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Jewish World Review Sept. 2, 1998 / 11 Elul, 5758
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| A foreigner in a foreign land: An Ethiopian village in all its glory. |
Guns, Torture, Jews, and Lies
THE VIEW OF THE GONDAR REGION from the twin engine propeller plane is
spectacular. Dramatic mountains and lush valleys are peppered with tukels --
round Ethiopian huts that from the air resemble bunches of Shitake
mushrooms. Each of the rural airports we stop at along the way to Gondar is
protected by anti-aircraft guns, because of the nearby war with Eritria. The
other distinguishing characteristic of this northern Ethiopian landscape is
the absence of roads.
There is an Israeli Ethiopian couple on board with Tali, their 13 year old
daughter. The mother, who is originally from Gondar, walked with her village
to Sudan in 1984 during Operation Moses. She still has family in Ethiopia.
Instead of having an Israeli-style bat mitzvah party a function hall, Tali,
who was born in Israel and speaks little Amharic, requested to visit Gondar
and see a part of her heritage.
Unlike any other place in the world with a rich Jewish history, there are no
plaques, museums, guidebooks, tours, monuments or maps about Jewish life
here or the people who once built autonomous Jewish kingdoms in these hills. It
is as if the Jews of Ethiopia in general and of Gondar in particular have never
existed. Or don’t currently exist.
To visit the Gondar region in the rainy season without a four-wheel drive
vehicle is to invite the Angel of Death. I am picked up in a hardtop
Landcruiser (in case we flip over) and a driver and am joined by Agaru
Kassah, an Israeli Ethiopian originally from the village of Buchara, and by Andy
Goldman, an expert on Ethiopian Jews who has run the Jewish compound in
Addis Ababa for nine years. I didn’t tell my wife or children that I would be
wearing a bullet proof vest for this part of my trip, but the Gondar region
is like the Wild West and I didn’t want to take any chances.
Before heading out into the countryside to visit Buchara, a village where
Jewish homes were allegedly torched, we travel to Chichila, a poor rural
hillside that lies behind what people refer to as "the Israeli embassy." The
small compound behind heavy metal doors and high fence is home to offices of
the Jewish Agency, the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) and the Israeli
Ministry of Interior. Most of the offices are unstaffed, locked or empty and
occasionally are visited by Israeli or Jewish officials from Addis Ababa or
Jerusalem. Many of the area’s 1,000 Jews who live in squalor sit on the
grass in front of the compound and wait for permission to join their families in
Israel. Most have been waiting 7 years.
I am told by Nevret Gabow, 57, the chair of the 8-member Gondar organizing
committee that Jewish and Israeli officials refuse to meet with him or
accept the detailed list of 11,000 Jews the committee claims still live in the
Gondar region and wish to come on aliya. The committee chair explains that many
have lived as nominal Christians in an effort to acquire land or for personal
safety reasons, but were really Jews. Because Jews were barred from owning
land, I can understand the need to make compromises to feed one’s family but
I am somewhat skeptical of the personal safety reasons. Little did I know what
was in store for me later that day.
I visit the members of the community in their rented shacks, speak to their
leaders and hear a dozen heartbreaking stories. Like that of Emawash Retta
Gashaye. She is an 87 year old Kwara Jew, who described to me various Jewish
holidays and customs and whose children, except the youngest who stayed
behind to care for her, are in Israel. The Jews of Gondar appear even poorer and in
worse shape than those of Addis Ababa.
I am eager to get back to the Landcruiser and go to Buchara, which, until
recently, was a mixed Jewish-gentile village. The one road south of Gondar
is, like nearly all roads, unpaved and bumpy. The driver, in an effort to avoid
the potholes and mud pits, has perfected the art of the continuous swerve. He beeps the horn endlessly
in an effort to scare away the nonchalant donkeys, cows, ox and sheep who all
seem to want to be hit, hoping perhaps to end a difficult existence. The
animals are painfully skinny and most carry heavy loads. So are the people, who seem unconcerned about our swerving car, probably because it is the only one around for perhaps 100
miles. The people are carrying sacks of seeds, pitchers of water, yokes and
an occasional Kalishnikov or older Russian rifle. My goal is to visit Buchara, assess the situation
and return to Gondar City before dark.
Along the way, my driver stops at a stall and buys a small bag of Chat, a
leaf that is a mild stimulant. This turns out to be a nearly fatal mistake.
After traveling south for about an hour and a half, Agaru, my Israeli guide,
tells the driver to turn right onto a field. The car slows as it climbs a
mild embankment. The Landcruiser then slowly makes its way down the other
side of the hill and gets stuck in the mud. The driver lied to me; the four wheel
drive function does not work. With our wheels spinning hopelessly, a handful
of villagers begin to circle the car and give it a push. Nothing.
I have come thousands of miles to investigate the burnings of Jewish homes
and was not going to be undone by another two miles of mud. We get out of the
car, leave it with the driver and hire villagers to push it out. We set out on
foot to Buchara and pass four vultures eating the carcass of a dead donkey.
Perhaps it is a sign that we should turn back.
The villagers have planted tall cacti to serve as protective walls that also
mark the outskirts of Buchara. Carefully stepping though a hole in the
prickly fence, I emerge into an Ethiopian Twilight Zone. Strangely, we are not
greeted by anyone. Buchara at first appears like a ghost town of huts set against a
beautiful landscape of green. “Something is not right,” Andy says. We walk
around and realize that people are hiding from us in their homes. I see a
dark circle in the grass and walk 45 paces around what was a tukel. The top
circle of its roof lies charred. There are about a dozen charred circles amid the
dozens of standing tukels, although grass has grown over some of the burnt
areas. There is no recognizable pattern to the dark circles; they are
scattered, although they appear on one side of the village and are about 100
feet or more apart.
Finally a woman is convinced to come out and speak with us. We ask about the
dark circles in the grass and she refuses to answer. I try to isolate a
couple of her kids and ask them; they too are evasive. We ask the woman
where the Christian kess, the village priest, lives, and she points us west
toward the sun that begins to set. (We lost a lot of time walking in the mud when
the Landcruiser failed.) As we take leave of her, she invites us back after our
talk with the kess to share injara, the round Ethiopian bread. As we set out
in search of the kess, a man in a dark turban appears running toward us over
the hill. He has a red rifle, and an entourage of people carrying sticks.
The woman and her children duck back into their hut.
The red gun is fully cocked and the safety is off. Even though I have the
bullet-proof vest under my clothing, I am thinking of my wife and children
and praying that we will get safely out of this tense situation. Agaru, who
served in the Ethiopian military, asks the gunman to put the safety on, but the
gunman first has some questions for us. "Are you Israelians," he asks. "Why
have you come here? What do you want?” Are you Jewish?"
We have a cover story that we were on our way to visit another village, but our car got
stuck in the mud so we went for a stroll. We assure him we are from the United
States and not Israel. He eventually puts the safety on. His questions slow
and become less hostile, but he informs us that he is going to escort us out
of the village and back to the car. Andy lets him know that we can’t leave
yet because we do not want to offend the woman who has invited us for injara.
The gunman verifies the invitation and remains with us. His name is Wabeha
Kebele and he is in charge of two village areas. We gently ask him questions
about his position, the headaches of leadership, and eventually the charred
circles in the grass. The gunman confirms that they are the remains of
Jewish homes.
"What happened?"
"There was an accident. I was the first to arrive and saved people," he
tells us. I want to ask about how one accident managed to hit a dozen tukels that
are not next to each other, but it would be perceived as a challenge to him
and I didn’t want to irritate the gunman.
"Where are the people now?"
"They left for Israel," he says.
"We heard that their animals were taken from them."
"Yes, someone stole an ox from there”" -- he points to the charred tukel that
I circled -- "and took it to there and killed it," and he points in the opposite
direction to indicate where the animal was slaughtered.
With the sun nearly set, we take leave of Buchara under armed escort. We
eventually see the white Landcruiser in the distance no longer in the mud
but on the side of the path. The gunman bids us goodbye. The driver, apparently
high on Chat, backed up into a ditch. We offer 50 birr, or about seven
dollars -- a fortune -- to the two dozen villagers if they can get the car out.
After pushing, pulling, digging -- everything -- it is clear that we are stuck
in the middle of nowhere. There are men with guns around.
The sun slips behind the hills.
I take out of my bag bug spray to deter malaria-carrying mosquitoes that
come out at night. We gather our gear and head in the direction of the dirt road,
leaving the driver and car behind. There is only a little bit of light on
the horizon and the next town is a five hour walk. I review in my mind what we
saw in Buchara: Yes, a dozen or so Jewish homes were burned down. Their animals
were killed. The Jews did leave. The gunman thought they left for Israel.
And the villagers were extremely nervous about outsiders and any questions about
the burnt tukels. Will I survive to be able to tell this story to anyone?
After only half an hour of walking, a four-door pickup truck comes our way.
They are heading for Gondar and offer us a lift. It is a miracle. Andy
notices the license plate color, however, and realizes we are in a police car. He
whispers to me to that we are not out of the woods yet. Ethiopian police in
the Wild North are not necessarily good guys. The questions start again.
"Why were you out here?" "Where are you from?" "Are you Christian?"
With a sense of fear in my heart, I lie. "Sometimes I am Christian," I
answer.
That seems to satisfy their curiosity on the religion question.
I now understand why some Beta Yisrael over the decades have lived as
Ethiopian Marranos, now called Falas Mura. After three hours of lying about
our religious and professional identities, we arrive safely at our hotel in
Gondar City. Three Jews -- me, Andy and Agaru -- were saved. Thousands,
however, are still
9/01/98: Too much pain
By Yosef I. Abramowitz
New JWR contributor Yosef I. Abramowitz is editor of Jewish Family & Life, ( www.jewishfamily.com.)
8/31/98: In Search of Ethiopian Jewry
