The Soccer War Page 19

  Ogaden is a great semi-desert, a gigantic frying pan in which the sun-scorched air sizzles all day long and the principal human exertion involves the search for shade and a breeze. To find shade is to hit the winning number in the lottery. To find a breeze is to know the taste of joy. To last out a whole day in the sun there seems like a task beyond the strength of man, and in earlier days the most ingenious forms of torture included stripping a white person naked and leaving him alone with the sun.

  The total surface area of Ogaden (Ethiopian and Somali combined) is equal to that of Poland. This territory can boast of one more or less tolerable road—which is, nevertheless, too demanding for passenger cars. That road is suitable only for all-terrain vehicles, desert trucks and tanks. There is also one river: the Wabe Shebele Wenz, full of dangerous and voracious crocodiles. Anyone who controls that road and that river can call himself the lord of Ogaden.

  The night watch returns at dawn and the day patrols set out into the desert. The officer says that the border is near and that Somalia could attack at any moment. He doubts that they would mount a frontal attack, with the whole army, because the terrain is too rough to wage a regular war. Most often, they send in loose units of soldiers made out to look like partisans. If there are only a few, he regards the situation as normal. If there are many, he regards it as war. Here, the front is always and everywhere.

  I ask if these units could overrun a settlement like Gode or K’ebri Dehar.

  No, he says—there are strong army garrisons in the settlements, there are tanks and artillery, and the partisan units have to be small because otherwise they would have trouble transporting water. They can attack tiny villages or vehicles on the road, nothing more.

  I ask if he remembers the last war.

  He says that he does. I also remember. It was 1964. I was in Somalia then. I was sitting in Hargeisa, with no way of reaching Mogadishu. The only stately building in all Hargeisa was the former residence of the British governors. Hargeisa became a large city in the dry season—it had water, which the nomads with their flocks were always chasing. In the spring, when the pastures started to turn green, the city emptied out and turned into a third-class desert stopping-place. Life concentrated around the only petrol station in town. You could get tea there and listen to the radio. From truck drivers passing through—a rare sight—you could find out what was going on in the rest of the country, as well as in the outside world: in Djibouti and Aden. I went there every day, hoping to encounter a truck that would take me to Mogadishu. For a week the road was empty and nobody appeared. Finally, suddenly, a column of twenty new Land-Rovers emerged out of a cloud of dust. They were driving from Berbera to Mogadishu. I asked the drivers to take me. We drove for five days across an appalling desert, through a dead no-man’s land, in clouds of dust that billowed not only behind the vehicles, but also from underneath them, so that the drivers lost all visibility. They did not drive single file, but in a row, across a fiery plain without roads, without people. You could see only your nearest neighbours on the left side and on the right; everything else had vanished into the clouds of dust.

  I did not see water for five days. Our only drink, or indeed nourishment, was tart, bitter camel’s milk. We acquired that milk from nomads we met along the route. They appeared suddenly out of nowhere. They were wandering with their flocks of camels, goats and sheep in search of pastures and wells.

  The terrain that we were driving across was the border of Somalia and Ethiopia, the heart of the Ogaden. Since instead of marked roads there were only lonely rocks and solitary acacias there for the drivers to take bearings from, I asked them exactly which country we were in. They did not know with certainty. That means that, in their opinion, we were in Somalia, since they believed that their country covered the whole desert. Nevertheless, they drove the whole time in anxiety and tension, fearing that we could improvidently stray into the depths of Ethiopia and end up in enemy hands. From time to time we came across fresh signs of the continuing war: burned and devastated settlements, human and animal skeletons picked clean by vultures and scattered around poisoned wells. Whose settlements were they? Ethiopian or Somali? I could not tell. With the wells poisoned, there was no sign of life. The drivers swore vengeance against the Ethiopians, called the Prophet as their witness, and cursed the Emperor in the vilest of words. I rode with my heart in my mouth, dreading an Ethiopian ambush, because our fate could be dreadful. Again we passed abandoned settlements of thatched mud huts, smashed, testifying to fierce, ludicrous fighting. Once, we slept in such a place. At night the hyenas moved in, smelled carrion and raised their mad sneering laughter.

  Nevertheless, when Marcos asked me if this was my first time in the Ogaden, I answered that yes, it was my first time. It would not have been pleasant for him to hear that I had seen that war through the eyes of the Somali drivers. That I had trembled in fear of the Ethiopian army. That I had dreamed of our convoy having a Somali army escort. And now everything had turned around. Now I feared that the Somalis would attack our camp. I had nothing against either nation, but circumstances had forced me to take sides in that conflict—first one side and now the other.

  We went to where the Somali tents stood. Getahun called a meeting of the council of elders. Four of them came. I started asking them how old they were. The oldest was thirty-four. The unfavourable, indeed hostile, land did not permit them a long life. They said that the year consists of the rainy season, called gu, and the dry season—jilal. Rain is the sweetness of life. The earth covers itself with grass and the wells fill with water. That is the time for marriages, when the strength comes out in men and a desire for everything awakens in women. But gu ends quickly and jilal sets in. The sun burns the grass and dries up the wells. Then they have to roll up their tents and set out seeking pasture and water. The season of dangers and wars follows, since the pasture is scant and cannot accommodate all the herds. If some clan wants to occupy a pasture, it must wage war for it. People die so that the livestock can live. Similar wars are fought over wells, since there is too little water to divide among everyone.

  Around every well, the ground is full of human bones.

  In search of water and pasture, they cross the endless space of the Ogaden. They are always on the road. Because of this imperative to move, the Somali owns nothing aside from his shirt and his gun. There is the Somali, and there is his flock. His wife owns a tent, a tea-kettle, and a pot. They do not accumulate any inanimate objects, which would only be a burden. After all, the chances of survival depend on who reaches the pasture and the wells first. Therefore, their desires run in a direction contrary to the ideals and ambitions of people in the industrialized world. There, people walk through life gathering a thousand things; the Somali discards everything at the side of the road as he walks.

  He walks proud, slender, tall, humming verses of the Koran.

  In these wanderings he acknowledges no borders; for him the world is not divided into states, but into places where there is water, and therefore life, and places where there is drought, and therefore death. They say that there has been no gu for several years, that an eternal jilal has prevailed. Everything has changed. For a time they wandered as before, but they found water more and more rarely. The desert grew larger, became enormous, had no boundaries. First the sheep fell, and later the goats. Then the children began to die, and later the asses fell. Next, the women died. Anyone who comes across a tea-kettle or a pot while walking will find the remains of the woman nearby. Next, the camels fell. They—these four thirty-year-old elders—kept going. Or rather, at the beginning there were more than a dozen of them, but the others gradually dropped away, dying of thirst and exhaustion. These four, as well, finally ran out of strength.

  They lay in the sun unable to take a single step; one of them sat on a stone.

  The one who was sitting up noticed the distant Land-Rover in which people drove around the desert searching for dying Somalis. That was how they found themselves in the camp, where they
stealthily hoarded corn so that they could buy camels and return to their world.

  Marcos brought word yesterday that a tank truck is going to try to get through to Dire Dawa: 900 kilometres, three days on the road. But the next airplane might not come for two months and there is no other chance to get out of here. It is hazardous since the partisans are mining the roads and getting yourself blown up is easy. We could also run into an ambush, in which case they would either kidnap us or kill us. The discussion lasts all night, since departure is at dawn and we have to decide. The tank truck has to get to Dire Dawa to bring back fuel, which is running low in Gode. Fuel for the pumps that draw water out of the river and into the corn fields. If the pumps stop, the corn will wither and hunger will return. If the tank truck is blown up, then the death that the four elders avoided will catch up with them here.

  The officer asks if we are afraid to go.

  We are afraid, but what can we do? If only there were a truck full of soldiers. But the soldiers sit in their bases and only move when they have to.

  On the other hand, it is better to go without an escort. We are innocent people, on our way to get fuel that is needed to save your Somali brothers.

  Yes, but if we hit a mine the whole argument becomes pointless.

  At dawn, we drive to the nearby settlement to look for the tank truck. The driver is asleep under his vehicle; we wake him. At that hour, it is even cold.

  We set out jammed into the cab, jolting over the rocks and stones at a speed of ten kilometres per hour. Day breaks and the sun shines into our faces.

  DISPATCHES

  The fire stood between us and linked us together. A boy added wood and the flames rose higher, illuminating our faces.

  ‘What is the name of your country?’

  ‘Poland.’

  Poland was far away, beyond the Sahara, beyond the sea, to the north and the east. The Nana repeated the name aloud. ‘Is that how it is pronounced?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s the way,’ I answered. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘They have snow there,’ Kwesi said. Kwesi worked in town. Once, at the cinema, there was a movie with snow. The children applauded and cried merrily, ‘Anko! Anko!’ asking to see the snow again. The white puffs fell and fell. Those are lucky countries, Kwesi said. They do not need to grow cotton; the cotton falls from the sky. They call it snow and walk on it and even throw it into the river.

  We were stuck here by this fire by chance—three of us, my friend Kofi from Accra, a driver and I. Night had already fallen when the tyre blew—the third tyre, rotten luck. It happened on a side road, in the bush, near the village of Mpango in Ghana. Too dark to fix it. You have no idea how dark the night can be. You can stick out your hand and not see it. They have nights like that. We walked into the village.

  The Nana received us. There is a Nana in every village, because Nana means boss, head man, a sort of mayor but with more authority. If you want to get married back home in your village, the mayor cannot stop you, but the Nana can. He has a Council of Elders, who meet and govern and ponder disputes. Once upon a time the Nana was a god. But now there is the independent government in Accra. The government passes laws and the Nana has to execute them. A Nana who does not carry them out is acting like a feudal lord and must be got rid of. The government is trying to make all Nanas join the party.

  The Nana from Mpango was skinny and bald, with thin Sudanese lips. My friend Kofi introduced us. He explained where I was from and that they were to treat me as a friend.

  ‘I know him,’ my friend Kofi said. ‘He’s an African.’

  That is the highest compliment that can be paid a European. It opens every door for him.

  The Nana smiled and shook hands. You always greet a Nana by pressing his right hand between both of your own palms. This shows respect. He sat us down by the fire, where the elders had just been holding a meeting. The bonfire was in the middle of the village, and to the left and right, along the road, there were other fires. As many fires as huts. Perhaps twenty. We could see the fires and the figures of the women and the men and the silhouettes of the clay huts—they were all visible against a night so dark and deep that it felt heavy like a weight.

  The bush had disappeared, even though the bush was everywhere. It began a hundred metres away, immobile, massive, a tightly packed, coarse thicket surrounding the village and us and the fire. The bush screamed and cried and crackled; it was alive; it smelled of wilted green; it was terrifying and tempting; you knew that you could touch it and be wounded and die, but tonight, this night, you couldn’t even see it.

  Poland.

  They did not know of any such country.

  The elders looked at me with uncertainty, possibly suspicion. I wanted to break their mistrust somehow. I did not know how and I was tired.

  ‘Where are your colonies?’ the Nana asked.

  My eyes were drooping, but I became alert. People often asked that question. Kofi had asked it first, long ago, and my answer was a revelation to him. From then on he was always ready for the question with a little speech prepared, illustrating its absurdity.

  Kofi answered: ‘They don’t have colonies, Nana. Not all white countries have colonies. Not all whites are colonialists. You have to understand that whites often colonize whites.’

  The elders shuddered and smacked their lips. They were surprised. Once I would have been surprised that they were surprised. But not any more. I can’t bear that language, that language of white, black and yellow. The language of race is disgusting.

  Kofi explained: ‘For a hundred years they taught us that the white is somebody greater, super, extra. They had their clubs, their swimming pools, their neighbourhoods, their whores, their cars and their burbling language. We knew that England was the only country in the world, that God was English, that only the English travelled around the globe. We knew exactly as much as they wanted us to know. Now it’s hard to change.’

  Kofi and I stuck up for each other; we no longer spoke about the subject of skin, but here, among new faces, the subject had to come up.

  One of the elders asked, ‘Are all the women in your country white?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Are they beautiful?’

  ‘They’re very beautiful,’ I answered.

  ‘Do you know what he told me, Nana?’ Kofi interjected. ‘That during their summer, the women take off their clothes and lie in the sun to get black skin. The ones that become dark are proud of it, and others admire them for being as tanned as blacks.’

  Very good Kofi, you got them. The elders’ eyes lit up at the thought of those bodies darkening in the sun, because, you know how it is, boys are the same all over the world: they like that sort of thing. The elders rubbed their hands together, smiled; women’s bodies in the sun; they snuggled up inside their loose kente robes that looked like Roman togas.

  ‘My country has no colonies,’ I said after a time, ‘and there was a time when my country was a colony. I respect what you’ve suffered, but, we too, have suffered horrible things: there were streetcars, restaurants, districts nur für Deutsch. There were camps, war, executions. You don’t know camps, war and executions. That was what we called fascism. It’s the worst colonialism.’

  They listened, frowning, and closed their eyes. Strange things had been said, which they needed time to take in.

  ‘Tell me, what does a streetcar look like?’

  The concrete is important. Perhaps there was not enough room. No, it had nothing to do with room; it was contempt. One person stepping on another. Not only Africa is a cursed land. Every land can be like it—Europe, America, any place. The world depends on people, needs to step on them.

  ‘But Nana, we were free afterwards. We built cities and ran lights into the villages. Those who couldn’t read were taught how to read.’

  The Nana stood up and grasped my hand. The rest of the elders did the same. We had become friends, przyjaciele, amigos.

  I wanted to eat.

  I cou
ld smell meat in the air. I could smell a smell that was not of the jungle or of palm or of coconuts; it was the smell of a kielbasa, the kind you could get for 11.60 zlotys at that inn in the Mazury. And a large beer.

  Instead we ate goat.

  Poland … snow falling, women in the sun, no colonies. There had been a war; there were homes to build; somebody teaching somebody to read.

  I had told them something, I rationalized. It was too late to go into details. I wanted to go to sleep. We were leaving at dawn; a lecture was impossible. Anyway, they had worries of their own.

  Suddenly I felt shame, a sense of having missed the mark. It was not my country I had described. Snow and the lack of colonies—that’s accurate enough, but it is not what we know or what we carry around within ourselves: nothing of our pride, of our life, nothing of what we breathe.

  Snow—that’s the truth, Nana. Snow is marvellous. And it’s terrible. It sets you free with your skis in the mountains and it kills the drunkard lying by the fence. Snow, because in January, January 1945, the January offensive, there were ashes, ashes everywhere: Warsaw, Wroclaw, and Szczecin. And bricks, freezing hands, vodka and people laying bricks—this is where the bed will go and the wardrobe right here—people filing back into the centre of the city, and ice on the window panes, and no water, and those nights, the meetings till dawn, and angry discussions and later the fires of Silesia, and the blast furnaces, and the temperature—160 degrees centigrade—in August in front of the blast furnaces, our tropics, our Africa, black and hot. Oh, what a load of shit—What do you mean?—Oh, what a lovely little war—Shut up about the war! We want to live, to be happy, we want an apartment, a TV, no, first a motor-scooter—what air! No clouds, no turning back, if Herr Adenauer thinks, too many graves. A Pole can drink and a Pole can fight, why can’t we work? What if we never learn how? Our ships are on every sea, success in exports, success in boxing, youngsters in gloves, wet gloves pulling a tractor out of the mud, Nowa Huta, build, build, build, Tychy and Wizow, bright apartments, upward mobility, a cowherd yesterday and an engineer today—Do you call that an engineer? and the whole streetcar burst out laughing. Tell me: what does a streetcar look like? It’s very simple: four wheels, an electrical pick-up, enough, enough, it’s all a code, nothing but signs in the bush, in Mpango, and the key to the code is in my pocket.