Eritrea: One country – two realities | Reportage
Part I, II&III
Journalist
Martin Schibbey
Fotograf
Johan Persson
August 23, 2016
Background: Eritrea is one of the world’s most secretive nations and has been closed to foreign journalists for a long time. During the past year, Blankspot’s Martin Schibbye has followed the pro-Eritrean groups and here he reports, in the first of a three part series, from the border of Eritrea and Ethiopia, not far from where he himself was imprisoned for 438 days from 2011 to 2012 during a reportage trip. An investigative report on oil transformed into a story about ink and Freedom of the Press as they fought for survival inside the notorious Kality prison in Addis Ababa. Martin Schibbye and Johan Persson were pardoned and released—after 438 days—on September 10, 2012. Now they return to the region, in search of answers…
PART 1: The Border—April 2016
The four-wheel drive Toyota bumps and jerks over the rocks. In the distance, camels move along. The strong smell of gasoline burns in the nostrils, sand crunching between teeth. Amanuel Hadgu, our escort from the Eritrean Ministry of Information. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, laughs easily and appreciates leaving his office to get out in the field.
Between his legs he holds a camera to document our visit at the border. His forehead is already shiny with sweat.
We pass a sign warning of land mines.
”Over there is Ethiopia,” he says and points toward a hill over by the horizon. ”I’m sure they’ve missed you.”
Next to me in the backseat is Johan Persson, the photographer who was jailed with me in Ethiopia for more than a year between 2011 and 2012. The landscape surrounding us is unforgiving and I recognize it all too well. My body remembers the heat, the sand, the smell of gunpowder and the taste of blood. A half-empty water bottle rolls around on the floor boards of the Toyota. The sound is familiar.
They say the desert raises you by taking.
As long as I focus on this project, this reportage trip, I’m calm. If I zoom out and see myself as a small speck traveling toward the Horn of Africa, toward a country that views me as a convicted terrorist, my mouth goes dry and I start sweating.
Of all the countries in the world, why am I back here?
My motivation is rooted in journalistic principals. The as-yet unsolved border conflict between Ethiopia and Eritrea is an important question to the future of the country celebrating 25 years as an independent nation this year.
Most of what us Swedes and Europeans read about in terms of Eritrea has to do with the imprisoned journalist Dawit Isaak, who’s been in prison for 15 years this September. The fact that Ethiopia occupies parts of Eritrea is largely unknown.
And just like a tongue that is constantly touching, feeling the aching tooth, I want to be back here, on the border of possibilities.
We speed past water pumps and houses of dried clay. The road ahead of us is empty with the exception of some children playing and a goat or two. The dust, which now has infiltrated my shirt, is starting to feel like sand paper in my perspiration.
I pull out a map and unfold it in the back seat. My fingers travel across names from Asmara to Mendefera and Adi Quala toward the south and I try to measure the distance with a compass as the car moves along the bumpy road.
I am guessing that we are about nine kilometers from Ethiopia. A tank’s firing range is ten.
Our fear and anxiety are good things. They keeps us alert. Stop us from getting soft and losing our edge.
”Maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” says Johan as if reading my thoughts.
This is our first reporting trip together since our time in prison. We had said that it would be fun to succeed with a project together some time, but I procrastinated for a long time before calling him about this trip. Finally I realized that if I was going to do this, it had to be with him. Our working relationship is a little rusty, but we’re starting to feel like a team again. With every moment closing in on the border, a kind of survival mode kicks in, a mode where everything inessential is left behind.
Ahead of us, the desert is spreading its vastness and we know all too well that here, there is no room for bickering.
The Toyota is moving erratically between boulders and thorny bushes. We get a visual of the mountainous border between Eritrea and Ethiopia.
The road to the border post is made for tanks or camels—not cars. Rock after rock slams against the chassis and we are jerked around in our seats. The smell of gasoline induces a headache.
I hold the map in a cramped grip. It’s gotten moist from my sweaty palms and I think I should have laminated it.
Suddenly we are close enough to discern the many trenches snaking around the mountainside. Men dressed in camouflage look at us curiously.
We drive up on a mountain, around us the view of a flat desert is endless in all geographic directions.
”You’ve got 10 minutes, then we have to leave,” says Hadgu opening the door to the backseat.
The wind whips my hair and I take a deep breath. On the other side of the valley is Ethiopia. Suddenly Johan’s phone pings with an incoming text message. The Eritrean network blocks all foreign phones—it can only mean one thing. We’ve picked up the Ethiopian cellular network.
”Damn, turn it on flight mode!” I yell.
”Yeah, yeah,” Johan mutters...................................
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