The Eritrean Gulag 3

 April 3, 2004

No food or water since early morning, and the Mercedes truck sped down the dirt road as its load lightened a bit. The guards were a little more relaxed with the group of deportees, allowing some to stand for a few minutes to get more comfortable. But the scorching heat of the Eritrean lowlands intensified the burning of the metal surface we were sitting on. The temperature difference between the highlands and the lowlands was stark, though Eritrea’s population is almost evenly split between the two regions. Eritreans are divided into about nine ethnic groups, with the Rashida tribe recently added to the list (including the Tigre, Tigrinya, Bilen, Afar, Saho, Kunama, Sahorta, and Nara). However, the ruling Popular Front refused to recognize the Jeberti as a distinct ethnic group, which many say is for political reasons. These groups are either Muslim or Christian, but a new faith has emerged since independence: the "Popular Front" itself.

My companions on the truck (even the guards and their commander) were from these various ethnic and religious backgrounds. Those who once believed in the Popular Front were either disillusioned, wavering, or had renounced their faith after over thirteen years of rule, except for the few elites who still benefited.

Around noon, we stopped at a small camp in "Forto Sawa," a bit distant from the main military training center (Sawa). Some were lucky to get a break from the exhaustion of the journey and the burning metal beneath us. I learned that our final destination was "Adarsar" prison, located near the Eritrean Border Guard headquarters, hastily built by the Eritrean army during the war with Ethiopia. I felt a slight sense of relief, knowing that the site was close to the headquarters of the opposition forces and the Voice of Freedom and Renewal radio station. I was aware that my comrades had many connections with Eritrean soldiers who would inform them of my whereabouts. Additionally, the Coordination Office, which Sudanese opposition forces must pass through before entering Eritrean towns, was located within the Border Guard compound. However, my anxiety returned when the driver changed course—after offloading part of the cargo—and headed in a direction I hadn't expected.

After about two hours of travel, while standing, I recognized the features of "Kiro," a military zone with one of Eritrea's most notorious intelligence prisons. Its infamy stemmed from the fact that “those who enter are never seen again.” Many Eritrean opposition members arrested by Eritrean forces were executed there, according to several accounts. One of the most famous stories involved five Tigre men who managed to escape while visibility was low due to a dust storm. Yet the pursuit team hunted them down one by one. After burying them at the sites of their executions, they reported back to their superior, who asked, "Do you know anything about these men?" Then he answered himself: "No." To this day, no one knows what happened to them or many others who met the same fate. They fled knowing death awaited them after enduring torture, hoping that if they escaped, they might be granted a new life.

Kiro’s intelligence prison is no different from others across Eritrea, but it stands out for its numerous underground tunnels and mazes. Torture is carried out underground, sometimes in the open air under the midday sun.

But why all this? Does the average Eritrean deserve this? The novelist Émile Zola once wrote through a character in The Ladies' Paradise: "Yes, it was the blood tax, for every revolution demands martyrs, and mankind advances only over the bodies of the dead." But years have passed since the Eritrean people gained independence after a long, thirty-year war, and yet they see no light at the end of the tunnel, despite the high hopes that accompanied the Eritrean People's Liberation Front's declaration of victory.

Despite the brutal civil war between Eritrean factions during the liberation struggle and its bitter memories, independence could have been a strong unifying moment if the Popular Front had had the wisdom to include all political voices in a national framework that would contribute to rebuilding and development. Instead, the Popular Front became like the Greek hero Daedalus, who built a maze only to lose himself within it. Emerging from the demands of the revolutionary period, the Front failed to grasp the responsibilities of statehood, which differ greatly from those of a revolutionary movement. In the revolutionary phase, all mistakes could be justified, logically or not, but now it was time for constitutional legitimacy. Unable to meet this requirement—especially the need to recognize others—the Front continued to run the state as if it were still in the revolutionary era, trapping itself in a maze of its own making. This became evident with the case of the "Group of Fifteen," senior officials who, after the war with Ethiopia, called for major reforms and the establishment of democratic principles. They have since met the same fate as many others and are likely now in a prison not unlike Kiro.

 

April 4, 2004

 We arrived yesterday at 5 p.m. after our last stop at the "Meluber" prison, one of the many prisons run exclusively by Eritrean intelligence. Some of the detainees disembarked there as their journey ended, but about fifty of us found ourselves inside the barbed-wire confines of "Adresar" prison. Our hands were unshackled, and I learned that "Adresar" means "The Red Arrow" or "The Red Spear" in the Hadareb language, which is spoken by the Bidawiyet people, much like the Hadendoa in Sudan. This was explained to me by one of the locals.

We arrived about an hour and a half before sunset, and despite my exhaustion, I took a long look around while squatting, waiting for my turn to have my belongings searched. I was the last to be called, and since I carried nothing but the clothes on my back, my search was brief. Jonas tossed me a piece of an old plastic bag he had used to store some items, saying, "This will be useful—trust me."

"Adarsar" is a large facility. The prison administration buildings are clustered together, and other stone structures, roofed with palm fronds, serve as quarters for the prison staff and the rotating guard units that watch over the inmates during the day. There are also zinc-roofed buildings used as storage. Near the edges of the barbed-wire perimeter, two straw kitchens prepare meals for the detainees and prisoners. Tall wooden poles stand nearby, with guards perched on top to monitor activity within the fence, descending only at night.

But where were the detainees and prisoners housed? Underground. Three large underground dormitories and twelve solitary cells, along with a communal cell designed to hold about four people but often packed with over ten when the prison is full. This communal cell is usually reserved for women and girls. The underground buildings are not immediately visible to visitors; their roofs rise just a few centimetres above the ground.

To the north and east of the prison, a massive mountain range stretches about two kilometers away, while to the west and southwest lie the Border Guard headquarters and barracks. The nearest building, one kilometre away, is the luxurious lodge where General Tekle Mengistu stays during his visits.

That evening, after we were split into two groups, they threw us into the underground dormitories. I glanced around, trying to make out the human shapes in the dim light, distinguishing their forms and positions. The dormitory was so crowded that there wasn’t a free inch. After some commotion caused by my companions and my "Sudanese identity," I barely found enough space to lay the plastic bag down and stretch out.

I woke up this morning, unsure how I had slept—there were no dreams or nightmares to disturb me. With the sunrise, I joined the others as we emerged from our underground shelter, ascending the stone staircase after hearing a long bell ring.

We all sat in front of our dormitory entrance, as the others did the same. The guard commander on duty began counting the prisoners, assisted by one of the guards. He counted our dormitory’s occupants twice, coming up with over 150 people. I suspected that the other dormitories held a similar number, plus a few people seated in front of the solitary cells and a handful of girls in their designated area.

The commander, holding a long stick that he waved threateningly, ordered us to run if we needed to relieve ourselves. After a short jog, our group had to march in four lines to make it easier for the guards to monitor us as we headed to the communal latrine near the mountain range. After barely relieving ourselves, we began the daily routine of climbing the mountain, each of us carrying a stone back to the prison or wherever the guards directed. Since today was Sunday, this process wouldn’t repeat until the evening, during the second allowed latrine visit.

But what about the elderly man, who, like Sisyphus, could barely make it up the mountain before tumbling back down himself instead of the stone? The guard beat him harshly before he struggled to his feet again. He was a man in his early sixties, visibly exhausted and worn out. They called him "Tekhles." Eritrean intelligence had arrested him more than six months ago while he was driving his lorry near the Eritrean-Sudanese border, accusing him of smuggling Eritreans into Sudan. He was first taken to the border town of Teseney, where he endured brutal interrogations. "They whipped me every night, but I had nothing to confess to—I hadn’t done anything," he said, his face filled with sorrow.

Teseney’s intelligence prison is just a stopover before detainees are sent to other prisons. It is notorious for its torture, and the unlucky ones who enter it usually end up confessing to whatever they are accused of, under the pressure of beatings and abuse.

Tekhles was forced to sign and fingerprint a confession stating that he had tried to smuggle Eritreans across the border into Sudan. "They beat me with hoses, sometimes with metal chains, and other times they tied my hands behind my back and hung me from a beam so that only the tips of my toes touched the ground. After two months of this, I had to sign, hoping it would end my suffering and bring me to trial."

But they never put him on trial. Instead, he was transferred to "Adresar" prison, where he has been underground for over six months, not knowing when he’ll return to his children, who have no idea where he is. He must endure the daily task of moving stones from the mountain, which can be repeated more than four times each morning and evening.

One day, Tekhles cursed the guard who had struck him after he refused to carry a nearly 100-kilogram stone. "My back can’t take it anymore," he had pleaded. The guard ignored all his begging, so Tekhles insulted him, cursing everything related to him. They dragged him away, bound hand and foot, and left him lying on the ground in the midday sun, what the torturers call "the airplane took off." He remained there until sunset, when his limbs were on the verge of paralysis, saved only by God's mercy.

The most significant event for me, however, occurred after we returned from the evening stone-hauling routine. A gentle young man in his late twenties, showing signs of fatigue, stopped me. He asked my name and the reason for my imprisonment. After I told him my name, I added, "Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here." When he learned that I belonged to one of the opposition factions, he was surprised and said they usually don’t detain opposition members here. "You’ll be out today or tomorrow at the latest," he assured me, asking me to inform the opposition leadership about their situation here in the hopes that they could do something to secure their release. I chuckled inwardly at his naïve optimism and strong conviction that his request could be fulfilled. Yet I felt a sense of relief knowing that there were some Sudanese in the prison, not because they were fellow detainees, but simply because they were people from my homeland. I met them the next day: Babiker (the quick-witted Mansouri with a knack for jokes), Abdu (as they called him), and Ishaq. All were from Kassala, and their reasons for being detained had their own stories.