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 Letter from
Ethiopia - December 8, 2003
Tizibt Mezgebu
Dear Readers:
"Breach of contract" is what comes to my mind whenever I am reminded by
either my own guilt or the MediaETHIOPIA people that my letters had
vanished into thin air with the arrival of the Ethiopian New Year. Many
excuses could be cited ranging from the arrival of the school year for
children to one's own never-ending world of intrigues, office politics and
the numerous details of earning a living. I must say, however, that I do
enjoy the times I spend in sharing some of the ordinary and non-ordinary
aspects of our lives here in Addis and I am grateful for the occasional
letters I get from you my readers and the support from MediaETHIOPIA.
With the famine situation not having turned into a major disaster - thanks
to the God of Ethiopia and the international donors - I see an opportunity
to talk about other modestly trivial details of our lives here. Before
that, however, allow me to comment on whom I think should get the credit
for averting the disasters - at least for the short time. In short, I
could not think of any better groups of men and women than the
International aid organizations and their employees who perennially kept
on nudging their own political leaders and bureaucrats and fought with our
own system of slowness and despair to get the food grains coming and
distributed. Ato Simon Mechale and his organization (DPPC) who
endure the shame of presenting our begging to the rest of the world almost
every year; but mange to distribute food to almost 14 million Ethiopians
and save lives are - in my humble opinion - the rightful group to take
credit. As of Prime Minister Meles and EPRDF, I make no attempt to hide my
views that the disaster was averted in spite of them and their lack of
understanding of what Ethiopia's problems are all about and also their
misplaced priorities which does not include the food thing apart from lip
service. Certainly, if our yardstick is the performance of Colonel
Mengistu in the 1984 famine - as I said in one of my letters - then the
Prime Minister may be put in some positive light; but not by me; Addis
Zemen and Walta Information have paid journalist who do that every day.
Well, now that we have the famine issue out of the way, let me come back
to what I wanted to talk about this time. My letter, this time, is about
cell phones in Addis Ababa and the elites that own them. A few weeks ago,
I had met few friends of mine for a Sunday morning breakfast at a popular
café on Bole Road. The meeting itself owned its very own existence largely
thanks to the mobile phone that all of us seemed to carry. How else would
you then explain that a friend had to pick a family member from Lideta,
drop her husband at his office on Churchil Road (work on Sunday - yes, you
may have to do that these days) and then meet up with us 30 minutes late
while another one had to see-off a relative flying to north but could be
there for breakfast only if we change the time an hour earlier. A
breakfast that almost got cancelled had its timing and place re-worked
largely thanks to the cellular phones that we kept on working the whole
morning as schedules got shifted. The days of "W/o Aster betewat
indewetu new. ketero alebign bilew neber. wede mata new yemimelesut.
Iskeza me-likt liqebel?" seem to be over.
For those who watched with interest, the importance that mobile phones
have assumed in our Addis Ababan lives may be better described when one
notices how powerful government officials become stripped of power and
instantly become ordinary 'have-been" citizens. Think of General
Tsadkan Woldetensae - the once powerful EPRDF military man - and how
Mr. Meles got him demoted and removed from power about two and half years
ago. The first thing that the TPLF soldiers and security people took away
from him was his government-supplied mobile phone! Taking the government
cars and the houses - the old symbols of power - came later. For the
soldiers on order from Meles himself, perhaps, the mobile phone was a
direct access to power, prestige, and loyalty that the General had to
surrender. The poor man had to be separated from his mobile phone first.
Only then, the soldiers felt, the man was felt to realize that he was
cut-off and unplugged from power and out of favor. A punishment, many
people thought, for the General's dislike of Meles' unquestionable
allegiance to the Shabia cause. That scene reminded me the scene of
September 12, 1974….how the emperor was deposed that day early in the
morning and driven away in an unassuming Volkswagen. Perhaps, if the
mobile phone technology was available then, the then Lieutenant Debela
Dinsa would have asked the Emperor to surrender his personal royal
mobile phone before sending him off to his prison years and eventual
death. They may then have gone through his records and accused him of
calling the CIA and the Mossad to deliver him from the revolution and
protect the allegedly stolen money. It was, perhaps, good the technology
was not available then.
Just a few weeks ago, the curiosity on whether some political systems can
withstand progress in technology had taken a better of me and I asked my
husband something like, 'Do you think there are mobile phones in North
Korea?" The answer may be yes, but one can't help but wonder how the
Mengistu years would have looked if we had mobile phones. Imagine you were
in the middle of a weekly "kebele niqat" session on a Saturday
evening and a mobile phone rings. You may think that the cadres with
government issued mobile phones will try to reassure each other "ye-ne
new guadoch - ke Guad Likemenberu mehon alebet". But, no, this
time the ring actually comes from the audience….from one among ourselves
in the Keftegna 3 hall. "Comrades! Please call the Revolution
Keepers - Abyot Tibeqa. We have a situation here. The
anti-revolutionary units have penetrated a kebele meeting. They even have
mobile phones. How did they get one, by the way?". Before you know it,
a major search will be undergoing to trace the illegal mobile phone an
average youth in Addis Ababa brought to a kebele meeting.
But then, fast
forwarding 20 years or so, one notices that the TPLF - with as much vigor
and hidden love for communism - has given in to technology. Many people
say that the TPLF is a smarter communist body than WPE. Some say that they
have no choice but to adopt to the times. Perhaps true; but the real test
of their tolerance to technology that empower average people is if they
can handle a mobile phone that can enable us take-over Asseb and get
access to the sea; however that is done and however improbable it seems.
As we have seen in the past few years, the Prime Minister has been
observed to be tolerant of open accusations even in newspapers. The
problem comes only and only when one mentions the words "Asseb",
"access to the sea ....ye-bahr ber" and "Ethiopia's security";
words that test Meles' patience. As long as technology keeps us away from
those taboo subjects of Meles and can not be used to challenge the "bahr
ber guday or ye-Eritrea guday", then mobile phones are tolerated,
it seems even by the "terarawoch yanketekete tiwld".
Many years ago, Ato Abdulmegid Husein used to be the minister in-charge of
telecommunications. I remember some of the memorable speeches he made
where he claimed that every household in Addis Ababa will have mobile
phones. Many thought he was unnecessarily promising something he could not
deliver. Some of us even laughed and thought the man was a good
entertainer. But look around the few improvements in telecommunications in
Ethiopia and you will see his roles in all of them. After he left, all
sorts of telecommunications in this country have suffered with service
improvements in wireless taking as many as 5 years before bids are posted
and a winner announced. I even go further to suggest that among the
extremely few notable people Meles had courted since 1991, Ato Abdulmejid
may be by far the only useful one. He got us mobile phones, at least.
But now, even if only a reported 20,000 or so people own mobile phones in
Addis Ababa, it is very much evident that it has changed many things in
this city. For us ordinary Addis Ababans now, the '9' area code
(area code for mobile phones) is, of course, a symbol of prestige. It
means we can afford the payment, we are connected, we are ambitious, and -
most importantly - that we can change from second gear to third gear in
our cars with the right hand while holding our mobile phone with the left
hand and not killing anyone during the process. I think it can also be
argued we are no more "ordinary citizens"; there are only 20,000 or so of
us in a country of 65 million people. How can we be then 'ordinary
citizens'? However, in social occasions like weddings and leqso, we
- the mobile elite - still haven't learnt to turn our mobile phones off
out of respect. So, events get rudely interrupted on a daily basis. As one
would expect, the largest concentration of mobile phones seem to be in the
Bole Area and Merkato - strongholds of the mobile elite. The most
sought after numbers in town also seem to be the mobile numbers of
government officials. About 3 months ago, I could not believe a secretary
of a bureaucrat at the Municipality actually gave me his mobile number
after I failed locating him for 2 days in a row. As soon as I dialed his
number and he picked the phone, his words were "Indet agegnut yihen
kutr?" I am afraid the secretary may have been fired over the
incident. For me, however, it was a chance to get my permits just a
few days after talking to him. Sometimes, I wish we had Meles' mobile
number. Just for the fun of it, I imagine calling him up and saying, "Indemn
aderu, kibur Teklay Minister? Ye bahr berun guday min aderesut?" I can
hear the phone dying. The 'bahir ber guday' even when
uttered on a mobile phone is still a taboo topic here; something
technology could not win.
be-selam qoyu
Tizibt Mezgebu (Saris, Addis
Ababa)
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