IMAGES AND INTERVIEWS OF REFUGEES FROM OGADENA

IMAGES AND INTERVIEWS OF REFUGEES FROM OGADENÂ

by Britta Radike with Tobe Levin

A desiccated, little-known region in southeastern Ethiopia: this is Ogaden. Bordering on Somalia, it is populated mainly by Somali nomads. Ethiopian King Menelik II first captured the region in 1891, although the colonial powers of England, France, and Italy were equally avid to secure and expand possession in the Horn of Africa. Great Britain and the “Chiefs” in Ogaden signed a treaty in 1896 that guaranteed Ogaden’s sovereignty, but it became apparent rather quickly that England had no intention of honoring the agreement. In 1954, Britain simply decreed that Ogaden and its people would henceforth be a part of Ethiopia.
Enter Italy: following World War I, Italy decided to increase its efforts in the colonies and furthered this aim by capitalizing upon an incident in 1934 in Welwel, Ogaden, a city occupied by Italy but claimed by Ethiopia. Italy took the unrest as an excuse to declare war on Ethiopia (1935–1936).
During the 1950s and 1960s, Ethiopia appeared to the outside world to be a cradle of stability in an otherwise rapidly changing Africa. However, domestic tensions were brewing. The disproportionately high percentage of Amharic speakers within the administration led to uprisings and violent confrontations. As Somaliland gained independence from Italy and England, Ogaden continued to be ruled by a foreign power. Consequently, the people of Ogaden renewed their fight to free themselves from occupation.
1963 witnessed the launch of the Ogaden Liberation Front, which demanded retraction of taxation that caused nomads to lose their land and possessions. Independence would have assured a trouble-free border crossing into Somalia, allowing the herders needed access to traditional pastures and water. This desire for regional autonomy led, in August 1963, to the first Ogaden Rebellion, which ended, in December 1964, unsuccessfully: Ethiopian troops won back territorial control of Ogaden. During this war, sporadic fighting also broke out between Somalia and Ethiopia, thus reinforcing the public perception of the events as arising from a border conflict between the two countries. What followed in Ogaden was the formation of the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF), trained and financed by Somalia. The WSLF aimed to secure Somali self-determination by force of arms.


Photo © 2006 by Britta Radike

In 1977, Somalia waged the Ogaden War in order to wrest and annex from Ethiopia the area occupied by Somalis. Following early Somali victories, however, the Ethiopian army, aided by the Soviet Union and Cuba, won, acceding to power in 1978. Military and civilian opposition was brutally suppressed, and hundreds of thousands of Somalis fled.
After Somalia’s defeat, the struggle between Ogaden Somalis and Ethiopian government troops turned into guerilla warfare, culminating in the destruction of the WSLF fighters before they were able to achieve even their minimum goals. Perhaps due to the resulting vacuum, the Ogaden National Liberation Front (ONLF) was founded on August 15, 1984, offering independent leadership the opportunity to answer the call for self-determination, despite the fact that the Mengistu regime in Ethiopia persecuted anyone suspected of belonging to a liberation movement. This policy affected members of both the ONLF and the WSLF, but especially the political arm of the ONLF.
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Although regional elections in January 1992 saw the ONLF emerge as the strongest contender, the party remained unable to push through a constitutional referendum for Ogaden’s independence. The Ethiopian government feared the party’s influence in the region and dealt brutally with members and sympathizers of the ONLF. Hundreds were arrested and tortured; many were shot. As a result, new leadership formed in Ogaden. Coming together from another wing of the ONLF, they would make do without the referendum. The “old” ONLF membership, led by Sheik Ibrahim Abdallah, continued the fight underground.
Amnesty International Germany reported:
Given these events, individuals were detained who had nothing to do with politics. For instance, in November 1996, members of a Somali aid and development NGO were arrested. Aid projects are of great importance in this very poor country continually threatened with drought. But it looks very much as though the central government wants to hinder efforts by their own people because success might increase the aid group’s influence.
Many of these arrests took place with the collusion of a dysfunctional Ethiopian justice system. After the end of the Mengistu regime, all trained judges were dismissed, and the frequent retirement of judges continues to this day, ensuring a dearth of legal personnel and a large number of delayed cases, with suspects forced to remain in prison awaiting charges.
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Mohamed, 46, from K’ebrī Dahar in Ogaden (interviewed in the Ifo refugee camp in Kenya on January 4, 2006)
Britta Radike (BR): Mohamed, you’re from Ogaden. Can you give us a general rundown of the political background? Why are so many people attempting to flee?Mohamed: When I was born, in 1960, my family was already on the run. We haven’t stopped. Nor have we ever been happy. Just the opposite. Our lives are colonized by anxiety and fear. That part of your body that cradles joy—we don’t have it anymore. We’ve grown numb. I’m old and death is waiting for me. People in Ogaden wouldn’t be fleeing if only our basic rights were assured—the right to water, health, education, and commerce—although commerce is less important. We aren’t on the run because of hunger, or in search of a better life in a nation that’s not our own. In fact, we have a beautiful country and the best weather. No. We’re refugees because in Ogaden we have no peace.
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The Ethiopian army is wrongfully here. Ethiopia says the land is theirs, but I’ve never seen a single Ethiopian civilian in the area—only soldiers. As a boy, I herded sheep. I lived through the rule of Emperor Haile Selassie and, after that, Mengistu’s communists, followed later by the EPRDF [Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front] or Tigray regime. None could be called “humane.” The people have a slogan for the present government: “Kuwii hore kan kii kalaa ka siidaran [Each regime is worse than the one before].”
Today, the army—responsible for the crimes against us—is commanded by the EPRDF. It recruited from among former rebels. In the middle of the night, they suddenly surround innocent families of nomads and arrest them. Pretty girls are separated from the rest and taken away. If a man happens to be standing nearby, he’ll be asked if she’s his wife. If he says “yes,” he’ll be shackled on the spot and the woman raped right in front of him. They have no pity and no shame. It doesn’t even matter if she’s pregnant. They’ll rape her anyway.
You can’t let your goats and sheep run free, either. They confiscate your herds and kill as many animals as they happen to need at the time. They take camels, too, corral them and sell them later. To protest all of this, we have an organization, the Ogaden National Liberation Front [ONLF]. They couldn’t just stand there and let these crimes continue unopposed. But, no surprise, the regime uses the ONLF as an excuse for exacting revenge on civilians.
For instance, take what happens when girls or boys are guarding their animals. Government agents ask them to reveal the whereabouts of the bandits or gangs fighting against them. If youngsters say they don’t know, the soldiers call them liars and arrest them. They seize any strong man, take him away, and he’s never seen again. Many of the girls are raped and then detained so that they can be raped again. Or they’re lined up and raped, one after the other, right then and there by a pack of militiamen. And, once the girls are totally wiped out, their rapists laugh at them. They take batteries and try to see how many can fit in there. That’s something I witnessed, and it makes me sick every time I think about it. One time they accused a girl of giving water to the rebels. They leaned her up against a tree, tied her hands behind her back and, after ripping open her mouth, poured a teapot of boiling water down her throat. Her intestines came out the back. There are no words for suffering like that.
People wouldn’t be fleeing their homes just because they can’t get an education or because they lack health care. You can live with that. Killing people has simply become a habit with these soldiers. When they murder, rape, or rob, they’re not punished according to law. Instead, they’re rewarded or promoted. And because GI pay in Ogaden is very low, militiamen are instructed to take whatever they want. Each soldier gets to keep one-third of what he plunders, with the other two-thirds filling the military coffers. The only judge in Ogaden is a gun. The only lawyer is a gun. The prosecutor is a gun. And if you try to say anything about it, the gun gets you.
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There’s a Somali saying for this: “Naftu orod bay kugu Aamintaa [To rescue itself, the soul flees].” Still, the masses can’t flee, because they don’t know where to go. Now, the world isn’t totally ignorant of what goes on in it. Journalists file reports. I know because I sometimes listen to the radio. But, here, an entire family of nomads can be exterminated, and there’s not a peep. The globe is abuzz with talk about the war on terrorism. And it’s good to fight terrorism. But you have to ask: if the government murders, robs, and rapes, isn’t that terrorism? Our terrorists are the Ethiopian government, because they deprive us of the means to make a life. Who are the terrorists? The Ethiopian regime. They destroy what we need to live.
What we don’t know is why the world is doing nothing about it.
BR: You’re telling me that international media are not reporting on atrocities in Ogaden?Mohamed: No free press is allowed to enter Ogaden and file reports. Besides which, anyone talking to a journalist would be killed, so nobody talks. They’ve even forbidden us to listen to the radio. A few men heard about an ONLF member on the BBC. [The telephone interview took place toward the end of 2005, in Shilabo, according to the BBC Somali service.] The militia came and simply opened fire. When such things are going on, how can we give information to journalists?
BR: But even if journalists are prevented from filing stories, other human rights organizations can still react. What about Amnesty International and the International Red Cross?Mohamed: The Red Cross is there. And prisoners tell them how many have been arrested by the EPRDF. With this information, they go to the military, who then send someone to look at the prison. But these Red Cross visits are window dressing, prepared in advance with pre-selected inmates who testify that all those incarcerated have been released. Meanwhile, the rest of the prison population is hidden away in containers where they’re kept until the Red Cross leaves. And the Red Cross distributes papers to those they are allowed to see. But when these men are freed or escape, they throw the papers away for fear that the militia might find them. Immediately, they’d be locked up again. It’s a really sad business—impossible to describe in simple language or to give the full picture in interviews like this one. Still, the three main reasons why people are fleeing from Ogaden are the lack of security and freedom; the plunder of their possessions and land; and the inability to work in their own country, to farm or to run businesses. We’ve given up on getting any services in terms of education and health.
BR: Ogaden is composed of nine regions. How many hospitals do you think there are?Mohamed: That’s a good question, but you may as well ask it on the moon. I’ll try to clarify this with an example. Under Haile Selassie, a hospital was built, and before that, when the Italians had conquered Ethiopia, they built a hospital in K’ebrī Dahar. The Italians also built fountains, a high school and an airport, but all these belong to the military now. The hospitals you’re thinking of, we gave up hope years ago of ever seeing them.
BR: Do you have schools in Ogaden?Mohamed: The situation on the ground is very different from the official picture of it. The government announces that it’s going to build a school for us, but it doesn’t. In the major city Jijiga, there’s one high school for the entire Ogaden region. We have a couple of primary schools, but they were set up by the previous regime. Diaspora Somalis who left in 1977 during the first Ogaden war would have been able to build schools, and could even have taught in them. But they’re afraid of the bullets. When this regime took power, it tried to show its good side by constructing a college in Shaygoosh. Presently, birds are building nests on the construction site; there are no students and no teachers. In fact, the school was never up and running. The regime simply doesn’t want people to get an education, to receive proper medical care or clean drinking water. Passable streets are simply not built.
BR: Please share with us some of your personal story.Mohamed: My nickname is “Akjar,” which means that a part of my leg was hit by an Ethiopian bullet and has been amputated. My right and left hips were also hit. That happened while I was working my land. Even though I’m not a soldier and didn’t lift a hand to anyone, they shot me. On January 21, 1992, the ONLF and government troops clashed. On January 22, soldiers came and “informed” me that I had helped the ONLF the day before. I should raise my hands. In one hand, I still had my hoe. From that point, I can’t remember. The next thing I knew, I was being transported on a donkey wagon.
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I fled first to Djibouti. That was during Hassan Guled Abtidoon’s presidency, who ordered that everyone without a Djibouti passport be deported. So they arrested the refugees and sent them back. But the Ogadenis couldn’t go back; they’d be accused of belonging to the rebels. And it doesn’t matter whether you’re men or women, or even little kids, two or three years old. But how can you accuse small children of membership in an oppositional party? Where else in the world do they throw three-year-olds in jail for belonging to the “opposition”?
So people started to escape into northwest Somalia. But there, too, the warlords sided with the Ethiopian government, and in eastern Somalia it wasn’t much better. There they didn’t hand anyone over to the authorities, but they did deprive them of any means to survive. So the Ogadenis looked for another way out and fled to Kenya. That’s how I joined a group going to Kenya. Djibouti failed; Somalia failed. In Galkayo and Baidobo, they killed a lot of us, so the only place left was northeastern Kenya. But in order to get into Kenya, we had to be Somali, not Ethiopian. So we passed as Somalis in order to receive papers from the UNHCR [United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees]. Many of us have kept these new identities because we’re still afraid of being sent back. Many people have also changed their names. We were only looking for a safe place to stay.
And even though we’re in Kenya now, we live in constant fear of the EPRDF. They can track us down even here. Ethiopia can easily pay a Somali to sniff out where we are and kill us. We registered an official complaint about this in February 2000 with the UNHCR. It was the first time in our lives that we could actually register a protest anywhere and air our grievances. The person in charge of the UNHCR camps answered us: Ethiopia has a stable regime. To that, we responded that we’re aware of Ethiopia’s regime, but it isn’t our regime. It’s a beast, a hyena that devours people.
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Abdullahi, 47, from Jijiga in Ogaden (interviewed in Asmara, Eritrea, on December 24, 2005)
BR: Can you tell us about your life?Abdullahi: Growing up in Jijiga, I first attended the Koran School and then went on to primary, junior high, and high school before leaving for the university in Addis Ababa. But I really couldn’t afford to study, so I left after one year and became a chat [a drug with powerful amphetamine-like effects, illegal in many countries] merchant.
BR: In which cities did you buy and sell chat?Abdullahi: Shipments came from the Oromo area and were transported through Jijiga on their way to northern Somalia.
BR: And despite being “only” a businessman, you were arrested in northern Somalia?Abdullahi: Yes, it was 1996 when they arrested us in Hargeysa and charged us with cooperating with the ONLF. They brought three of us to a police station in the northern part of the city and then separated us. One guy was taken elsewhere in town, one brought to the city center, and I was kept in the Dolodo station, where they really did a job on me.
BR: What did they do to you?Abdullahi: For example, if anyone delivered clothes, the things were confiscated right away. If relatives provided food, it would be given to all the inmates, so fights broke out over it. There were two large rooms, and in the one closest to the door, the prisoners urinated at night. That’s precisely where they made me sleep.
BR: Who forced you to sleep there, other prisoners or the police?Abdullahi: The police.
BR: What happened to your captured friends?Abdullahi: We were kept for three months in these local jails. Then, one day, early in the morning, police came and took us away in their cars to a town on the Ethiopian border, Togwajaale. There, Tigray men coming from the Ethiopian side met us, and we were handed over to them. Our captors switched cars. The replacements then brought us to Jijiga, where we stayed for one night before transfer to Hārar. Hārar is the center of power in Ogaden—from there the whole state is controlled. They kept us there for awhile before taking us, once again early in the morning, to a large institutional prison.
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BR: What was the real reason they arrested you businessmen and extradited you to Ethiopia?Abdullahi: There are various categories of people they imprison. Some they just arrest, rob, and eliminate—the victims simply vanish. I only learned this once I was in the police station.
BR: What is northern Somalia’s interest in turning ethnic Somalis over to the Ethiopian government? What is that supposed to bring to them?Abdullahi: They want Ethiopian satisfaction with Somali politics. What this does is send the messages your enemy is our enemy, and your friend is our friend. There are many reasons. The Ogadenis want to do business with northern Somalia, but northern Somalia is anxious to please Ethiopia. I know there must be a good number of reasons, but exactly why they turned us over, I can’t say. They didn’t tell us.
BR: What happened to you after you were brought to Hārar?Abdullahi: They locked us in an underground room. Most of those imprisoned came from Ogaden, but there were a few Oromos as well. And a good number of women. I was there for nine months. There’s no court and no trial. You’re simply there and you wait. The waiting really got to me, but on top of it, they treated us without humanity. If you got sick, you went untreated. There was no medicine. And what they allowed us to do was wash our clothes at midnight, naked. That was an indirect punishment, since they know very well that in Hārar it gets cold at night, and they gave us only cold water. It was unbearable. In the daytime we weren’t allowed out at all.
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BR: Were the Oromos also political prisoners?Abdullahi: Most of them were merely poor civilians who were imprisoned anyway. They are accused of the same things we are: of having worked with the Oromo rebels or of having supported them.
BR: In those nine months, how many people died in that prison?Abdullahi: That’s not so easy to answer, because people were kept in different cells. And you couldn’t know what was going on in the other rooms. Only a few areas were open, and contact between prisoners kept separately was impossible. You hear some people saying that, again, in the middle of the night, some were taken away and forced to dig graves. We assume they were then used for those they killed. If anyone died a natural death or was murdered, that’s where they would be buried.
BR: When did you leave Hārar?Abdullahi: From Hārar, we were brought to Dire Dawa, where a man from the International Red Cross met us. After he showed up, our captors took us to the police station and then to court. So there we were in the courthouse but with no charges and no conviction. After that, they brought us to another prison, where we stayed for four years. The court had told us that each group of prisoners would be placed in a prison from the region they came from. So, as an Ogadeni, I was supposed to be incarcerated in Ogaden. But that didn’t happen. When the four years were up, they brought me to an underground prison near the OAU [Organization for African Unity] in Addis, and three months later back to Dire Dawa. Only after five and a half years had passed did they have me stand trial, where I was acquitted and released.
BR: Did you receive any kind of compensation for all those lost years?Abdullahi: There’s no compensation and also no complaint. If you attempted to pursue justice, you’d simply end up in an even more difficult situation. You are simply glad to be free again and try to get out of there as quickly as possible. When I was released, I stayed only one night in that town. The next evening I was already in Jijiga. At that point, I decided I would fight for the right thing. If you can be arrested for no reason whatsoever, you may as well fight for your rights.
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BR: How did you begin to fight for your rights?Abdullahi: I joined the ONLF. I’m a man with plenty of experience, and I remember that day in 1977 when more than 100 people were massacred in Jijiga. Among those killed was my grandfather, who owned a small shop. They slaughtered everyone in broad daylight. Today it’s a perfectly normal event, to be robbed and killed. The world has something to say about human rights. Here there’s none of that.
BR: Are academics targeted as well as businessmen?Abdullahi: Yes, a good number of intellectuals have disappeared. We don’t know whether they remain alive or not. It’s almost impossible for any academic to work in Ogaden or simply to be noticed there. Many returning scholars, some of whom were first hired by the government in Jijiga, have been fired.
BR: What do you think of the so-called new regime for the Ogaden region under Abdullahi Hassan (nicknamed Lugbuur [big leg]), whom Ethiopia put in place at the end of 2005?Abdullahi: The administration does nothing but carry out Ethiopian dictates and represents the interests of the present centralized regime. Lugbuur himself has his hands tied. He is powerless, and they have no interest in letting him get anything done. The president before him could do nothing, and now it’s no different. He can’t decide for himself. There’s a Tigray behind every decision.
BR: In the past, then-president of the Ogaden administration Khadar Moalin was arrested. Do you think that could happen to the present president?Abdullahi: Yes, it could happen, though if he’s lucky, they’ll merely let him go. It’s the Tigray above him who determines his fate.
BR: Would you say that your life as a freedom fighter, compared to your earlier days, has radically changed?Abdullahi: A lot has changed for me. If in your country all rights are being violated, then resistance seems to me the correct way to go. Neither under the earlier administration nor the present one do Ogadenis have any rights. If we try to fight, then maybe the next generation will gain something from it. I would really like to see this country become something one day.
BR: What effect has your membership in the resistance had on your family?Abdullahi: If someone joins the rebels, their families will be directly or indirectly persecuted. And this oppression and persecution are worse in smaller towns than in larger ones. A person in Jijiga has less to fear than someone in Degeh Bur. But someone in a place smaller than Degeh Bur is at even greater risk. And nomads with their animals and camels are in the most danger. Larger towns make the authorities somewhat more reticent, since foreigners or human rights organizations may be present. But, in the end, the people whose families have joined the rebels suffer the most under Ethiopian occupation.
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Amino, 25, from Degeh Bur, Ogaden (interviewed in the Ifo refugee camp in Kenya on January 4, 2006)
BR: Amino, you are from Degeh Bur and have been living for one year in the Ifo refugee camp in Kenya. Can you tell us what drove you to flee?Amino: I left Ogaden about eight years ago. In the meantime, I’ve stayed in either Hargeysa, Djibouti, or Mogadishu. It’s been back and forth. Until 1999, I was able to live in Degeh Bur, in my own house, in my homeland. But one day, right in the middle of town, a battle took place in Degeh Bur between Zenawi troups and rebels. The government lost a couple of men, while the one man wounded took refuge in my house. It was about noon while the main meal was being prepared. The man had been shot and then burst into our house. Soldiers surrounded the place. We were eight children and our mother. Now only my mother is left in the Degeh Bur house. All the children have fled. I was arrested and thrown in jail. For a month and ten days I was there, tortured and raped. After that, I fled to Hargeysa and stayed for three years. After that, I escaped to Djibouti.
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BR: What happened in Hargeysa to make you leave this last time? Wasn’t there a refugee camp there, too?Amino: It’s true that many refugees went to Hargeysa, and at that time it was a bit more tranquil. The natives didn’t bother us, but there was no camp. Later, the situation changed, so I had to leave. Today, Ogadenis on the run don’t have a chance there because Somaliland and Ethiopia now work together. If they find anybody from Ogaden, they’ll turn that person over to the Ethiopians. I saw how four men were arrested in town and extradited. In September 2003, they issued a decree requiring all foreigners without papers to leave the country. Because I feared another imprisonment, I left.
BR: Does Djibouti house many refugees from Ogaden?Amino: Yes, many. But many have also departed.
BR: They went from Djibouti to Mogadishu?Amino: Yes, and I also stayed in Mogadishu for a year. But, even there, they targeted us Ogadenis, singling us out for persecution. Of course, everyone suffered from the civil war that broke out when the city collapsed. That’s when I fled through Dobley to the border with Kenya and entered the camp.
BR: So they accepted you here in Ifo?Amino: The UNHCR first grilled me intensively; then they put me on a waiting list. But I still don’t have a real refugee I.D. In fact, they first rejected me because the authorities claimed there was no persecution in Ethiopia, that there were no large crowds fleeing from there. You see, other than through Somalia, there’s no direct route from Ogaden. After their initial rejection, I submitted another application.
BR: Are you here with your family?Amino: Yes, I have six children and a husband here.
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BR: What is camp life like?Amino: Not so good. It used to be better. There used to be more flour and other food—now we have nearly nothing: a mere half cup of oil and millet from time to time. You can’t live on that. When those families who are officially registered get their rations, they share their portions with us.
BR: What are your hopes for the future?Amino: Somalis here with us are taken better care of, and the world community is also concerned about doing more for them. They are helping to stabilize the regime, and making the media reports on Somalia. But you never hear about delegations traveling into Ogaden to report on the situation there. So, for that reason, I have no hope for our future. Once peace returns to Somalia, Somali refugees can go home, but not me. I have nowhere to go. I’m just waiting for Allah to show us a way out. Other than that, I have no hope.
BR: Many Ogadeni refugees have expressed pessimism about getting help from international organizations. Do you feel the same?Amino: Yes, and it’s very sad that for the rest of the world we’re nothing but a dark speck on the map. Still, when you really need help, you don’t give up so easily, though I have no great hope. And it’s not good to have none.
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Arab Bihi, 43, from Godē, Ogaden (interviewed in the Ifo refugee camp in Kenya on January 4, 2006)
BR: What drove you to leave your homeland and become a refugee asking the UNHCR for asylum?
Arab Bihi (AB): I arrived here in December 2006. It isn’t the first time I’ve applied to enter a refugee camp. During the 1977 war, I was in a camp in Somalia in the Hiraan Region near Beledweyne. I stayed there for fourteen years; that’s where I went to school. In 1988, the UNHCR started a program for refugees who wanted to return to Ogaden, so part of the camp was disbanded. Back in Ogaden, I became a teacher. But I encountered difficulties and dangers as a result of my teaching pro bono in a school there and working together with the Ogaden Welfare Society [OWS]. The OWS had done a lot of good in terms of infrastructure and attending to water, education, and health—precisely what it was accused of by the government, which wanted no development in Ogaden. The regime said that the organization was political—part of the opposition—and disbanded it. Then they persecuted me and other members of the group. When they arrested me the first time, I was locked up for six months in a military jail near the airport in Godē. Whenever the International Red Cross wanted to visit, they would hide us from sight. They tortured us. I lost one of my testicles. A fellow prisoner died because he had asthma; the cell was below ground, and there wasn’t enough air. I also developed rashes all over. But, finally, offering enough in bribes, my family was able to buy my freedom. Then I started dealing in pharmaceuticals, only to have the government take the business away from me later on. They accused me of supporting the ONLF, the rebels. Problems like these, and many more, were what forced me to abandon my home. So I became a refugee again.
BR: Do you think others in Ogaden are struggling with the same issues?AB: Yes, and this is especially so for the educated, because anyone who might play an important role in society will be singled out.
BR: Have you ever spotted journalists or human rights organizations in Ogaden?AB: No, apart from the International Committee of the Red Cross [ICRC] there’s no other organization really active in the region. And even their offices are attacked and their employees harassed. I remember very well in August 2004 when two students were killed: their bodies were left on the football field, and burial was forbidden. A Swiss ICRC employee, Florenzo, tried to intervene. She went to the responsible Brigade Commander, Halus, to protest, but Halus is a murderer with too many victims already on his conscience.
BR: So it was a white woman who complained?AB: Yes, she was Swiss, from the human rights division of the International Red Cross, and they had another human rights person, Hans Peter, also Swiss. They said it was inhumane to leave bodies lying for three days out in the open. It was against the Geneva Convention and, since Ethiopia is a signatory, it has to follow its rules. But Brigade Commander Halus got mad, and the next day he ordered an attack on the Red Cross headquarters.
BR: What kind of attack?AB: Soldiers took documents and opened archives, saying the Red Cross should mind its own business. Some time later, the soldiers left. But problems like these—and worse—occur all over the region. Even the humanitarian organizations that are elsewhere respected are here harassed. Imagine, then, what happens to ordinary citizens!
BR: What happened when you asked to stay in the refugee camp?AB: We were five children and two grown-ups. When I first arrived, I presented myself to the UNHCR and was put on a waiting list. I still don’t have a ration card for food. In order to be officially recognized as a refugee, I still have to go through an interview with the appropriate agency. They took photos and filled out a couple of forms. Only when I have all that behind me will I be eligible for a ration card.
BR: What do you hope for here?AB: I have a great deal of refugee experience. I spent fourteen years in a Somali refugee camp—the major portion of my life—and here I’ve landed in another one. I am bereft: no country, no work, and no hope. Nobody hears about Ogaden. People are simply killed, robbed, mistreated and nobody hears anything about it. The lack of reporting tells the Ogadenis that they’re of less value because nobody cares what happens to them. And the feeling overcomes them that they don’t belong among citizens of the world. When 500 Ogadenis are murdered, there’s complete silence. The world community is wholly ignorant of events in our region.
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Ifraah, 25, from Aware in Ogaden (interviewed in Djibouti on December 5, 2005)
BR: You come from Aware in Ogaden. What happened there that made you flee to Djibouti?Ifraah: I arrived here on November 25, 2005, but had to escape from Aware in mid-October. In Ogaden in general there is trouble. One night, at about 9:00 pm, a group of military came to our home. They entered fully armed, forced us out, and separated the men from the women. They gunned down some of the men; then they brought the women to the city and put us in prison. I saw soldiers raping women. Right now I’m wearing this white cloth as a sign of mourning because my husband was one of the men they killed. That’s how it happened.
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BR: After they killed your husband, how long did you spend in prison?Ifraah: People took pity on me because of the white cloth—they saw that I was in mourning. So a man came and posted bail for me. When they let me go and the man was taking me back home, I fled to Hargeysa and stayed there for a couple of days. The trip was very difficult because I didn’t have any money. I had to constantly beg people for help. Then I got a ride to Djibouti. Now I’ve been here for twenty-five days, sharing this space with three other girls.
BR: When you were arrested, was it the first time or had you been imprisoned before?Ifraah: Yes, often. To be released, you have to pay the Ethiopian military from 1,000 to 2,000 birr. And the price keeps going up. If they suspect that the family has money, they raise the price. Poor people often stay in prison much longer because they can’t raise the ransom. It happened to me twice. The first time I wasn’t yet married. I spent a couple of months in prison and had to pay 500 birr; the second time, I had to pay 1,000. My mother wanted me to get away. The decision to leave was very difficult for me. How could I go to a country where I don’t know anybody?
BR: What happened to the man who paid to get you out?Ifraah: I haven’t asked, but I think he’s now in jail in my place. I hope his relatives can get the money together to get him out.
BR: In the town council you find mainly Ogadenis. Couldn’t they help you?Ifraah: The administration has no power. They are in danger themselves. They are forced to do what the Ethiopian government wants. They are the local government, but they can’t really govern. They do what the military commander says. They are also afraid of the soldiers. Sometimes, when a lot of us girls were imprisoned, we’d send letters to the local council to complain about being raped at night. But we never got any response.
BR: Can you estimate how many girls were in prison?Ifraah: It differed. Some weeks there were ten; then everything would quiet down. If an incident occurred or there were tensions, the numbers could be as high as twenty-five or more. Aware is only a village.
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BR: Why did they jail the girls?Ifraah: The soldiers said that they supported the ONLF. Whenever the military and the ONLF fight and the army suffers casualties, soldiers storm villages to take revenge.
BR: Are there armed women who fight in the ONLF?Ifraah: Some women have been shot by the Ethiopian army, but whether they were armed and fighting for the ONLF, I don’t know. Some women are shot on the spot, but they preferred to arrest and rape us.
BR: Why have there been so many arrests?Ifraah: It’s no secret that Ogaden is a troubled region. For no reason, people are being persecuted and thrown in jail. Rebels and government troops are fighting each other, and whenever the soldiers suffer losses, they take revenge on the civilian population. But arrests also benefit the military; it’s a flourishing trade. Innocent people are captured and have to come up with a lot of money to free themselves. Some are murdered; others are taken, for instance, to Hārar and thrown into jail. The pretexts are well known: you support the rebels, so they arrest you, and a few months later they want money to let you out. There are women thrown into prison five times, and each time they have to pay to get out. But economic factors are not the only ones. There’s also torture and rape.
BR: Is it possible that the soldiers consider the ransom their salary?Ifraah: That’s what we think. Some prisoners are repeatedly freed for 1,000 birr. But that’s only those who can afford it. Others have to stay in jail because their families simply can’t raise the money to liberate them.
BR: Can you tell us something about daily life in jail? How do they treat the prisoners? What did they give you to eat?Ifraah: In prison they don’t give you anything to eat. You get your food from relatives. If you don’t have anyone nearby, your relatives send money to people who live there so they can buy you food. If that doesn’t work, other inmates give you what they can. What’s worse is the torture and rape. At night you hear the girls screaming when soldiers take them from their cells.
BR: In what condition are the women when the soldiers bring them back?Ifraah: Well, they return very demoralized, broken in spirit, and everyone’s quiet. Before, when they came to get the women and opened the gate, we would all rush forward for a breath of fresh air. But once we learned what happens, we’d hide as far to the rear as possible. When the soldiers entered, they always had their guns already cocked and they also had nightsticks—they’d select one woman and all of us would scream. And whoever refused was beaten with the night stick or the butt of a gun. The torture took different forms. Some were beaten all over their bodies, some less extensively. If you were lucky enough to get out of there, the only option was to leave the country.
BR: So that’s what you went through?Ifraah: Yes. First, they beat you, and then you simply let them rape you. There’s nothing you can do. You are completely powerless and without hope of it ever ending. Sometimes they take two or three women. You can complain to relatives when they bring food, but they can’t do anything about it, either. The humiliation and scandal are out in the open, but no human rights organization has come along to let the world know what’s going on. It’s as though the country were roped off from the rest of the world and nobody cares what happens here.
BR: Do you feel at least a little more secure here in Djibouti?Ifraah: Yes, here there’s more security. Here nobody is after me. I don’t have any real plans to flee elsewhere, but I’m hoping God will help me make everything turn out all right.
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Ayaan, 24, from K’ebrī Dahar in Ogaden (interviewed in Djibouti on December 5, 2005)
BR: Can you describe for us how people live in K’ebrī Dahar?Ayaan: K’ebrī Dahar is one of the larger towns in Ogaden with a good-sized population, but I don’t know exactly how large. In any case, that really doesn’t matter, because it’s occupied territory. For instance, if you live in K’ebrī Dahar, you can’t buy good clothes, because if you wore them, the soldiers would suspect you’re with the rebels. You can’t simply explain to them where the things came from. They won’t believe you. We have no right to manage our own affairs. So when relatives abroad send money, and you buy something for yourself, you have a problem. You’ve raised suspicion. Or when nomads sell their camels for money—that causes problems. Then the real trouble starts. If you don’t know K’ebrī Dahar, it all sounds like fiction. This couldn’t possibly be true! It’s only if you live there or come from there that you know the horror stories are real.
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BR: How was it for you on a daily basis?Ayaan: Like a stray cat, I was living from hand to mouth. K’ebrī Dahar is my home, but I couldn’t stay and move around freely. Whenever I visited, I had to hide. Nobody but my mother was allowed to know that I had entered the village, and only she could see my face. Trusting even my own brothers and sisters was out of the question. I was arrested six times.
BR: Why and how were you arrested?Ayaan: The first time was in K’ebrī Dahar. There I owned a small kiosk. One day I was washing my clothes together with another woman at a little pond. Suddenly, an officer with two soldiers approached. I was just folding my laundry when, without my noticing, the officer sat down behind me. Suddenly, he grabbed my leg. Startled, I jumped back and turned to face him. He said, “Sister. You’re beautiful. Don’t get upset!” My companion helped me gather the clothes and run away. The soldier followed and grabbed me by the collar. He said, “Here’s fifteen birr. Let’s go into the bushes!” I threw his money down and ran to my kiosk. Seven of my relatives were there. In the presence of all of them, the soldier returned and offered me forty birr, saying, “Come on, miss, we’ll go into the back room!” I fled to a neighboring shop. The soldier became aggressive, kicking my nephew and demanding a cigarette. When I saw that, I returned to urge my nephew to defend himself. Then the soldier kicked me, I fell, and for two hours he struck me with the butt of his rifle. My relatives looked on, doing nothing, because if anyone had tried, they would have been shot. Bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose, I threw up and was left lying there half dead. The soldier’s commanding officer had been in another village at the time. Our council of elders had someone drive over from K’ebrī Dahar to lodge a complaint.
The commander then came to us with the offending soldier in tow. We thought he was bringing us medicine. Towering over me, he asked, “Is this the woman you beat?” The commander then slapped the soldier on the cheek with his open hand, saying, “You’re in the military. You should either have shot her or let her alone, but not beaten her.” Observers walked away, and nothing in the situation changed. I remained only half conscious until the next day, when the soldier returned, wanting to punish me for the trouble he’d had with his commander. One of my cousins, Shaqaaq, was a collaborator who worked for the Ethiopian soldiers. He spoke to the soldier and asked that he wait to punish me until I’d recovered. When darkness fell, my cousin returned and said that he was a man, so it was okay; they could shoot him for all he cared, but I had better disappear. So, under cover of darkness, I ran away and hid until dawn. On my right side I was seriously hurt, and whenever I coughed, I spit blood. That’s how I arrived in Dig, where my father’s family lives. The family has a small kiosk where they hid me because they didn’t want to take me home with them. I remained there for a month. No one informed the Ethiopian army that I was there, but they found out anyway, arrested me again, and jailed me for a month and a half.
BR: How did they treat you in prison?Ayaan: Every day they made me sit out in the sun with no shade. They also took away my veil and gave it back only in the evening. In the sun, everything before my eyes paled. I could no longer distinguish one color from another.
BR: Can you tell us anything about daily life in prison? Did you have enough to eat and drink?Ayaan: In Dig, where I had to sit in the sun, they gave me tea and two rolls in the morning that had to last for the entire day. Sometimes if our relatives brought food, the guards ate it themselves. Especially if no officer was around, the soldiers devoured our portions. In the K’ebrī Dahar prison, we went at times for twenty-four hours without anything to eat, and even when they gave us food, I couldn’t swallow it. Sometimes I drank water, even though it was unhygienic. Once you’ve seen people pour the water they’ve bathed in back into the tank, you lose your desire for it. To shower and wash, that’s okay, but for drinking? Disgusting. There was a real meal only once a day, either in the morning or at noon. In the evening, more often than not, nothing. Even if an officer was there, he had the food brought by relatives carefully inspected. Spaghetti, rice, and bread were picked apart.
After that, I wound up imprisoned in Degeh Bur, but not with the other women, who were housed in a makeshift trailer or in military headquarters. I was in the self-designated police station and permitted to sit in the sun. In Aware, instead of containers for jail cells, they had overheated corrugated iron-roofed huts. But K’ebrī Dahar was the most painful. I was there for three nights when the guard told me to take off my clothes. I said “no,” and “if you want to, go ahead and shoot me, but I’m not getting undressed.” He slapped my face and insisted, “Get undressed!” I said, “no.” So he threatened me, putting the barrel of his pistol against my temple. He then pushed me toward a dark area not far away, demanding to hear what I knew about the ONLF. I answered, “I don’t know anything about them and don’t know what you’re talking about.” He thought I was a native of the place and had the right to live freely. “But you have to tell me if you’re with the ONLF or Al Itihad.” I said, “All I can see is the Ethiopian military—I haven’t seen anyone from ONLF or Al Itihad.” From 9:00 pm to 1:00 am, he interrogated me.
BR: When did you get to Djibouti?Ayaan: On the twelfth day of Ramadan [October 15, 2005]. I don’t know anyone here and have no relatives. I came only because of problems. If you fear for your life, you don’t think of anything but running away. I didn’t intend to come here. I simply ran.
My whole life I have seen and experienced awful things. You see dead bodies daily, or you witness someone being shot and killed, or someone getting a bullet in his head, his brains splattered on the ground. One morning a brawny soldier whipped a thirteen-year-old boy with an electric cable. With every hit, tattered skin flew, so powerful were the thrusts. The boy ran to me seeking shelter, but I couldn’t help him. His tormenter would have whipped me, too. But the boy clung to me, and you couldn’t tell his blood from mine. Later he fell to the ground, unconscious.
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My sister in prison is also now pregnant from rape. They shot my brother because he was well dressed and possessed a couple of camels. He wanted to bring camels to Hawle village for water. They caught him by accident and wanted to know if he was from Al Itihad. Then they simply shot him. They didn’t bury his corpse—it lay for eleven days in the village until the hyenas had eaten him. In the end, we could only gather up his bones and bury them. I’ve experienced so much horror, what else can I say?
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Maryama, 25, from Hamarro near Fik, Ogaden (interviewed in Djibouti on December 5, 2005)
BR: You’re from Hamarro. How many people live there?Maryama: I don’t know exactly, but it’s a small village where everybody knows everybody.
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BR: Can you tell me a little about daily life there?Maryama: Hamarro is controlled by the Ethiopian military. Any visitor is immediately recognized as an outsider. Our lives don’t seem to be worth much.
BR: Does the Ethiopian military live among you, or are you separated?Maryama: We are separated. They are the occupiers and not native to the place.
BR: How do the villagers in Hamarro live?Maryama: We don’t have many options. Actually, there are primarily two: you can drive a truck, or sell in a little kiosk. In either case, you don’t have much freedom. If you have a little shop, you are often robbed, and if you drive a truck, they sometimes take your goods as well. There aren’t many businesses here.
BR: When did you get to Djibouti?Maryama: I’ve been here for two months now.
BR: What brought you here?Maryama: They accused me of belonging to the ONLF. They surrounded our hut and arrested me.
BR: What made them think that you worked with the ONLF?Maryama: When I entered the village, they spotted me. They know almost everybody there. I was the only outsider. So they thought I must be working with the ONLF.
BR: The village where you were arrested wasn’t your own village, Hamarro?Maryama: Yes, it was my village. But I wasn’t there very often.
BR: Where were you?Maryama: In the countryside, where my grandmother lives. I was taking care of the animals.
BR: How long did you stay with your grandmother?Maryama: She took me with her when I was seven so I could look after her animals for her. I hadn’t been in the village very long at all before they arrested me.
BR: How long were you in prison?Maryama: I spent about twenty days there.
BR: Can you tell me a little bit about prison life? How did the soldiers treat you?Maryama: At night, they would take a couple of us outside the camp, beat and torture us. At about 9:00 pm, they came and brought us to a nearby hill. They raped me and placed a rope around other people’s necks before throwing them into a latrine to make them talk. If they loosen the rope, you sink. They tortured us for a long time. If you refused to talk, they might bring you back, drag out another woman, and repeat what they’d just done, over and over. The latrine was the soldiers’ toilet. It had no real liquid because they don’t use much water. Over the hole were wooden boards to stand on. They didn’t want to kill us; they wanted to torture us to make us talk.
BR: How many prisoners were there?Maryama: I couldn’t give you an exact figure, but I’d say there were about sixty women, nearly all of them young. Some were released; some were recaptured. I can’t say anything about the men because they kept us locked up separately.
BR: Did you receive enough to eat and drink?Maryama: They gave us one Ethiopian injerra [a round, fermented-flour “pancake” cooked in the shape of a large plate] per day. But the one injerra was always very spicy and we had to share it with ten people. We weren’t given anything to drink.
BR: Ten people for one injerra?Maryama: Yes, they gave us three meals a day, but at each we got one injerra that we had to share. For ten people, one injerra without water.
BR: Did your relatives bring you anything to eat?Maryama: No, they weren’t allowed to. If they had brought food, the Ethiopian army would have thought they were also sympathizers, feeding us because they felt guilty.
BR: How did you survive such treatment? Did anyone die?Maryama: Yes, some died, and the torture killed others, who disappeared. After the soldiers came to get them, they would simply fail to reappear.
BR: When someone in the cell died, did the soldiers take the body away or let it rot there?Maryama: They would carry the bodies out but then throw them somewhere. Where, we don’t know.
BR: Do you know how many died during that time?Maryama: There were people who came before me, and others who came after. Therefore, I can’t say exactly. During the time I was there, however, four women died.
BR: Couldn’t your family help you? Did they ransom you, or did the soldiers simply let you go after twenty days?Maryama: My family couldn’t help me. If they had tried, they would have been arrested as well. Later they did pay the ransom. They also gave houses.
BR: What kind of houses?Maryama: Because the village hadn’t been my permanent home, I needed a sponsor there. When the soldiers take the ransom, they also want someone with houses or possessions as a sponsor.
BR: How much ransom was paid?Maryama: I had to give them 1,500 birr. To be able to pay, we had to sell some of our animals.
BR: And after you were released, you went away?Maryama: Yes, I fled.
BR: What happened to the relative who sponsored you?Maryama: I heard that they arrested him, and they’ll let him go only when I return.
BR: How long has he been in prison?Maryama: I’ve been here for two months. I heard that he’s been in jail for one.
BR: How did you get here? Who helped you?Maryama: I walked from Hamarro to Fik and then continued on foot until I had almost reached Babile, when a car picked me up. From Babile, I traveled further through Jijiga and Boorama, heading toward Lowjacado. From there, I went again on foot to Djibouti.
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Sahra, 23, from Garbo in Ogaden (interviewed in Djibouti on December 5, 2005)
BR: You’re from Garbo. What’s the city like, and how many people live there?Sahra: I don’t know exactly how many, but Garbo has a large population. Most people live in straw huts, but there are a few businesses and larger houses made of stone.
BR: When you were living there, what kind of work did you do?Sahra: I sold tea in a little shop. I had to earn money to support my siblings because our father is dead.
BR: When and why did you come to Djibouti?Sahra: I came two years ago to escape the oppression my people suffer and because I’d been repeatedly arrested.
BR: Can you tell us in detail about your arrests? Why were you detained?Sahra: When I was at work, they came and accused me of having something to do with the ONLF, the group fighting in the countryside. Not once in my life had I known where the ONLF was headquartered. But they arrested me anyway and put me in jail for a long time. On my release, I moved around from place to place, but without fail, every time I returned: they threw me back in prison. And this isn’t only my story. There are others, too, with the same experience. Once I was locked up for nine months, then for thirteen months, and then for four months.
BR: What was the rationale behind repeated arrests?Sahra: That’s just how it is in Ogaden these days. Every day, violations of rights. Soldiers are paid to commit them. There was no court that convicted me; they’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.
BR: Where did this idea come from, that people are being arrested for money?Sahra: Whenever you’re arrested, you have to pay to get out. And then after you’re out, they pick you up again. But many prisoners’ families are simply too poor to buy their release, so they stay behind bars.
BR: And nobody defends themselves against this?Sahra: No. We’re all in fear for our lives and are trying simply to get out. Any little thing can serve as an excuse to accuse you of associating with the ONLF. So nobody defends themselves.
BR: Are people sympathetic with the ONLF?Sahra: No, we’re not.
BR: Can you tell us what it was like in jail? How many people were there?Sahra: I’m not sure how many, but it was pretty crowded. Like today, twenty new ones might arrive. Tomorrow, more. The next day you’ll have another group. In any case, there were a lot. The first ones I remember who died were a boy and girl, and two women had babies. The second time I was in jail, two women died. And there are other women who are said to have died while being raped. During my third jail term another woman died. There were days when they passed food on to us, but others when we didn’t get anything.
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BR: Were the women who gave birth in prison already pregnant when they were arrested?Sahra: Some were pregnant on arrival. But others, young girls, were impregnated by the soldiers. Little girls, thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds, in prison and suddenly pregnant. Sometimes they let pregnant women go. As for the girls, they wanted doctors to perform abortions, but religious leaders in the village were against it, since our faith forbids abortion. During this period, five girls and another five married women got pregnant.
BR: Who helped these women when they went into labor?Sahra: We had some older, experienced women with us in jail. One, Dahaba Sherif, helped the women in their cells. We all did.
BR: How many females in prison were minors?Sahra: Well, once we had eight children with us, another time three little girls, the youngest about ten. All the other men and women were adults.
BR: Were you raped?Sahra: Yes, I was. They don’t differentiate between a girl and a married woman. There were a lot of women in prison, and every night they would take a few out. It differed. The men would come toward evening and take a girl out behind the barracks. There were ten of them, so you never knew who’s going to be first and who last. In one evening, they might even do it to you twice. First they beat us, and then they raped us.
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BR: What helped you to survive your months in prison?Sahra: What helped me? Nothing. I simply sat there with the others and shared the horror of our days. I simply had to make it. It’s always been my hope that the Ogadenis who escaped and live abroad would tell the world about our problems so that, finally, help will come.
BR: How did you go from Garbo to Djibouti?Sahra: First I went to K’ebrī Dahar, where my aunt lives, but I couldn’t find her. A friend then paid a car to take me to Hargeysa, where I bumped into a woman I had known in prison. She gave me the money to go as far as Lowyacadde on the border with Djibouti. From there, I walked.
BR: How do you manage in Djibouti?Sahra: Here we have problems, too. You clean somebody’s home but they might not pay you for the whole month you’ve worked. So you get hired by someone else, and the same thing happens. The only ones you know will help are the other Somalis here.
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Ogaden, much more than simply a very dry region in southeast Ethiopia, has been in turmoil for decades. Darfur is on everyone’s mind, and rightly so, but right across the border, underreported genocide has been taking place in Ogaden. You have just read interviews with refugees from that devastated region who spoke Somali to an interpreter who recorded their depositions in simple German. Translating this text into English gave rise to difficult choices, and the speakers’ verbal personalities were to some extent lost, resulting in a generic reportage that may come across as emotionally understated. However, the original Somali clearly witnesses mortification, anger, and pain, especially in rendering women’s exceptional burdens.
Women’s testimony here represents the experience of a particularly vulnerable group on whom atrocities have been heaped: 99 percent of Somali women have undergone infibulations (generally performed on girls of between four and seven years of age), the amputation of the labia minora, generally without anesthesia, followed by stitching of the vagina to a minuscule opening that stretches only moderately with repeated conjugal relations. One must know this in order to understand why, denied a midwife’s attendance, parturient women and their infants die, as cutting is essential to let the baby out. Rape of an already tortured organ adds another excruciating dimension to the intolerable situation.Â
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