Meles Zenawi’s forces are savagely beating and torturing students in the town of Ambo, western Ethiopia. Some have lost consciousness from the beatings and torture by the heavily armed police and troops who are under the direct command of Meles Zenawi. The money that is used to arm and train these fascist troops comes from the U.S. and British governments.
Over 50 army troops who witnessed the savage beatings and torture of students in Ambo left their command in protest, according to eyewitnesses. A reliable source confirmed this news to Ethiopian Review. Five of the soldiers disappeared with their weapons.
Hundreds of Ethiopians have staged a protest rally at the U.S. State Department and World Bank in Washington DC today.
The protestors appealed to the Bush Administration and the World Bank to stop financing the murderous dictatorship of Meles Zenawi in Ethiopia.
The World Bank and IMF officials met with representatives of the protestors and received documents describing the atrocities in Ethiopia by the Meles regime.
The World Bank officials told the protestors that they, too, are concerned by the political crisis in Ethiopia and are discussing with the Meles regime about it.
Schools through out Gonder are being closed down after students staged protests demanding the release of all students and political prisoners.
The protest is spreading through out the region as other students picked up the same demands. Eyewitnesses told Ethiopian Review that Meles Zenawi’s Federal Police and special troops reacted brutally to the students protest, savagely beating and arresting them, including 12 and 13 years old girls.
The brutality of Meles Zenawi’s security forces against the young students is shocking and angering the population, leading to further confrontations.
Similarly, protests continue in Jimma and Debub universities, and schools through out Western Shoa are being closed down.
The Addis Ababa airport I used to know was shabby and neglected, an overgrown shack of wood, concrete and tin. It smelled of incense mingled with the dank, sweet odor of sewage. But the old airport had been torn down since my last visit; in its place was a sparkling, high-ceilinged structure of metal and glass into which light poured from every direction.
Now, as I rode into the city, traffic stopped for a herd of goats and beggars were sleeping on the traffic islands that divided the road. But people were also bustling around with cell phones stuck to their ears, and brightly lit Internet cafes were filled with young people. Things were changing for the better, it seemed when I arrived last month. There was no reason to suspect that Ethiopia was poised to plunge headlong into darkness — that within a week, dozens of street protesters would be dead, and tens of thousands of young people arrested.
Like many in the West who follow Africa, I was prepared to think well of Meles Zenawi, Ethiopia’s engaging prime minister. After all, in 1991 he had toppled Mengistu Haile Mariam, the communist dictator. Under Mengistu, fear used to be palpable. Hulking members of the secret police patrolled the streets at night, their weapons hidden under long dark coats. I had been in Addis Ababa 14 years ago when Zenawi’s Tigrean People’s Liberation Front had freed the city, ending 15 years of civil war. The young TPLF fighters, dressed in frayed, unmatched combat fatigues, had seemed incorruptible as they moved through the city, stealing nothing, as though still in the countryside where they had lived for years.
Zenawi, an avowed Marxist Leninist during the civil war, adroitly changed ideologies after taking charge of Ethiopia in May 1991. With the Soviet Union collapsing, Zenawi vowed to bring democracy and Western-style economic growth to Ethiopia. Since then, Ethiopian democracy had been far from perfect — Zenawi’s party had won suspiciously resounding victories in two consecutive elections and was suspected of fudging poll results in parliamentary races in May that were initially seen as fairer. But I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. Hadn’t a free press been allowed to flourish in the capital? Hadn’t I seen, in visits over the past decade, that people were no longer afraid to speak their minds? And didn’t the cell phones and Internet cafes indicate that part of the population was emerging from poverty?
All too often encouraging signs of change have proven false in African nations, but Zenawi’s mastery of the language and symbols of liberal democracy had raised hopes that Ethiopia would be an exception. Figures such as British Prime Minister Tony Blair and the Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph Stiglitz praised Zenawi as a wise leader. Contributions from Western donor countries covered almost a third of Ethiopia’s annual budget. And Jimmy Carter, whose Carter Center had sent hundreds of observers, declared the May campaign this year basically free and fair. Yet democracy, like beauty, is sometimes only skin-deep — and elections are of only cosmetic value when the army, the media and the justice system are all controlled by the ruling party.
As I drove into Addis Ababa, the police were stopping buses, seemingly at random, and searching all male passengers. This was the first sign, for me, that something was amiss. The next day I sat in the attic of a small restaurant, with 20 young men, most well educated yet unemployed. They were chewing mildly narcotic leaves of qat and talking politics, green paste dripping occasionally from the corners of their mouths. All of them had been stopped and searched over the previous 24 hours, and all were angry.
The May 15 elections had been rigged, they told me. When the government realized it was losing in the rural areas, its traditional power base, as well as in the cities, it had stolen ballots and stuffed boxes in the swaths of countryside where no observers were posted. After the elections, Zenawi imposed a state of emergency, outlawing public protest and lambasting the opposition over state-controlled television and radio. In June, students at Addis Ababa University who had shouted protest slogans had been arrested. When a high school girl lay down in front of the trucks that came to take the students away, she was shot by a sniper. Then all hell broke loose and at least 35 people were shot dead when security forces opened fire.
Mesfin Wolde-Mariam, a leading intellectual and one of the architects of the main opposition party, the Coalition for Unity and Democracy (CUD), had championed human rights and been jailed by both Haile Selassie’s and Mengistu’s regimes. Now, at age 75, he was at odds with a new regime.
White-haired, frail and coughing as he chain-smoked Marlboros, Mesfin expressed both hope and outrage when I interviewed him in his cluttered apartment. “The opposition is engaged in peaceful political struggle, but the government is using brute force. Yesterday, the police entered the CUD offices, beat people and carted them off. Hundreds are in prison.” Mesfin lit another cigarette. “For the Ethiopian people, the masses, there is a new awakening. They once believed that God gave you rulers. Now they are beginning to realize that they have sovereign rights.”
The CUD had called for a general strike to be held Nov. 4, but on Nov. 1, the day after I spoke to Mesfin, violence began. Several hundred high school students joined by children in the sprawling Merkato market confronted police and red-bereted army special forces, blocking streets, burning tires and throwing stones. Across the city, stores closed their metal gates; the minivan taxis disappeared, city buses were pelted with stones. By nightfall, eight people were dead, including two police officers, and most opposition leaders — including Mesfin — had been arrested and charged with treason, an offense punishable by death. Independent newspapers had been closed, and journalists were in prison or hiding.
There had been warning signs about the repressive nature of the Zenawi regime 14 years ago. Ethiopia has some 70 ethnic groups, including the Amhara, the Oromo and the Tigreans. The Amhara tribe, whose members included Haile Selassie and Mengistu, had ruled Ethiopia for a hundred years, conquering lands and creating a nation out of disparate parts. The Oromo, the largest ethnic group, were largely disempowered. The Tigreans, though fewer in number, were the Amhara’s historic rivals.
The day after the Tigrean fighters ousted Mengistu, Amhara demonstrators carrying long green branches had protested Zenawi’s plan to allow Eritrea, Ethiopia’s northernmost region, which had been fighting for independence for 30 years, to secede. “Ethiopia must stay united,” the agitated demonstrators had cried. I was standing with Tigrean soldiers, who were still dressed in their ragtag rebel clothes, when they singled out one demonstrator and cornered him in front of the exterior brick wall of a church. He was a middle-aged man with a paunch and I watched him raise his hands in a gesture of submission before the soldiers shot him at close range — once, twice, until he collapsed.
My natural sympathy was not with the protesters. I saw them as Amhara supremacists who did not appreciate that the Tigreans had liberated them from a brutal dictatorship. Because of this, perhaps, I didn’t judge the incident harshly enough.
I thought of that shooting again as accounts of police and army excesses started pouring in last month. A French journalist I met on the street had seen army troops firing at the backs of retreating demonstrators. A young woman ran up to us breathlessly and said she had seen soldiers burst into a house a block away and start shooting. Soldiers roared through the now empty streets by the truckload. By afternoon, most of the shooting had subsided. But not all of it.
In the morning, in one of the thousands of dirt alleyways that form grids between Addis Ababa’s broad avenues, I was led into a mud-brick home, where mourners wept and danced in a frenzy of sorrow. A 17-year-old named Tsegahun had been standing with friends in the alleyway at dusk the day before when soldiers arrived. One of the friends said, “They called him over, told him to kneel down, and shot him twice in the midsection.”
After that, hundreds of young men had taken refuge in a nearby river gorge to escape soldiers who had come knocking on doors at midnight. I heard the same story in neighborhood after neighborhood. Arrests continued every night for a week, until thousands were taken, human rights groups said. Many were hauled 220 miles away, to the malaria-infected lowlands near Sudan.
After a week, Addis Ababa returned to a semblance of normalcy. Shops reopened — though only after the government had begun to revoke the licenses of businesses that remained closed. Parents wandered from police station to police station, trying to get information about their arrested children. The opposition leaders, Mesfin among them, were shown on TV shuffling, handcuffed and bent, toward a courtroom.
Suspicion simmered, as though the Mengistu era had returned. People in cafes shot furtive glances at neighboring tables.
“We feel betrayed by democracy,” said a journalist who said he has been in hiding since the Nov. 1 crackdown. “It’s as if the government encouraged us to speak our minds so that it would know who to grab when the time came.”
Yet many Ethiopians believe that the Western democracies could still help. The driver who took me to the airport, a friend from previous visits, had carefully avoided talking politics during my trip.
As we approached the terminal, he finally had his say. “The donor countries can twist Meles’s arm and make him compromise — release the prisoners, allow the newspapers to reopen,” he said about Zenawi. “That’s if they care about democracy as much as they say.”
Democracy had been the focus of the people’s disappointment — yet that disappointment had not killed their desire for it. Zenawi, undoubtedly, already knows this.
__________
Author’s e-mail:[email protected] Micha Odenheimer is a writer and rabbi based in Jerusalem.
The Addis Ababa airport I used to know was shabby and neglected, an overgrown shack of wood, concrete and tin. It smelled of incense mingled with the dank, sweet odor of sewage. But the old airport had been torn down since my last visit; in its place was a sparkling, high-ceilinged structure of metal and glass into which light poured from every direction.
Now, as I rode into the city, traffic stopped for a herd of goats and beggars were sleeping on the traffic islands that divided the road. But people were also bustling around with cell phones stuck to their ears, and brightly lit Internet cafes were filled with young people. Things were changing for the better, it seemed when I arrived last month. There was no reason to suspect that Ethiopia was poised to plunge headlong into darkness — that within a week, dozens of street protesters would be dead, and tens of thousands of young people arrested.
Like many in the West who follow Africa, I was prepared to think well of Meles Zenawi, Ethiopia’s engaging prime minister. After all, in 1991 he had toppled Mengistu Haile Mariam, the communist dictator. Under Mengistu, fear used to be palpable. Hulking members of the secret police patrolled the streets at night, their weapons hidden under long dark coats. I had been in Addis Ababa 14 years ago when Zenawi’s Tigrean People’s Liberation Front had freed the city, ending 15 years of civil war. The young TPLF fighters, dressed in frayed, unmatched combat fatigues, had seemed incorruptible as they moved through the city, stealing nothing, as though still in the countryside where they had lived for years.
Zenawi, an avowed Marxist Leninist during the civil war, adroitly changed ideologies after taking charge of Ethiopia in May 1991. With the Soviet Union collapsing, Zenawi vowed to bring democracy and Western-style economic growth to Ethiopia. Since then, Ethiopian democracy had been far from perfect — Zenawi’s party had won suspiciously resounding victories in two consecutive elections and was suspected of fudging poll results in parliamentary races in May that were initially seen as fairer. But I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. Hadn’t a free press been allowed to flourish in the capital? Hadn’t I seen, in visits over the past decade, that people were no longer afraid to speak their minds? And didn’t the cell phones and Internet cafes indicate that part of the population was emerging from poverty?
All too often encouraging signs of change have proven false in African nations, but Zenawi’s mastery of the language and symbols of liberal democracy had raised hopes that Ethiopia would be an exception. Figures such as British Prime Minister Tony Blair and the Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph Stiglitz praised Zenawi as a wise leader. Contributions from Western donor countries covered almost a third of Ethiopia’s annual budget. And Jimmy Carter, whose Carter Center had sent hundreds of observers, declared the May campaign this year basically free and fair. Yet democracy, like beauty, is sometimes only skin-deep — and elections are of only cosmetic value when the army, the media and the justice system are all controlled by the ruling party.
As I drove into Addis Ababa, the police were stopping buses, seemingly at random, and searching all male passengers. This was the first sign, for me, that something was amiss. The next day I sat in the attic of a small restaurant, with 20 young men, most well educated yet unemployed. They were chewing mildly narcotic leaves of qat and talking politics, green paste dripping occasionally from the corners of their mouths. All of them had been stopped and searched over the previous 24 hours, and all were angry.
The May 15 elections had been rigged, they told me. When the government realized it was losing in the rural areas, its traditional power base, as well as in the cities, it had stolen ballots and stuffed boxes in the swaths of countryside where no observers were posted. After the elections, Zenawi imposed a state of emergency, outlawing public protest and lambasting the opposition over state-controlled television and radio. In June, students at Addis Ababa University who had shouted protest slogans had been arrested. When a high school girl lay down in front of the trucks that came to take the students away, she was shot by a sniper. Then all hell broke loose and at least 35 people were shot dead when security forces opened fire.
Mesfin Wolde-Mariam, a leading intellectual and one of the architects of the main opposition party, the Coalition for Unity and Democracy (CUD), had championed human rights and been jailed by both Haile Selassie’s and Mengistu’s regimes. Now, at age 75, he was at odds with a new regime.
White-haired, frail and coughing as he chain-smoked Marlboros, Mesfin expressed both hope and outrage when I interviewed him in his cluttered apartment. “The opposition is engaged in peaceful political struggle, but the government is using brute force. Yesterday, the police entered the CUD offices, beat people and carted them off. Hundreds are in prison.” Mesfin lit another cigarette. “For the Ethiopian people, the masses, there is a new awakening. They once believed that God gave you rulers. Now they are beginning to realize that they have sovereign rights.”
The CUD had called for a general strike to be held Nov. 4, but on Nov. 1, the day after I spoke to Mesfin, violence began. Several hundred high school students joined by children in the sprawling Merkato market confronted police and red-bereted army special forces, blocking streets, burning tires and throwing stones. Across the city, stores closed their metal gates; the minivan taxis disappeared, city buses were pelted with stones. By nightfall, eight people were dead, including two police officers, and most opposition leaders — including Mesfin — had been arrested and charged with treason, an offense punishable by death. Independent newspapers had been closed, and journalists were in prison or hiding.
There had been warning signs about the repressive nature of the Zenawi regime 14 years ago. Ethiopia has some 70 ethnic groups, including the Amhara, the Oromo and the Tigreans. The Amhara tribe, whose members included Haile Selassie and Mengistu, had ruled Ethiopia for a hundred years, conquering lands and creating a nation out of disparate parts. The Oromo, the largest ethnic group, were largely disempowered. The Tigreans, though fewer in number, were the Amhara’s historic rivals.
The day after the Tigrean fighters ousted Mengistu, Amhara demonstrators carrying long green branches had protested Zenawi’s plan to allow Eritrea, Ethiopia’s northernmost region, which had been fighting for independence for 30 years, to secede. “Ethiopia must stay united,” the agitated demonstrators had cried. I was standing with Tigrean soldiers, who were still dressed in their ragtag rebel clothes, when they singled out one demonstrator and cornered him in front of the exterior brick wall of a church. He was a middle-aged man with a paunch and I watched him raise his hands in a gesture of submission before the soldiers shot him at close range — once, twice, until he collapsed.
My natural sympathy was not with the protesters. I saw them as Amhara supremacists who did not appreciate that the Tigreans had liberated them from a brutal dictatorship. Because of this, perhaps, I didn’t judge the incident harshly enough.
I thought of that shooting again as accounts of police and army excesses started pouring in last month. A French journalist I met on the street had seen army troops firing at the backs of retreating demonstrators. A young woman ran up to us breathlessly and said she had seen soldiers burst into a house a block away and start shooting. Soldiers roared through the now empty streets by the truckload. By afternoon, most of the shooting had subsided. But not all of it.
In the morning, in one of the thousands of dirt alleyways that form grids between Addis Ababa’s broad avenues, I was led into a mud-brick home, where mourners wept and danced in a frenzy of sorrow. A 17-year-old named Tsegahun had been standing with friends in the alleyway at dusk the day before when soldiers arrived. One of the friends said, “They called him over, told him to kneel down, and shot him twice in the midsection.”
After that, hundreds of young men had taken refuge in a nearby river gorge to escape soldiers who had come knocking on doors at midnight. I heard the same story in neighborhood after neighborhood. Arrests continued every night for a week, until thousands were taken, human rights groups said. Many were hauled 220 miles away, to the malaria-infected lowlands near Sudan.
After a week, Addis Ababa returned to a semblance of normalcy. Shops reopened — though only after the government had begun to revoke the licenses of businesses that remained closed. Parents wandered from police station to police station, trying to get information about their arrested children. The opposition leaders, Mesfin among them, were shown on TV shuffling, handcuffed and bent, toward a courtroom.
Suspicion simmered, as though the Mengistu era had returned. People in cafes shot furtive glances at neighboring tables.
“We feel betrayed by democracy,” said a journalist who said he has been in hiding since the Nov. 1 crackdown. “It’s as if the government encouraged us to speak our minds so that it would know who to grab when the time came.”
Yet many Ethiopians believe that the Western democracies could still help. The driver who took me to the airport, a friend from previous visits, had carefully avoided talking politics during my trip.
As we approached the terminal, he finally had his say. “The donor countries can twist Meles’s arm and make him compromise — release the prisoners, allow the newspapers to reopen,” he said about Zenawi. “That’s if they care about democracy as much as they say.”
Democracy had been the focus of the people’s disappointment — yet that disappointment had not killed their desire for it. Zenawi, undoubtedly, already knows this.
__________
Author’s e-mail:[email protected] Micha Odenheimer is a writer and rabbi based in Jerusalem.
A leader handpicked by Tony Blair to champion Africa has smashed his opponents with the biggest crackdown in the continent’s recent history, jailing 40,000 people including boys of 15.
Meles Zenawi, the Ethiopian prime minister and a member of Britain’s Commission for Africa, has launched a systematic onslaught against every possible adversary.
The entire leadership of Ethiopia’s main opposition party has been locked up. Mr Meles has closed five newspapers and jailed their editors, while police have killed about 80 demonstrators.
Paramilitary units have killed people arbitrarily and thousands have been detained at random.
This operation had thwarted “an insurrection”, Mr Meles said.
A crackdown on this scale has not been seen in Africa for 20 years and the repression exceeds anything by President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe for the past decade at least.
Apartheid-era South Africa’s onslaught against the black townships in the 1980s provides the only recent comparison. Ethiopia sank into crisis after a general election in May. The opposition said the polls were rigged and called mass protests in the capital, Addis Ababa.
Demonstrators gathered in huge numbers in June and again last month. On both occasions the security forces opened fire with live rounds. A handful of protesters were armed and shot at police. But most were unarmed and western diplomats dismissed Mr Meles’s claim that a violent “revolution” was unfolding.
Instead, repression has followed November’s demonstrations. Twenty-three leaders of the opposition Coalition for Unity and Democracy (CUD), including Hailu Shawal, its chairman, will be formally charged with treason today. The CUD holds all 23 of Addis Ababa’s parliamentary seats and its most junior figures have not been spared.
Police came for Teshome Legesse, a CUD city councillor, as he was having lunch with his family on Nov 1.
When they beat him with rifle butts, his wife, Etenesh Yimmam, 46, became hysterical. They beat her with sticks, then one of the police shot her twice.
The man who killed Mrs Etenesh received a shouted order from another officer: “Just do it.” At that moment, he fired again, apparently aiming at the woman’s son, bent over her body. He missed and wounded one of the family’s neighbours. Then two officers fired in the air, dispersing the crowd, and the police left in a pick-up, taking the dead woman’s husband.
Arrests were taking place across Addis Ababa. The city’s jail overflowed and prisoners were held in its compound. As that became crammed, detainees were held in the National Exhibition Centre. Even that overflowed, so government offices were used as temporary prisons.
Detainees were beaten, stripped of their shoes then driven to an old military camp at Dedesa, 250 miles west of Addis Ababa. There they survive in disused barracks on daily rations of four slices of bread.
Western diplomats have reports of executions at Dedesa and of a body being hung on the camp’s gates. The best estimate for the total detained is 40,000.
Most were held for a few weeks. But Mr Meles said on Tuesday that 3,000 were still in detention.
Last year Britain gave Ethiopia £44 million of aid, of which £30 million went directly into the government’s coffers. This year £50 million has been withheld.
Mesfin Abebe, 15, an orphan who begs on the streets, was arrested, beaten and held at Dedesa for 15 days. “They did not choose who they were arresting,” he said. “They just grabbed boys from the street.”
