When war with Ethiopia started anew, a generation of Eritreans realised they'd spent most of their life fighting for a cause and seen it triumph, only to watch another conflict emerge

An African hero died last month. You won't have heard of him, but his name never failed to register with his fellow countrymen. I missed the funeral, but I have no doubt that there were hundreds of ululating mourners to send him on his way, for in many ways he personified an extraordinary, battle-scarred nation.

We met by pure chance on my first trip to Eritrea, eight years ago. I'd been assigned to research a Financial Times survey of Africa's newest nation, which had won independence from Ethiopia in 1993 after a bitter, 30-year war of secession.

The new yellow taxi that picked me up outside the airport terminal, still under construction, was driven by a dark-skinned, pock-marked Eritrean in his fifties. He had none of the taxi driver's chattiness, but his air of quiet efficiency was reassuring. Having established that we could understand one another, whether in basic English or shaky Italian, we agreed to work together the following day. "What's your name?" "Just call me Haraka."

Haraka - "the Movement". That he had a nickname hinted at a colourful history. Nicknames were a characteristic of the tegadelti, the men and women who had spent decades crouched in mountain trenches, fighting the Ethiopian army. Snappy, easy-to-remember nicknames made it harder for Ethiopia's occupying authorities to track down and punish the families of those who had joined the rebel movements.

As the days went by, I began to register that Haraka was no ordinary taxi driver. The government ministers I was due to interview would stride past me, face alight, to give Haraka the Eritrean warrior's greeting: shoulder knocking against shoulder. Our progress along Asmara's Liberation Avenue was accompanied by a chorus of friendly hoots and waves from passing cars and pedestrians. Once, we narrowly avoided an accident when another ex-fighter spotted Haraka and nearly swerved off the road in excitement. I had lucked out, teaming up with a VIP who had admirers in every office in the country.

"Do you know who your driver is?" asked one official, taking me aside. "He is our oldest, most respected ex-fighter."

It was a good thing that others briefed me, because Haraka never let on. He had that quintessential Eritrean characteristic - discretion - in spades. The rebel movement had taught its members to put the group first, the individual last. He never boasted of past exploits. Any comments on current affairs were usually restricted to a laconic grunt.

Sometimes Eritreans would shake their heads when Haraka's name came up, tut-tutting over such a man driving a taxi. Once, at his home, I spotted an old group photo. On one side of the young Haraka stood a tall youth I recognised as Isaias Afewerki, now the president of Eritrea. Most of the others were now ministers. But I never heard him suggest he deserved better. One sensed that he had worked out what he was good at, and knew it did not extend to the manoeuvrings and backbiting of politics.

We kept contact through the years. He did not own a telephone, but I could be sure that within a few days of my arrival, a taxi would pull up alongside and Haraka would be at the wheel. Like many of the other demobilised fighters, he was in a hurry to make up for lost time, remarrying and starting a new family. It was a dream of normality that was shattered in 1998, when Eritrea and Ethiopia went back to war over a border dispute and the country was plunged into economic crisis.

Returning to Eritrea last month, I paced around the Italian-built cathedral where Haraka normally parked. No Haraka. I wandered through Asmara's bustling markets, surveying every taxi that passed. Still no Haraka. In the end, I approached one of the taxi drivers, another former tegadalai. Haraka was sick, he said.

I had hoped to find him recuperating in bed. Instead, I was ushered into the intensive-care unit of a government hospital where Haraka lay comatose, an oxygen mask over his face, breathing in a shallow, fitful way that filled me with dread. My taxi-man guide felt as shocked as I did.

"E troppo stanco," he muttered as we tiptoed out: "He's tired, too tired."

He died the day after I flew out. He had spent most of his life fighting for a seemingly doomed cause, had lived long enough to see it triumph, only to watch a new conflict make his generation's sacrifices appear to have been in vain.

I remember a trip we once made to Massawa, when we stopped on the winding road down the mountain to stretch our legs. Haraka had seemed in sombre mood. "Those years at the front, they were really hard," he said, and I knew this was the most sweeping of understatements. I guessed he was thinking of all the friends who had died hoping a new generation would never have to endure such suffering itself. He shrugged. "Maybe now it is up to our young people to make peace."

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website