Ethiopia and the Lion of Judah

During Ethiopia’s long history, its boundaries and centres of power repeatedly shifted. From Aksum in the far north of the country two millennia ago, with its imposing stele, to medieval Lalibela with its churches excavated out of the solid rock, and 16th century Gondar with its impressive palaces. The present-day capital of Addis Ababa is relatively new, dating only to the latter part of the 19th century. Nevertheless, in its monuments and museums, Addis Ababa offers ample history, both glorious and painful.

The Lion of Judah, Addis Ababa

Close to the city’s old railway station stands a statue of the Lion of Judah, commissioned for the coronation of Ethiopia’s last Emperor, Haile Selassie, in 1930. The Lion of Judah signifies the claimed Solomonic roots of the country’s imperial dynasty, going back to the fabled union of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. As an important symbol of the country, despite its royalist connection, even the communist Derg regime, which ruled from 1974 to 1991, decided to leave it in place. It had been removed to Rome following Italy’s occupation of Ethiopia in 1935. In 1938, a young Eritrean protested the occupation by wounding several people in front of the monument, before being shot by police. The statue was returned to Addis Ababa in the 1960s.

The most glorious event in Ethiopia’s modern history was the Battle of Adwa in 1896, when an Ethiopian army routed Italian invaders. As the only African country successfully to resist the carve up of the continent by European colonial powers, Ethiopia’s victory at Adwa was significant for the whole continent. The Italians had invaded Ethiopia from Eritrea, which they had already controlled for several years, in 1895, overrunning much of the country. However, running short of supplies, following a defeat at Ethiopian hands at the Battle of Amba Alagi in December, the Italians retreated to Adwa, close to the Eritrean border. Pressed by the Italian government to advance again, the Italian commander, General Oreste Baratieri, went on the offensive on 1 March 1896. The Italian forces, among them Eritrean colonial troops, were far outnumbered by their Ethiopian adversaries, the majority of whom were armed with modern rifles, as well as artillery pieces. Possessing inadequate maps, the Italians quickly became confused in the unfamiliar terrain, and were overwhelmed by the Ethiopians. By the afternoon, the Italians were in full retreat, losing around 6,000 dead and 1,500 wounded, as well as 3,000 taken prisoner out of their original force of nearly 18,000. The Ethiopians lost an estimated 4,000-5,000 dead and 8,000 wounded.

Cathedral of St George, Addis Ababa

Emperor Menelik II, who, expanding from the Kingdom of Shewa, united Ethiopia and defeated the Italians at Adwa, built the Cathedral of St George in the centre of Addis Ababa, to commemorate his victory. The banner of St George had been carried into battle at Adwa. Menelik’s statue, seated on a horse, stands in the square in front of the church. The Cathedral, echoing the traditional Ethiopian circular church, is octagonal, but constructed in stone. As with other traditional churches, inside a circular gallery encloses the inner sanctum. The iconography on the walls of the sanctuary is, however, quite unlike the traditional Ethiopian style, most of the paintings appearing more European, in some cases baroque. Most unusual of all, a series of paintings commemorates the resistance of Emperor Haile Selassie to the invasion of fascist Italy, and his speech to the League of Nations in 1936, protesting against the subjugation of his country and the use of chemical weapons by the invaders. My guide acknowledged that these paintings, with their political theme, were not usual in a place of worship.

The Battle of Adwa is also commemorated at the Addis Ababa Museum, housed in one of the capital’s earliest buildings, an elegant, partly wooden palace, once inhabited by Ethiopian royalty. The museum contains a wonderful collection of photographs of Addis Ababa’s history, including one of Menelik inspecting the first automobile to be imported into Ethiopia. Menelik was a keen moderniser, introducing electricity as well as the telephone to Addis Ababa, and initiating the building of the first railway. He also instituted the country’s first modern bank, a postal service, and a taxation system. And he imported the modern weaponry that proved so important at Adwa. There are also photographs of the Ethiopian victors of Adwa, including one of Dejazmach (general) Geneme and his followers, dressed in traditional costumes and magnificent headdresses, but armed with rifles. A painting depicting the battle shows St George on his steed, hovering above the battle, the colours of the Ethiopian flag surrounding him like a halo.

Dejazmach Geneme and his followers

Mussolini’s fascist Italy invaded the country again in 1935. Despite spirited Ethiopian resistance, which continued until 1937, this time the weight of Italy’s modern armaments, including air power and heavy artillery, as well as poisoned gas, was more than the Ethiopian army, lacking even radio communications, could withstand. The Italian occupation was traumatic for Ethiopia. The attempted assassination of Marshal Rudolfo Graziani in February 1937 was followed by a wholesale massacre in Addis Ababa of thousands of Ethiopians. The massacre is commemorated by the Yekatit 12 monument, referring to the date in the Ethiopian calendar, an obelisk adorned with the Lion of Judah. The Italian occupation was ended in 1941 by a British counter-offensive following the Italian invasion of British Somaliland, involving South African and Indian forces, as well as troops from other British possessions in eastern and southern Africa, and coordinated with the Ethiopian resistance. Photographs in the Addis Ababa museum show British troops celebrating in the city, and the restored Emperor Haile Selassie parading past an honour guard of Ethiopian and British troops.

Another poignant memorial to the Italian occupation stands in front of Ethnological museum, which had been the palace of Haile Selassie, and which now stands in the grounds of the main university campus. A set of stone steps spirals upwards, leading nowhere, one for each year of fascist rule at the time of the conquest of Ethiopia. But on the top step sits the Lion of Judah, signifying Ethiopia’s ultimate triumph and deliverance. Inside the museum, the bedchambers of the late Emperor and his wife, the Empress Menen Asfaw, are preserved. While I was there, an elderly Jamaican couple reverently took photographs of everything. Known as Ras Tafari Makonnen before he was crowned Emperor in 1930, Haile Selassie is revered by the Rastafarian movement. For the two Jamaicans, it appeared their visit was akin to a pilgrimage to a shrine. The Imperial couple are buried in the Holy trinity Cathedral in Addis Ababa. The Emperor was deposed by a group of army officers in 1974, amid his government’s faltering response to a famine in the north of the country. He died the following year, many believe at the hands of the communist Derg regime that replaced him.

Terror and Famine in Ethiopia

For anyone who can remember the 1980s, the tragedy of the Ethiopian famine was one of the most unforgettable episodes. It was something new and shocking to be confronted with human suffering on such a scale in our living rooms, on our TV screens. The disbelief of a horrified world was expressed by Bob Geldoff when he asked how could we stand by and watch this happen in the latter part of the 20th century? Well, he didn’t. The Live Aid concerts were iconic events of the age. The awfulness of the famine and the uplifting response of Live Aid helped change our consciousness of the world. The calamities of countries a continent away were immediate and present in our lives in a new way. In a globalising world, we could not sit back.

Yet visiting Ethiopia three and a half decades later, I was struck by how little I had actually known of those events, beyond the pitiable pictures of starving children on our TV screens. I had known practically nothing about the history or contemporary politics of Ethiopia. My understanding was warped by the stereotype of a poor African country, starving children with distended bellies, and dependence on the largesse of the rich world. It was a grossly distorted picture.

Ethiopia was, and still is, indeed a poor country. Droughts, famines and hunger were all too familiar. But the awfulness of the 1983-85 famine was amplified by the fact that it was to a considerable extent manmade. There was a drought, but its tragic effects were compounded by the actions of the Derg communist government that had seized power a decade earlier, in 1974. These included mismanaged land reform and the forced resettlement of people, in part in reaction to a rebel insurgency, especially in the north of the country. As with collectivisation in the Soviet Union in the 1930s and in Mao Zedong’s Great Leap Forward in China in the 1950s, ideology driven reforms and the callousness disregard of dictatorial regimes towards the sufferings of their own people led to the deaths on an enormous scale.

Mengistu, out for blood

Ethiopians had already experienced the brutality of the Derg regime. Its ruthless suppression of opponents, including rival Marxist groups, following its seizure of power is now known as the “Red Terror”. Thousands were rounded up, in many cases tortured, and slaughtered in mass executions. Most notably, the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP) carried out assassinations of Derg supporters. Rivals among the faction-riven Derg were also killed as Mengistu Haile Mariam established himself as the undisputed Derg leader. Organised squads of civilians carried out house-to-house searches, often using the cover of the Terror to pursue their own agendas.

I visited the Red Terror Martyr’s Memorial Museum in Addis Ababa. The museum is located on a corner of Meskel Square, at the time known as Revolution Square, where in 1977 Mengistu announced the escalation of the Terror, shouting “Death to counterrevolutionaries, death to the EPRP”, and dramatically smashing what appeared to be three bottles of blood on the ground. The museum contains a large photograph of the incident. It is a moving and shocking museum, with displays of torture instruments, letters and, around the walls, photographs of hundreds of victims, as well as the bones of some of them. It is an intense representation of the injustice and suffering, the pictures and personal effects of victims bringing home the individual grief behind the numbers. The museum was opened in 2010 by the mother of four sons, all killed in one day by the Derg.

The end of the Soviet Union’s support for Mengistu’s regime led to its downfall in 1991. Mengistu was granted asylum in Zimbabwe. Tried for his crimes, he was sentenced to life in prison for genocide in 2007, but Zimbabwe refused to extradite him. Yet despite the bloodshed and famine that disfigured the period of their rule, the Derg still have their supporters in Ethiopia.

I was surprised that a monument the Derg erected in central Addis Ababa, the “Our Struggle” monument, also known as the Derg monument, is still there. An obelisk crowned by a red five-pointed star, adorned with the hammer and sickle. Walls to the left and right of the obelisk feature reliefs depicting the revolutionaries as they wished to be seen, as saviours and heroes of their people. On one side, the last Emperor, Haile Selassie, who died in mysterious circumstances shortly after the Derg takeover (many suspect at their hands), is seen on horseback, ignoring his hungry, suffering people. The tableau moves on to the overthrow of the Emperor and the leader of the revolution, Mengistu, leading his people to a glorious future. The tableau on the other side of the obelisk is a classic Marxist depiction of happy, healthy workers and peasants guided by their leader to the brave new world. Young Ethiopians posed for selfies in front of the monument. The events that the monument and the Red Terror Museum marked in their very different ways took place before their births. What it meant to them, I could not guess.

A celebratory election in Libya

It was a day of celebration. Driving through the streets of Tripoli, we passed numerous checkpoints, some manned by official security forces, others by the revolutionary brigades, which have yet to be disbanded, incorporated into the military or brought under government control. Our driver, himself a former revolutionary who had been wounded in the struggle, flashed victory “V” signs and shouted “Allahu Akbar!”, and we were waved through. At the polling stations too, a festive atmosphere prevailed. Loudspeakers blared out chants of “Allahu Akbar!” Voters queued patiently and happily, some of the men punching the air in elation, with more cries of “Allahu Akbar!” One old man, almost overcome with emotion, told us in his broken English that he had last voted in 1964, in the time of King Idriss, and he was very happy to have the chance to vote again in his lifetime.

The voting and counting completed, there was an explosion of joy. A convoy of vehicles, security and international observers, accompanied the truck racing around the streets from polling centre to polling centre, picking up the packed and sealed ballot boxes. At each centre there was a party atmosphere, women dancing and ululating, men shouting with even greater vigour, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” It did not seem to matter so much who had won. That was of secondary importance. The victory was that an election had been held at all, the crowning achievement of the revolution that had toppled Muammar Gaddafi only a few months before. It takes a country that has experienced decades of dictatorship really to appreciate the value of holding an election, something of which people in the jaded, cynical west too often lose sight.

Gaddafi's ruined residence

There is a special atmosphere in a post-revolutionary country: fervour, optimism, belief. Things are different now, I heard again and again. Libyans are free. Free to mock the former ruler and his family openly; the bottled up taunts expressed in art and humour in the graffiti, some of it highly creative, that plastered the walls of the capital. Free to speak openly about the new would-be leaders competing in the elections. Women felt free as never before, determined to assert their rights, to play their part in the emerging new country. This was their chance. Forget stereotypes of the supposed conservatism of the Arab world. Libyans had fought for their rights, and through these elections they were determined to enshrine them. And women were not going to be left out.

Tripoli graffiti

But as in most revolutions there is also a downside, an underbelly of vengefulness against those accused of supporting the former regime. In some cases the vengefulness was collective, directed against whole towns, tribes or ethnic groups. Black African migrants from countries to the south, many of whom had lived and worked in Libya for years, accused en-masse of having been mercenaries for Gaddafi. And perhaps saddest of all, the people of Tawergha, also black, from a town close to the city of Misrata, heartland of the revolution’s most ardent supporters, and the most powerful of all the brigades to emerge from the revolution. The Misrata had driven the Tawergha from their homes, scattering them around Libya and abroad, hunting down Tawergha men, torturing and summarily executing them. They accused them collectively of supporting Gaddafi and of the most heinous crimes, including mass rape, so emotive in a traditional, patriarchal society. No matter that no hard evidence of mass crimes on such a scale has been forthcoming. I saw a young Libyan former revolutionary reduced to tears talking about the Tawergha, who in his eyes were guilty of the worst crimes of the Gaddafi regime. Another young Libyan praised Britain for the lack of racism he had found there. When I pointed out the rampant racism towards black Africans in Libya, he looked startled for a moment, and then “oh but Peter, that is different, let me explain why we hate them…”

For all the remarkable progress and extraordinary success of the first elections, Libya has yet to become a normal, stable country. The brigades remain far too powerful, even in Tripoli, where their anti-aircraft gun-mounted pick-ups still race around and break-neck speed, setting up roadblocks and sometimes fighting gun battles. Even in the capital their presence undermines the new authorities. In some other parts, the rule of law does not exist and the government’s writ does not run. Unless the Tawergha can be safe from their vigilante persecutors, the revolution will not have brought the freedom from oppression it aspired to. Holding an election might just have been the critical step in passing from revolutionary fervour and excess to a democratic, truly free Libya.

Muhammad Ali: the Albanian who ruled Egypt

Sitting atop Cairo’s citadel, the hill that had been fortified in the 12th Century by Saladin as a key highpoint dominating the city, is the large Alabaster Mosque. Apart from its commanding position, it stands out due to its architectural style, which differs significantly from the numerous older mosques around it. Commissioned in the first half of the 19th Century, the mosque’s architect was an Ottoman Turk. Its design, with its large central dome, surrounded by smaller domes, and thin, pointed minarets, consciously imitated that of the great mosques of Istanbul. Egypt had been under nominal Ottoman sovereignty since the 16th Century, but its Mamluk rulers had retained considerable autonomy, and continued to build mosques in their own style, quite distinct from that of the Ottomans.

The Alabaster Mosque, Cairo

The mosque was commissioned by Muhammad Ali Pasha, ruler of Egypt for most of the first half of the 19th Century, who is feted by some as the father of modern Egypt. And Muhammad Ali was Albanian. Under his rule, the beginnings of a modern state were built, and a modern army. At its height, he extended Egypt’s dominion to include Sudan, western Arabia and Syria, his armies marching even into Anatolia, where they inflicted a crushing defeat on the army of the Sultan in 1832. His power far outreached that of his nominal sovereign, and Istanbul itself lay at his feet before the European powers intervened to prevent the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.

How did an Albanian come to wield such power in a foreign land? Muhammad Ali was born in what is today Greek Macedonia. He went to Egypt as second-in-command of an Albanian contingent in the Ottoman army that was sent to restore Ottoman control in the power vacuum that followed the withdrawal of the French, who occupied the country from 1798-1801. By a mixture of military campaigning and deft political intrigue, Muhammad Ali established himself as the new Wali (Governor) of Egypt. Still nominally beholden to the Sultan, he was in practice an independent ruler, who founded a dynasty that reined until 1953, when Gamal Abdel Nasser declared a republic.

Muhammad Ali Pasha

Like many great rulers in the Middle East’s history, his strength was also bolstered by a capacity for ruthlessness and cruelty. Notably, early in his rule he eliminated the power of the Mamluks when he invited them to a festive celebration in Cairo, following which they were slaughtered. Standing on the citadel, with its hazy views across Cairo to the pyramids at Giza, you can see the spot where it happened, below the walls, in the narrow road leading down from the hill to the citadel gate. As they processed down to the gate, it was slammed shut by some of Muhammad Ali’s loyal Albanians, who then proceeded to kill them.

I found mixed feelings among the Egyptians I spoke to about Muhammad Ali. Some were prepared to acknowledge his importance for Egypt. For the taxi driver who brought me into the city from the airport, he was just one in a long succession of foreign rulers stretching back more than two millennia, before the takeover by Nasser, in his view the first truly Egyptian ruler since ancient times. Nasser was my driver’s hero. King Farouk, who was overthrown by Nasser’s revolution in 1952, he excoriated as a corrupt foreigner. The recently ousted Hosni Mubarak he considered even worse.

For many, Muhammad Ali was interested more in his personal aggrandisement than that of Egypt. Indeed, he milked Egypt for the funds needed for his reforms, and appropriated nearly all Egyptian land. And his foreignness was evident in more ways than the design of the mosque he commissioned. Throughout his rein, Turkish, not Arabic, was the official language of his court. And contemporaries who met him attested that, while he spoke Turkish competently, the only language he was really fluent in was Albanian. Yet his is a remarkable story. That an Albanian, a man from a small nation in what for many is an obscure corner of the Balkans, came to dominate and rule a large swathe of the Middle East, and laid the foundations of the modern Egyptian state.