I Didn’t Do It For You: How the World Used and Abused a Small African Nation. Michela Wrong

They crouched in the mountains, shooting at silvery MiG jets, or danced in celebration around camp fires. The murals’ original models strolled below, older now, weighed down by the more pedestrian, if equally tricky challenges posed by building a new nation-state. Meeting in the street, two male friends would clasp hands, then lean towards each other until right shoulder banged into right shoulder, body bounced rhythmically off body. When vigorous young men did it, they looked like jousting stags, when old comrades did it, they closed their eyes in pleasure, burrowing their heads into the crook of each other’s necks. Peculiar to Eritrea, the shoulder-knocking greeting originated in the rural areas but became a Fighter trademark, and it usually indicated shared experiences rarely spoken about, never to be forgotten. The women Fighters – for women accounted for more than a third of the Movement – were also easily spotted. Instead of white shawls, they wore cardigans. Their hair was tied in practical ponytails, rather than intricately braided in the traditional highlands style. They looked tough, weathered, quietly formidable.

      â€˜Eritrea’s a great place, if you have a penchant for tragedy,’ a British doctor on loan to one of the government ministries quipped. The titles of the standard works on Eritrea, displayed in the windows of every bookshop, told you everything about a national familiarity with suffering, a proud community’s capacity for teeth-gritting: Never Kneel Down, Against All Odds, Even the Stones are Burning, A Painful Season and a Stubborn Hope. Reminders of loss were everywhere. Over the age of about 40, most Westerners become familiar with the sensation of carrying around with them a bevy of friendly ghosts, the spirits of dead relatives and lost comrades who whisper in their ears and crack the occasional joke. In Eritrea, the wraiths crowded around in their multitudes, threatening to engulf the living. During the Armed Struggle, which claimed the unenviable title of Africa’s longest war, Eritrea probably lost between 150,000 and 200,000 to conflict and famine. Some 65,000 Fighters died before the regime in Addis Ababa, toppled by a domestic rebel movement in league with the EPLF, agreed to surrender its treasured coastline. Given Eritrea’s tiny population, this amounted to 1 in 50. Visiting Eritrean homes, one came to anticipate the sideboard on which a blue-fringed ‘Martyr’s Certificate’, issued in recognition of a family that paid the ultimate sacrifice, held pride of place; the framed degree papers and graduation photographs testifying to skills a serious-looking son or daughter would now never put to the test. The Struggle had affected every family, it could not be escaped. Perhaps this explained why the Martyrs’ Cemeteries scattered around the country were usually, behind the defiant paintings of Kalashnikov-toting warriors, neglected and overgrown. Who needed to tend graves, when the memory of the dead was so very present?

      This was a nation of citizens with bits missing. Often, at the end of a conversation, I would rise to my feet only to register, as the man I had been talking to escorted me to the door, that he walked with the lunging awkwardness of someone with an artificial leg. The hand I was shaking, I’d realize, was short of a finger or two, the eye that had failed to follow my movements, or was watering painfully, was probably made of glass. The capital was full of young men and women on crutches, one empty trouser leg flapping in the breeze. If they were lucky, they sat at the controls of motorized wheelchairs, provided by a government mindful of the debt it owed its tegadelti. Of an evening in Asmara, you could sometimes spot a lone amputee whizzing down Martyrs’ Avenue at breakneck speed, determinedly propelling his wheelchair towards Asmara’s nightspots with two flailing sticks; an African skier without snow.

      It was difficult not to be moved. It was difficult not to be admiring. My reaction was far from unique. When it came to falling for Africa’s 53rd and newest state, hundreds of well-intentioned Westerners had already beaten me to it.

      There is a breed of expatriate that seems particular to the Horn of Africa. Foreigners who, quite early in their travels, discovered Ethiopia or Eritrea and fell in love, with all the swooning, uncritical absolutism of youth. Perhaps they had ventured elsewhere in Africa and didn’t like what they found: the inferiority complexes left by an oppressive colonial past, menacing hints of potential anarchy, the everyday sleaze of failing states. Then they came to the Horn and were swept away by the uniqueness of the region’s history, the sophistication of their Ethiopian and Eritrean friends. They marvelled at the dedication of puritanical leaderships trying to do something more creative than fill Swiss bank accounts, and became True Believers. ‘Ah yes, so-and-so. He has always been a Friend of Ethiopia,’ you would often hear officials in Asmara and Addis say. ‘Have you read so-and-so’s book? She’s a true Friend of Eritrea.’ The rebels-turned-ministers had grasped a vital truth. True Believers are worth a hundred spokesmen to guerrilla organizations and the cash-strapped governments they go on to form. Sharing the religious convert’s belligerent frustration with those who have not seen the light, quicker than the locals to detect a slight, they are tireless in defending the cause. During their time in the bush, both the EPLF and Ethiopia’s Tigrayan People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) had acquired a coterie of them: hard-working Swedish aid workers, idealistic human rights activists, self-funded journalists and left-wing European parliamentarians. They had remained loyal during the hard times and now revelled in the sight of their old friends, once regarded as tiresome nuisances by Western governments, holding executive power on both sides of the border.

      By the time I left Asmara, I was well on the way to joining their ranks. Looking back, I know I would have been less susceptible to Eritrea’s tragic charms had I spent less time reporting on the horrors of central Africa. Having gorged on gloomy headlines, I was hungry for what seemed increasingly impossible: an African good news story. I was used to guerrilla groups who raped, pillaged, even – occasionally – ate their victims, whose gunmen were despised by the communities they claimed to represent. In Eritrea you could hear the hushed awe in civilians’ voices when they talked about the demobilized Fighters who had won them independence and were now trying to build a society freed from the stifling constraints of tribe, religion and gender. As a white woman, I was used to being shooed to the front of queues, paid the exaggerated respect that spoke of generations of colonial browbeating. It gave me a perverse thrill to hear an Eritrean student confess that he and his fellow citizens suffered from a superiority complex towards outsiders. In other African nations, I was accustomed to being refused interviews by government ministers terrified by the possibility that they might show some spark of individual intelligence that could later be judged to have undermined the omniscient Big Man. Here ministers not only spoke to me, they strayed with confidence outside their official briefs and showed a disconcerting habit of wanting to discuss Samuel Pepys and Charles Darwin. I was used to writing about supplicant African governments moaning over conditions placed on aid by the World Bank and International Monetary Fund, dependent on Western approval for every policy change. These men told me, in tones that brooked no dissent, that having won independence on its own, Eritrea would decide its development programme for itself. The advice of strangers was neither wanted nor needed: self-reliance was the watchword.

      In the Field, the EPLF had eschewed ranks, and the personality cults that were de rigueur elsewhere in Africa were regarded with fastidious disapproval. What a relief, after seeing portraits of Moi and Mobutu above every shop counter, to hear an Eritrean, driving past a window displaying a rare photograph of Eritrean President Isaias Afwerki, ‘tsk’ disapprovingly and say: ‘I really don’t like that.’ Rather than building a palace, Isaias still lived in a modest Asmara home donated by the government. He wore simple safari suits, not Parisian couture. Visiting journalists were granted interviews within a day of arrival (in my years of visiting I had four); here was none of the scripted inaccessibility of the leader hiding behind his fawning courtiers. As for the blaring motorcades favoured by his contemporaries, shoppers on Liberation Avenue would sometimes register with a start that the man they had just passed, walking quietly along on his own, was their head of state. Isaias was in the habit of rising from the table at the end of official receptions and – to the horror of scrambling bodyguards – asking guest presidents to join him on one of his unscheduled strolls around Asmara. While foreign investors raved about the absence of official corruption, the stiff-backed integrity of those in government, Western capitals hailed Isaias and his freshly-instated friend across the border, Ethiopian Prime Minister Meles Zenawi, as forming the core of a new group of principled leaders spearheading