rise more than 2,000 meters (almost 7,000 feet) above sea level. From the old fort of Emperor Yohannes (now converted into a hotel) one can see the entire city, including the giant monument still under construction which commemorates Tigray's role in defeating the Derg, as well as the bustling main street that dissects the town, ever-swarming with people. Nowadays, however, Mekele seems to be remembered less as the medieval capital of Yohannes' empire and more as the starting point of the Ethio-Eritrean war.

It was in here on June 5, 1998, that the Ayder Elementary and Junior Secondary School became what most Ethiopians consider as the first target of Eritrean aggression. The air raid came in two rounds. Two Eritrean jets swept over the elementary school, bombing the buildings and surrounding area despite the fact that over 2,300 students were located within school premises at the time. The second round killed more than the first since parents, friends, and passers-by had gathered around the massacred children in an attempt to retrieve some of them from the wreckage. The June 5 air raids left more than fifty civilians dead and about two hundred wounded.

This one event triggers deep-felt emotions in the hearts of most Ethiopians. One Mekele resident told of how his wife wanted to go with her friend and see what had happened after the first round of bombings. He had refused her permission. "The friend went anyway," the man said, "and was killed in the second round." He shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't have been surprised if they had bombed the air force base, but to aim for schools?" When asked about his feelings towards the Eritrean people, the man responded, "The government is to blame, not the people. I myself lived in Eritrea for four years and I know that the people did not desire such a massacre -- but the [Eritrean] government has been arrogant from the beginning."

Actually, the Eritrean government initially denied any such air raid, but was forced to admit involvement when photos and video proof became public.

We left Mekele early.

After the initial climb out of the valley (an edge-of-your-seat experience thanks to a combination of sharp turns, slippery road, and steep drops dotted with yesterday's car-wrecks), the way to Adigrat from Mekele is mostly paved. I asked Elfaggad, our driver, if the Ethiopian government had paved the road to make travel to the border easier for military units during the Ethio-Eritrean war, but he shook his head and explained that this particular road was built by the colonizing Italians about 65 years ago.

Italy entered the race for Africa late, focusing primarily on the Horn. Though Eritrea fell under Italian rule in the 1880s, Ethiopia was able to keep itself independent from the Mediterranean power. In 1896 Italy tried to penetrate Tigray but was pushed back. Despite a treaty of friendship between Rome and the Ethiopian empire signed in 1928 and reaffirmed in 1934, Benito Mussolini had his eye on the land that separated Italy's African holdings on the Horn -- Eritrea and Italian Somaliland.

The fascist ruler took advantage of some minor incidents that took place near the Ethio-Eritrean border to fabricate an excuse for aggression and on October 3, 1935 Italian forces attacked Ethiopia from Eritrea and Italian Somaliland. Outmatched technologically, the Ethiopians boldly defended their territory for a period of seven months against Italian air power and the widespread use of chemical weapons like mustard gas. Despite their efforts, Ethiopia was formally annexed by Italy on May 9, 1936.

Emperor Hailie Salassie, who had fled to French Somaliland just three days before Italian troops marched into Addis Ababa, became one of the great international figures of his time, speaking out for his country before the League of Nations and meeting with top leaders to discuss his people's plight. Notwithstanding his labors, Britain and France recognized Italy's claim on Ethiopia, though the United States and the Soviet Union refused to do so.

After an unsuccessful assassination attempt against Marshal Graziani, the top Italian official in Ethiopia, colonial authorities put to death 30,000 people on February 19, 1937 -- a number that included about half of the country's elite, educated younger generation. Intended as a lesson, the act only stirred up rebellion. Rome decided that perhaps a more flexible line was in order, and in 1937 a new governor was appointed. Efforts were made to upgrade the country's road system, and other large-scale public works projects were implemented. At the same time, however, Italy pursued a policy of strict segregation.

By the time World War II had begun, Britain had, of course, seriously changed its mind regarding recognition of Italian rule in Ethiopia. Supported by local guerrilla groups, the British regained Ethiopia for the Ethiopians (though they temporarily retained control over certain strategic areas as well as the Addis-Ababa-Djibouti railroad), and on May 5, 1941, Hailie Salassie returned to his capital of Addis Ababa. After the war years, full control over the empire fell back into the hands of Salassie.

In November of 1997, Italian president Oscar Luigi Scalfaro visited Ethiopia -- the first Italian leader to do so since the occupation - and expressed his country's regret over the 1936 invasion and five-year occupation of Ethiopia. He described the whole affair as a "mistake" and acknowledged his country's "mistakes and guilt" for attacking Ethiopia and violating the human rights of its people during the occupation.


As we continued our journey to Adigrat, I noticed an acute change in the landscape. Stone outcroppings littered my view, while canyons and gorges scraped their course all the way to the horizon in every direction. From time to time an old Ethiopian Orthodox church would appear, perched on the summit of a random hill off in the distance, its metal roof reflecting the bright sunlight like a beacon. The beauty of this passing scene contrasted sharply, however, with the rust-eaten leftovers of the Derg's final struggle for existence; abundant are the carcasses of tanks and trucks.

The reign of the Derg seems to be one of the black periods in Ethiopia's history. In early 1974, a revolution began to brew, largely the result of famine (that had been kept secret from the rest of the world), governmental corruption, rising inflation, and a basic lack of economic and political reforms for the past decade and a half. A string of events that included successive mutinies within the separate divisions of the nation's armed forces led to the installation of a body of about 120 men that soon came to be called the Derg ("committee" or "council" in Amharic). Over the years this body gained considerable power until finally it had wrested all the cards from the emperor.

The Derg began to promote "Ethiopian Socialism" and used such slogans as "the dignity of labor", "self-reliance", and "the supremacy of the common good" to combat the general disdain for manual labor and undermine the importance of status in Ethiopian culture. In 1975, the Derg nationalized all rural land and abolished tenancy. No one could employ farm workers. Ten hectares was set as the maximum size available for ownership by one family. In towns and cities, rentable houses and apartments were also nationalized, as were all banks and insurance firms and virtually every significant company in the country.

The reign of the Derg was characterized by the imprisonment of dissidents and the fleeing of disillusioned refugees. Talking to Ethiopians today about the Derg only brings a look of disgust and the general opinion that the Derg is basically responsible for Ethiopia's lack of economic and political progression (though nowadays the present government seems to shoulder a significant portion of that responsibility in the eyes of its citizens). The rule of the Derg is considered a time when Ethiopia went backward, not forward.


Passing through one small village, I noticed a small mosque that seemed to dominate its surroundings despite its size. Muslim Ethiopians make the claim that this mosque was the first mosque ever to be built in the history of Islam. Considering the fact that Mohammed lived and died in the Middle East, I initially considered the claim one of ignorance. But according to the legend, a part of Mohammed's family broke away soon after the founding of the religion and traveled to Ethiopia to escape persecution -- persecution that was, in fact, so severe that as of that time no mosque had ever been built. These blood-relatives of Mohammed were accepted heartily by the local king, who granted them permission to build a place of worship -- the first mosque for Islam.

While in the same village, we stopped our vehicles to allow the passage of an Orthodox Christian funeral procession. A large stream of people, most in white, squeezed their way through the streets, some holding multi-colored cloth umbrellas lined with silver that caught the rays of the sun, others waving branches. The coffin itself, draped in a dull-colored cloth, was carried on the shoulders of at least ten men. Seeing the Moslem mosque and then stopping for this Christian procession in the same little village underscored the circumstances that have existed in Ethiopia for centuries: Christians and Moslems co-existing -- mostly peacefully, sometimes in aggression one towards the other.

In the fifteenth century, for example, the Muslim threat to Christian Ethiopia was so great that only internal quarrels between the various Islamic sultanates prevented a Muslim onslaught. From about 1450 to 1650, the aggressiveness of the Muslim states surrounding Ethiopia continued to act as a significant problem for the Christian kingdom. Raids and counter-raids were common, each side seeking to claim as many slaves and as much booty as possible. By the seventeenth century the kingdom was considerably weakened.

Certainly one of the most bitter memories in the minds of Christian Ethiopians today is the story of the Muslim conqueror Ahmad (called Gran by his Christian enemies, meaning "the Left-handed"). This warrior-ruler, also regarded in his time as a religious leader, riled up the neighboring Muslim states to a unified jihad against the sizable Christian kingdom. In 1525 he led his first raid into Ethiopia, and over the next two or three years continued to attack Ethiopian territory, collecting booty, burning churches, and taking prisoners as slaves. By the early 1530s, Ahmad had penetrated deep into the heartland of Ethiopia - Amhara, northern Shewa, and Tigray, laying waste to the countryside and putting Muslim governors in control of much of what had previously been part of the Christian kingdom. There they remained until 1543, when emperor Galawdewos, aided by a small number of Portuguese soldiers, drove out the Muslim forces and killed Gran. With the charismatic Gran dead, the unity of the various Islamic leaders crumbled, and Christian armies were able to slowly push back the Muslim invaders. The morale of the Ethiopians, though, was very much damaged even after the defeat of the Muslims. This story remains a sensitive one in the hearts and minds of Ethiopian Christians still.

Adigrat was alive with motion -- donkey-drawn carts transporting families to and from the main thoroughfare, street games of soccer, little boys carrying cactus-fruit in large straw baskets, the occasional UN peacekeeping vehicle, and hundreds of people on foot with somewhere to go. It was hard to believe that just a year ago, a significant portion of the town's population had fled to Mekele -- or worse, to nearby caves -- in search of refuge from Eritrean bombings. Surprisingly, though, most of Adigrat's inhabitants opted to stay, despite the danger. According to one local man, "we built trenches and hibernated in our homes" as the town became a frequent target of Eritrean aggression.

Our meeting with the administrators of the Gulumohada woreda took place in their temporary headquarters, as the old building had been completely demolished during the war. According to these officials, 70,000 out of the woreda's 90,000 people were displaced by the conflict. They were thus labeled IDPs (internally displaced people) and constituted the most immediate challenge for the local government and NGOs working in the area. An estimated total of about 300,000 Ethiopians have been displaced by the Ethio-Eritrean war.


On the road once again, I quickly become convinced that someone must have forgotten to maintain the transportation network north of Gulumohada woreda headquarters for the past twenty years; gaping holes, river-crossings, and "alternate roads" characterize the drive. But all of this seems less important to me as we near the border. I am listening to a new passenger -- Demeke Meshesha, emergency aid coordinator for CRS (Catholic Relief Services) and long-time resident of Adigrat. He informs me that the little town coming up (I would have called it a little village), Fazi, was Ethiopia's most northernmost position during the war. Everything north of Fazi had fallen during the Eritrean invasion. It was from Fazi that the Ethiopians' had had to win everything back. All of the town's inhabitants took refuge in the nearby cliffs while for two years Ethiopian and Eritrean soldiers shot at each other. In ten seconds, more or less, we have driven through Fazi.

The landscape begins to change here. Though steep hills still jut out of the ground like sentinels here and there, the car has stopped driving up, and the elevation seems to level out. Demeke points to a monastery that crowns a knoll rising off to the left of the road. I would learn more about that particular monastery later on, in Axum.

From time to time a small trench flashes by, trenches built by the Ethiopians as they slowly won back their land. But past the hills, on the top of a small plateau, by far the largest and most formidable trench snakes its way east and west as far as the eye can see. Demeke says that it is more than a hundred kilometers long. Though Ethiopian troops now can be observed spread out in small groups along the length of the line, it was actually built by the Eritrean invading force and held by them as a seemingly indomitable obstacle to their Ethiopian foes. In fact, the Eritrean president had once boldly declared that there was as much chance that his countrymen would lose that position as there was "that the sun will not rise after it sets." I found the statement to be especially brazen after learning that this prized position was lost in a single day. In "commemoration" of the famous claim, the locals now remember the day the trench was overcome as the "sunset of oppression."

Once atop the plateau, a carpet of green rolls out to touch the gray sky. No hills. No canyons or gorges. This is the border. It begins to rain lightly.

Our vehicles turn east and we drive parallel to the line dividing the two countries, keeping ourselves about 500 meters from the border. Demeke explains that the entire field is still packed with landmines. Though the government has assessed and identified mine-risk areas, the dirty task of clearing the mines has barely begun. The Ethiopian government is planning to work together with NGOs to take care of this serious problem.

Landmines pose a dangerous threat to returning IDPs. According to woreda officials, for some families return is impossible because the threat of landmines is too great. I asked about the issue during our meeting prior to the border drive and was informed that just the day before, a man plowing his field had been killed by one of the deadly blasts. Fortunately, a landmine awareness program does exist (headquartered in Mekele) that focuses its efforts on children during school. The children are instructed to go home and spread the word to their parents. Woreda officials claim a drop in landmine incidents since the implementation of the awareness program, but the issue still looms large on the local administrators' "to do" list. I noticed a poster on the table -- a hand reaching towards a mine with the bold-lettered order in Tigrean "MINES ARE DANGEROUS!" Below this warning an assortment of landmines is illustrated, warning the viewer of the many shapes and sizes of these little bombs. At the bottom, the same warning is repeated: "BECAUSE MINES ARE DANGEROUS, DON'T TOUCH!!"

Temporary settlements line the side of the road as we travel the border. In the now heavy rain, the dilapidated shelters of sticks and tarp appear especially pathetic. Dark faces peer out from inside them and stare as we drive by. Some of them are lucky enough to have corrugated iron sheets over their heads. Others are not. I am informed that many of these hovels house prostitutes that follow the soldiers around the country. In a discussion with a Catholic priest later on, I discovered just how much of a problem this posed.

From Abba (Father) Tesfaye, a local priest at the head of the Adigrat Diocesan Catholic Secretariat, I got the impression that the HIV/AIDS issue worries local leaders more than any other. He went as far as to say that "we expect a loss of half of the young generation [in Tigray] within the next three years. We just cannot express our grief at this one effect the war has had on our young people."

And just what does the war have to do with the spread of STDs? "During the war," Tesfaye explains, "family ties were detached, and the number of street children increased." On top of that, the huge influx of hundreds of thousands of soldiers has lured prostitutes from all over Ethiopia. Throw in tens of thousands of displaced women, and the war has suddenly created what a CRS project proposal calls "the ideal conditions for extensive and pervasive transmission of this deadly virus throughout the affected communities..." As an NGO working in the area, CRS describes the epidemic as nothing short of "a terrifying new threat."

The battle against the spread of HIV/AIDS in Tigray has been fought through awareness campaigns (I wonder if Tom Cruise knows that his picture is hanging all over Tigray with the words "Use a Condom" printed beneath it?) and by making prophylactics readily available for the buying. No one can go to Tigray and fail to see that this is a campaign that has been taken very seriously -- posters and boxes of condoms are in every hotel and restaurant.

Additionally, churches and schools have been targeted for HIV/AIDS awareness lectures. Several administrators in one woreda are planning to use "video education" to spread the message of "ABC", that is, (A) abstinence, (B) be loyal, and (C) condoms -- use them!

Gulumohada woreda leaders say that now an estimated ninety-eight percent of the woreda population know at least in part what HIV is (though this number does not reflect the percentage of the population that understands how it is transmitted). "It's too early to tell if we've been successful," says one Irob woreda official. "The project has not been fully evaluated."

But administrators have not given up hope. "In my opinion, there has been a change," claims an official from the Gulumohada woreda during a briefing. "Condom sale increase shows improvement, but there is still a lot to be done."


Finally we reach the border town of Zalambessa -- or what remains of the border town of Zalambessa. I didn't even hesitate to believe Demeke when he told me how Eritrean bulldozers had been used on the buildings even after they had been bombed.

As we drove down the main street, I saw that not a single structure had a roof, and all were missing at least one wall. Thick steel beams and wires protruded from the cement like hungry worms, and rubble littered the entire area.

"Most Ethiopians have a feeling of retaliation when they see this," Demeke says. He points to a church, the only building that remains semi-recognizable. He explains how it was looted of everything inside. "They took everything. Only the structure itself is left." The same fate met with basically every other church that fell into Eritrean hands.

I wonder how many dwellings that were demolished by the Eritrean soldiers have been rebuilt. Later I was to find out from Captain Stathopolos of Greece, a Military Observer for the UN, that only 500 of the 9,000 destroyed houses have been rebuilt.

Finally we reach the other end of town and Demeke motions towards some trucks and soldiers next to a large roadblock. It is where the road crosses the border into Eritrea, and those troops are the United Nations peacekeeping force. Their position marks the beginning of a restricted area twenty-five kilometers deep into Eritrean territory. No Eritrean troops (for the time being) are permitted to enter therein.

As we turn around and head back, I notice an old woman has thrown a corrugated iron sheet over what is left of one of the bombarded structures. Her name is Amete Gebre. For the two years of conflict, she, her husband, and her five children found refuge in caves and food in a relief tent. The 52-year-old mother "[has] nothing to do now" and "expect[s] government relief." The "government"had already given her a cloth tent, but she traded it for the much sturdier corrugated iron 'roof'". As the rain beats down on the makeshift roof (which isn't completely leak-free), I realize how utterly useless a cloth tent would be in this type of weather. I get the feeling that she is simply waiting -- waiting for something to happen. As far as her opinion of Eritreans, she says with a smile, "Let bygones be bygones. We need peace. Let us live in our country, they can live in theirs."

She pauses for a moment, then continues over the deafening roar of the downpour slamming into the metal sheet, "Internally, I feel a lot of anger. So does my husband. But we both prefer peace to retaliation." That seems to be the general feeling here.

A year after the conflict, the citizens of Zalambessa are slowly coming back to inhabit what is left.

---

A deliberating cluster of farmers had assembled themselves together in the tiny village of Sebeya. They sat in a half-circle, each taking turns voicing their grievances as well as reporting on what they had done with the money given to them by relief agencies. It seemed that most had done what they had pledged to do with it -- that is, buy an ox to aid in plowing. They all seemed grateful for what they had been given -- all, that is, except one; I was a bit taken aback when he stood up and complained that while he had received money to buy an ox, his friends from a neighboring village had not. He demanded that they, too, be given the necessary funds.

Perhaps he thought that we owed his friends money?

I wondered if he knew that the people he was talking to were not government officials with a responsibility for their citizens but NGO representatives doing all they could to help.

To the right of the small gathering some shirtless men in camouflage khakis were building a considerably long two-story structure. I was informed that this was to be the new health post to serve Sebeya and its neighbors. Behind the gathering, closer to the river, a large heavy tent with desks arranged neatly inside stood swaying with the wind. Because Sebeya's school had been demolished during the war, students had no choice but to meet in this tent. Rain, extreme temperatures, and even wind were enough to make learning all but impossible. Fortunately, plans are underway to build a new school for local students that should be completed sometime next year (2002).

I noticed another Ethiopian Orthodox church poking its head out from behind a ridge farther down the valley. Its caretaker was Maftu Tesfahi, a married priest with four children. During the recent conflict, his church had been left desolate; clothes, robes, rugs, holy umbrellas, ornaments, three large silver crosses, and even the marble from gravestones had been looted. But despite this loss, when Tesfahi thinks about the war, his mind is far from his church. "I was separated from my wife and one of my children," he says. "They were caught in the middle of the fighting and taken to a prisoner-of-war camp in Eritrea for two years."

The sixty-year-old priest risked staying at home during the fighting, but was often compelled to flee to Adigrat for safety. "Words cannot express my feelings towards Eritrea -- cruel feelings. Thanks to God that my family was reunited." Despite the hardship endured, Tesfahi claims he is ready to forgive. "If there is a possibility of living together peacefully, that is the best. I dream that in the future I can live peacefully with the Eritreans as their brother and a priest."


Alitena is home of the oldest Catholic church in the country. It appears to be a thriving little community, complete with a large school, a nunnery, and even a new outdoor basketball court. Only three years ago, however, when the war began, Alitena was anything but thriving.

"The men heard they were coming and most of them fled," says one Alitena resident. "The ones that remained were tied up and taken to POW camps in Eritrea." Most of them are still there today, a year after the official "end" of the war. One nun, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims that the number of POWs still missing from this little village is eighty-seven.

"It was not easy for us," she says. "Women had no rights at that time -- we were husband-less and governed by a military force, with no help from our own government. We nuns had a chance to escape, but as servants of the people we decided to stay."

She begins to tell the story of one Sister Rita, a Scottish nun who found herself caught in the middle of the regional conflict. She, too, opted to stay. "Because of Rita, we lived. Without her, we would not have survived."

According to this sister (who worked at Rita's side for the two-year duration of the war), the Scottish nun organized a clinic while living in a women-and-children's camp guarded by Eritrean soldiers. "The elderly did not want to leave Alitena to go to the camp," explains one of the nuns, "so the Eritrean troops carried them about three miles on stretchers then dropped them there to travel the remaining three miles to the camp."

The soldiers were not as willing to harm a nun, though, especially a non-Ethiopian one, and in her stubborn way Sister Rita was able to get permission to transport medical supplies to all of the surrounding villages. Most often she walked and carried the supplies, though at times she was afforded the luxury of having donkeys to carry the medicine. Says one of the nuns, "She was constantly running everywhere." Once, the Eritreans tried to force her to go to Asmara, the capital of Eritrea. Sister Rita told them bluntly that "I came for service, I'm here for service!" According to one sister, "they left her alone after that."


Fog flanked our vehicles on both sides, as if we were driving through a cloud along the crest of a ridge. The roads were muddy and wet, and these conditions, combined with occasional rainfall, kept Elfaggad alert. By midday the weather had changed to warm and slightly overcast as we wound our way through the hills west towards Axum. Now and again Elfaggad would wave at the children that sometimes stood at the edge of the road as we drove by. He later confided to me that some of them had been holding pebbles ready to throw at the car, and that only by waving at them cheerfully would they be diverted from their plans, drop their projectiles, and wave back. Soon afterwards, Axum became visible in the distance.

* * *
Axum is a town of contrast, much like any Third World city with a past. Massive stone obelisks rivaling Egypt's reach up towards the sky in tribute to a once-great empire, casting their shadows on a people that is seemingly dependant on relief food. The remains of what Ethiopians claim to be the palace of the Queen of Sheba lie next to villages that up until a few months ago were deserted due to the Ethio-Eritrean conflict. The crown jewels of the Axummite kings continue to retain their shine while young men in rags attempt to convince passers-by that the trinkets they are holding were actually owned by King Gebremaskel and could be theirs -- for a few dollars. The ornate church that is said to house the long-lost Ark of the Covenant stands out sharply against the village full of little children constantly brushing away the flies from their eyes.

At one time Axum was great. Indeed, at its height -- around the fourth century AD -- Axum controlled an empire that ranged from Sawakin of Sudan in the north, down the Red Sea coast to Berbera (located in present-day Somalia) in the south, and inland as far as the Nile River valley.

On the Arabian side of the Red Sea, the Axummite empire at times controlled the coast and a considerable portion of the interior of Yemen. Even after losing its Arabian holdings in the sixth and seventh centuries, Axum continued to play an influential role in the politics of the area. Perhaps the empire's most lasting effect on the country took place sometime in the middle of the fourth century, when King Enzana was converted to Christianity and proclaimed it the new state religion.

Later on, in the sixth century, nine "saints" are purported to have traveled from the Middle East and Italy to Axum, having heard that it was a "religious empire". The story says that these nine saints founded nine monasteries, one of which I had seen after driving through Fazi a few days before. All nine monasteries are said to still be in operation.

There isn't much left of the old empire. I was particularly saddened by the poor conditions of the ruined sites. Visitors are allowed to practically walk all over the Queen of Sheba's palace, while coins and other valuables dating back to the early Christian era are found by locals and sold to passing tourists for a few birr. The largest of the stone obelisks isn't even in Ethiopia anymore; it was taken by order of Mussolini during the occupation -- cut up into four pieces and transported to Rome.

Despite these unfortunate circumstances, I was amazed at what was left after so many hundreds of years. Especially captivating to me were the tombs of kings Karob and Gebremaskel, located deep in the ground and only accessible via a dark tunnel, illuminated now by torchlight and crawling with bats.

Near Axum, several villages had become the beneficiaries of USAID-funded relief projects, including programs to combat soil erosion as well as the supplying of money for oxen and other household assets. It was in one of these villages that all of the children had gathered around to see the ferengi (as we foreigners are sometimes called). One of the kids in particular caught my attention. He was sucking on a bullet, as if it was a lollipop. For a moment I found myself face to face with a modern-day tragedy.

Months have passed since that day outside of Axum, and the world has been shaken by catastrophic events that have left thousands dead and millions fearful. However, the image that I caught outside of Axum -- of innocence conflicting with the ravages of war, set against the backdrop of a great empire's ancient capital -- will always be vividly retained in my mind. I am left to wonder when, in the long history of a once-great nation, will the sun finally set on oppression?

---

BILLY JACKSON was born in San Francisco, CA, but would spend most of his childhood and early adult life in foreign countries, including Australia, India, South Africa, Singapore, Poland, and Ethiopia. He is the founder of the Relief Alliance, a 100% non-profit NGO that organizes and carries out large-scale humanitarian projects and human rights campaigns the world over. Currently Jackson is double-majoring in Asian Studies and Geographic Information Systems at Brigham Young University. This is his first article for The World's Magazine.