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10Journalists on the Frontline of Human Rights DefenceWe were almost crossing the border when suddenly we realised we had blundered into anEritrean patrol agents. The border guards shouted, “Who’s there?”, and did not even wait for ourresponse to start shooting in our direction. The space between the zealous guards and us was sosmall that we had only a split second to react. We did the best we could to escape the sure-deathand torture capture by those guards whom we knew to follow any order from the top to the letter,and even beyond.We run in different directions. Aaron Berhane successfully escaped the ordeal, and after a long andtreacherous journey he safely entered Sudan. Unfortunately for me, I had no chance as it was methey had chosen to follow. Four of them shouted at me to stop, pointing their guns. It was hopelessand so I gave myself up. They asked me whether I had a weapon of any kind. I said no. Then theygrabbed me and ordered me to take off my shoes. They then frisked me and took all the money andother things I had on me.Then they started beating me. Everything rained on me; kicks, punches, and head butting. Bare footand both my hands tied behind my back, they walked me back to Girmayka. There, they tied myhands and my legs until they touched my back behind me and threw me on the ground under thenight stars with nothing under my body or on me that could have protected me from the desert chill.I spent all night like this.The next day, at around sun set, they took me to a camp called ‘Haddish Me-asker’. Once there, therope that was used to tie my hands was replaced by a proper shackle. Moreover, the verbal abuseand incessant threats on my life became an endless daily ration. One of the frequent insults thatterrorised and upset me was the word “zumbul”.That was the favourite insult of one of the authorities of that zone known by ‘Sirnai’. Day in dayout, he would call me ‘zumbul!’ He would interrogate me by asking questions like, how we startedout as a private paper, who was behind the initiative, who we were meeting when we were doingthis and this was always punctuated by threats to my life.The word “zumbul” came into existence in EPLF during the 1970s and 1980s and was usedderogatorily against those who are believed to have democratic and liberal tendencies. In thosedays, once you were labelled by that word, you were no longer taken seriously or were excommunicatedby your fellow fighters. And you became more likely to end up in one of the Front’ssecret prisons, probably never to come back again. It was this deep understanding of theconnotation of the word that made my blood run cold whenever it was used at me. Like manyothers before and after independence of Eritrea, I was afraid for my life. I was beginning to wonderwhether this was the last chapter of my chequered life, to die without a witness and withoutsomeone to tell my end of the story.When I first came to the Hadish-Me-asker camp, there was not much of a prison facility as such.But then, they hurriedly set up several underground ‘Shellas’ the size of a single-bed complete withre-enforced lock. I was put in one of them and started the painful punishment of solitaryconfinement for months to come. The room was always dark, my hands always shackled andalways bare-foot. I was not allowed to get close to any of the other prisoners whenever I was let outof my room to use the toilet or to eat.The food was always watery lentils and nothing else. If you refused to eat, they would take you outinto the sun scorched sand and they would subject you to a whole host of physical punishment tothe edge despair. Given the prevalence of many contagious diseases like diarrhoea among theprisoners, the medical facility was negligible.At one point during my solitary confinement, they put interrogative questions in writing and I wasordered to answer them in writing. That day, they untied my hands and provided me with a pen andpaper. While answering the questions, I was closely watched by a fully armed guard. Some of the
Conference Report: Resources and Proceedings 11questions were:• How did you start private journalism?• Where did you get the money?• Who supported you in terms of ideas and other things?• What were the weaknesses and mistakes of all the private newspapers?• Do you have any advice to the Government about the handling of the private newpapers?…etc.My answers to those questions were as follows: First, as to how we started and where we got themoney from, I wrote, when we started our private paper, there was no one person or organisationwho offered support of any kind. I explained, very clearly, that we used the money we were givenby the Government when we were de-mobilised to establish ourselves into society, for setting upthe paper.As to the weaknesses and mistakes made by all private papers, I only mentioned one about missingletters in print. And I wrote over the course of time, that this was beginning to improve. In the lastquestion concerning my views of the Government in relation to the private press, I re-iterated thatthe existence of free press was crucial to the development and progress of a nation. And I expressedthat the absence of free press would impact on Eritrea negatively, particularly in its diplomaticefforts with the world community.In the camp of Haddish Me-asker, the prisoner did not have any access to legal representation andthere was no one who was brought to the court of justice. As a result, it was not in my expectationthat my case would be handled differently. However, the worst thing of all was that I was notallowed to write or receive a letter to and from your loved ones or friends. Paper and pen is strictlyprohibited in the camp and there was a dire consequences for any prisoner if found with thoseitems. I was not allowed to read either. In short, I was left only with my thoughts in the dark withnothing to distract me from my ordeal.It was an unimaginable thing to be visited by your family and relatives.After eight months in Haddish-Me-asker, I was bundled with one hundred others on an N3 truck tobe transferred to a prison known as Track-B, found on the western outskirts of the capital cityAsmara .In the track we were set in pairs so that one’s left hand was chained to the right hand of theother. In case of accident, it is not difficult to visualize the consequences of such arrangement. Butsafety was not the priority.On the morning of 9 th January 2003 I was released.That morning, I was taken to the so-called ‘Discipline Control Office’ in Beleza, not far away formAsmara. There, they told me that I had completed my punishment and sent me home. For the firsttime in a year, I walked along the Beleza ridge enjoying the fresh air coming from eastern lowlands,before I went home. Soon after my release, I was forcibly conscripted in the Ministry of DefenseForce without any salary and without any specific task to do. I repeatedly asked the authorities formy salary and to be transferred to the Ministry of Justice, which was compatible to myqualification, but all was to no avail, and in fact it was unrealistic given the fact I was still closelywatched and followed by the security members. Knowing this, I tried my best not to give them anexcuse, limiting my movements and my interactions with others. Despite this, I had never stoppedthinking of sneaking out of the country for the second time round whatever the consequences. I wasbidding my time. Then on September 2004 I crossed the border successfully and entered the Sudan.In Khartoum I breathed air of freedom and safety. From then on, I was never alone. In the one yearof my stay in the Sudan before I left for Sweden at the end of 2005 through the UNHCR, I receivedlots of support from Elsa Chyrum, Aaron Berhane and others, for which my gratitude abounds. Ihave never met Elsa in person, but despite this, I have been lucky enough to be a recipient of her
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