The Conscript

A Novel of Libya's Anticolonial War

Gebreyesus Hailu, Ghirmai Negash

• Publisher: Ohio University Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780821444450
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Eloquent and thought-provoking, this classic novel by the Eritrean novelist Gebreyesus Hailu, written in Tigrinya in 1927 and published in 1950, is one of the earliest novels written in an African language and will have a major impact on the reception and critical appraisal of African literature.

The Conscript depicts, with irony and controlled anger, the staggering experiences of the Eritrean ascari, soldiers conscripted to fight in Libya by the Italian colonial army against the nationalist Libyan forces fighting for their freedom from Italy's colonial rule. Anticipating midcentury thinkers Frantz Fanon and Aimé Césaire, Hailu paints a devastating portrait of Italian colonialism. Some of the most poignant passages of the novel include the awakening of the novel's hero, Tuquabo, to his ironic predicament of being both under colonial rule and the instrument of suppressing the colonized Libyans.

The novel's remarkable descriptions of the battlefield awe the reader with mesmerizing images, both disturbing and tender, of the Libyan landscape—with its vast desert sands, oases, horsemen, foot soldiers, and the brutalities of war—uncannily recalled in the satellite images that were brought to the homes of millions of viewers around the globe in 2011, during the country's uprising against its former leader, Colonel Gaddafi.

Deep in the Wilderness

He who fights on a foreign soil another man’s war

Not for his family or his country’s honor

And, when he lies dying, hit by a deadly blow

From an angry firearm

But cannot say, “Oh! My beloved country

Here is the life you gave me, I come back to you”

Dies twice, reduced to eternal wretchedness.

This poem was written by Leopardi, a famous Italian poet. It could have been written for the Habesha conscripts. Having crossed the seas, the conscripts had now landed in the hot, dry wilderness, leaving behind their land, family, relatives, and friends. “Dear friend, do you think people live in this dry sand?” Tuquabo was asking, bewildered. “What can I say? I am just like you looking wherever my eyes take me to.” “How can I know?” replied the other. Both fell silent. They were all silent; except for whispers and unfinished sentences, not even one song or meaningful word was heard in the entire group. The sense of shock, sadness, hopelessness, and regret was clearly visible on their faces. The view of the desert was overwhelming. There was not a single tree or blade of grass, not to speak of water. One could not possibly move in any direction—left, right, front, or back—for one found oneself always surrounded by sand, stone, gravel, and heaps of dust. It was an expanse like the sea, but a more hostile one. In the sea, you can see fish and listen to the sound of the waves. Not even a single chirping bird was heard, nor was a bird in flight seen in the desert. With the open cloudless sky, it was like a hot oven. The nausea created by the permanent blaze and the absence of breeze makes one wonder whether one is in the land of life or death. What a stark difference, when you think of the green, windy, fertile land of Ethiopia, where streams flow. All the conscripts were now saying, “I deserve this, for wanting to come here!” But there was nothing they could do about it except feel pity for themselves.

They had woken up in a sweat from their brief sleep. And as soon as the whistle for departure was blown, they somehow wiped their sweat and started walking slowly towards a place deep in the wilderness. But their feet were aching from sand burn, and some tried to tend their feet as much as they could, while others headed inland—hopping as a way to withstand the heat underneath. Those who owned shoes wore them, those who didn’t improvised by wrapping pieces of cloth and handkerchiefs around their feet. That was useless. A make-do shoe was no match for the burning heat. The sand was like a glowing fire, with craters of hot ash everywhere. I recall one day myself running unawares into one of those hot ash craters. My legs sank up to my knees; I was full of burn wounds. Anyone who went through this experience like me will know; those who have not experienced it can, however, contemplate it with an open heart. It was through this hellhole that our countrymen were going, not for one day, but to live there for two years. Neither the shoes, nor the cloth with which they improvised to make shoes, could save them from the heat, as the sand that got into their shoes rendered the foot it covered bare. What can be said? Oh my God, it was devastating to see the wrath unleashed on them.

There is a Tigrinya adage which says, “The hyena that laughs at dawn is bound to cause havoc at dusk.” For surely the beginning was agonizing, and the conscripts started asking each other what it was going to be like for two years if they were suffering this much already. Two years! Two years in such heat, in a land of hell, with a terrible wind blowing! Fine sand was ceaselessly blowing into their eyes, ears, and noses, making their lives miserable by slipping down into their bodies through their sleeves and necks. Their bodies were sweltering. Since it was very fine, the sand was even falling through onto their bellies. All that can be said is that it is probably from that same fine sand that the haze emerges that sometimes comes to our land, and it burns bodies, destroys our pastures, and emaciates our livestock. Do you see? How a sandstorm so hot—that even after it has traveled a long distance and been slowed down by vegetation and mild weather is able to cause drought and sickness when it reaches our homeland—would affect one who is in the midst of the place where it takes off from the blazing ground, where there is not a single tree for shade? In any case, who knows how many of them were falling ill?

The conscripts traveled for the whole day and rested in the evening. Their feet were burning with blisters and wounds. They slept on the sand without any carpet or cover, wearing their clothes, their ammunition bound to their bodies. For the Italian commanders who rode on mules for the whole day, a tent was put up to protect them from night cold and sandstorms. Their beds were prepared, and water was readied for them. And who was taking care of this? The wretched Habesha, whose lot is suffering. Is it not clear that it was the conscripts who most needed help and assistance? No, it was the Habesha who were destined to stand by the Italians when they were served supper, after slaving for them the whole day. It was also the Habesha, who were despicable to the Italian mind. And who else other than the Habesha was going to prepare their horses and pack their goods the next day in the morning? Well, there were more surprising things. When a son of Habesha was elected as a privileged orderly to serve a white man, whether it was making his bed, or preparing his sword and weapons, or cooking his food, or lighting his cigarette, he thought that he had reached seven skies higher than his colleagues. So the useless one who follows a mule and feels full by smelling its dung thinks he reigns as a king over his friends just because he has put a hat on his head. And so it went. As they spent the night scorched by the day’s heat, stuffed with sand brought by winds, and were mocked by the night dew, they woke up the next day and moved on. Anyone who saw the conscripts then could see that their faces looked tattered, their eyes were red, and their lips were chapped. These young Ethiopians, whose faces had shone before as if they had been rubbed with butter, turned into such emaciated bodies in one day. It was hard to recognize them as Ethiopians at that time, but as useless persons from a cursed land. On the other hand, people back home were thinking about them, and cried, “Our priests, why don’t you speak out? Not even one young man can be found; all have gone to Tripoli.”

And at this time an internal voice spoke to Tuquabo. “Oh, poor Tuquabo! There was plenty of milk to drink, plenty of butter to eat in your home, but your parents have no one left to give their wealth to. You are dying of hunger and wasting away. Back home, when you returned from your trips your family welcomed you with a smile and showered you with blessings and everlasting joy. In your house, you were used to having hot water to wash feet, beer or aniseed drink to quench your thirst, a soft bed to sleep on, and you would sleep with your heart filled with joy. But now, where will you go to after spending all the day toiling? They do say, ‘Don’t go to a bad wife after spending the day with a bad ox.’ This has now happened to you. You will find no one happy to welcome you, no one to prepare your dinner, and no one to get you to sleep. It is then that you remember the good life you had with your family. You will wish to have it, but you will not get it. And thus you will do your best to try to forget this wish.”

Having camped for the night for a second day (which was as tough as the first day), they marched on and on in the desert for seven days—hungry, thirsty, and suffering from the blistering heat and sandstorms. That’s right, they called the walking “marching,” a new word in Tigrinya, which they had invented as a testimony to their exhausting experience. Soon they were close to the territory of the enemy. Their Italian commander, sitting on a horse in their midst, spoke to them in a loud voice. “O black Eritrean ascari! Those whom you are now going to fight against are but a bunch of shepherds. You may perhaps be frightened because they are whites. However, they are not like us. They do not possess guns, nor do they have ample bullets. They do not have binoculars like us, nor do they have mortars as we do. We alone are the brave whites; we, Italians, your masters. Hence, beat him (the enemy); do not be afraid of him. If we happen to find goats, camels, cattle, donkeys, or sheep, we will give you some to slaughter and eat. However, woe unto him who finds gold, silver, or any similar item and keeps it for himself. I shall flog his bare bottom with fifty-five lashes of the whip in front of everyone. Now then, have you heard?! I am the owner of all the spoils. I am your master; everything you find you hand it to me. You should feel gratified and privileged for fighting under the Italian banner. We, the Italian government, are great; we have ships, trains, guns, rifles, and airplanes. For this reason you should fight well for us.” He finished by stating that they must all repeat as he shouted, “Viva l’Italia; Viva Emanuele, our king!”

This was what the young Habesha were told while preparing for war. All right, they were mercenaries. Weren’t they? It would indeed be too much for them to expect to hear better words. When the commander was talking to them, however, he forgot that he was addressing the Habesha, who, unlike some other Africans who didn’t have pride in their history and land, had a long history of resistance and, moreover, were endowed with honesty of heart and depth of mind. He forgot the Habesha soldiers were fighting because they sought bravery and heroism, not for the sake of a few pennies.

We know that a soldier preparing to fight will not fight bravely if he is not defending the safety and greatness of his country and that of his parents, wife, and children. Our Italian chief did not seem to have any of these notions. He treated his soldiers like one who has gathered children from an unknown place to do things for him. He would rebuke them, lie to them, and sometimes praise them. He treated them as if they were children, and he boasted to them about Italian bravery. Thus, when he finally told them to shout, “Viva l’Italia!,” those who weren’t thinking did so with a loud, melodious voice, while the wise ones, Tuquabo among them, got a lump in their throat and shed sad tears as they came to realize what was being told to them. The judicious Habesha soldiers felt ashamed when looking at the Bedouin shepherds, who were preparing to defend their country. The people of the desert were not particularly good at war. They lacked guns and were short of ammunition. They didn’t have a king or a chief to lead them. Even so they did their best to save their land from aliens. On the other hand, it was strange to watch the Habesha, who at first did nothing when their land was taken and bowed to the Italians like dogs (as if that were not shameful enough indeed), preparing to fight those Arabs who wanted to defend their country. The Habesha were fighting for those who came to colonize and to make others tools of colonizing African neighbors, without anything of benefit to their country or society. There may be some who think that fighting the Arabs on behalf of the Italians and exterminating them from the face of the earth was forgivable considering that the Arabs and black Africans were historically enemies. But what was being done would one day lead to one’s fall. If one day they come led by a Frenchman or an Italian to fight, didn’t the Habesha know that the Arabs were going to pay back with vengeance? Don’t they know that they would tell their children, generation after generation, that whatever they might forget, they should not forget the blood of Habesha? And that this bloodletting would go on forever?

As Tuquabo and the others marched in the direction of the Arab “enemy,” the Arabs were preparing to fight the black mercenaries, the “Massawa slaves,” as they called the conscripts. They were nomadic people, like the Tigre and Saho of our country, who traveled from one place to another, leading their livestock to green pastures to graze. Their livestock were donkeys, camel, goat, sheep, and horses. Their horses were famous for galloping like the wind without tiring, and were named “steel” for their strength. But it was the camel that was most beneficial to them. It carried all their goods, did not suffer much from thirst (it could go without drinking for a month), and carried his owner across the arid areas to any destination. The camel was reputed to have been blessed by the Prophet Mohammed. Since it was said that the Prophet blessed the animal, it was thus also kept for spiritual reasons. And that was why the Christians in our country did not keep the camel, but the Moslems did. A Christian who drank the milk of a camel was also considered to have converted to Islam. I remember one day when I was a small boy. I met a man leading camels, and I saw the man milking and drinking ...

Table of contents

• Translator’s Note
• Introduction
• Preface to the Tigrinya Edition
• A Portrait of Youth
• The Departure from Asmara
• Deep in the Wilderness
• The Thirst of Death
• Advance Praise for The Conscript: