Eritrea: Transition to Dictatorship, 1991-2003 [by] Debessay Hedru [From: Review of African Political Economy, Vol.30, No.97, Sept. 2003] Eritrea's image in the early 1990s as a peaceful and well-ordered state was coloured by the euphoria of independence following a military victory over the formidable army of Ethiopia. Against all odds, the country seceded in 1991 and attained international recognition in 1993. Emphasis on self- reliance and hard work made it easy to overlook the ingrained authoritarianism and basic intolerance of the Eritrean Peoples Liberation Front (EPLF) leadership. Eritreans and foreign observers believed the promise made by the victorious guerilla leadership that Eritrea would learn the lessons of post-colonial African history and would not repeat its mistakes. The EPLF, renamed the Popular Front for Democracy and Justice (PFDJ) in February 1994, reiterated this promise so frequently and eloquently that even the most cynical of persons was inclined to hope Eritrea would be spared the nightmare of dictatorship. "What kind of a country is that which everyday throws its sons and daughters to the furnaces of war? Whoever is spared from that is thrown in jail because they pronounced truth and demanded justice. Whoever escapes that fate is stranded in the diaspora, always suffering the distance, missing his country and living in the hope of returning" (from a letter sent to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs by Mohammed Nur Ahmed, former ambassador of Eritrea to the Peoples Republic of China). Ten years later, the lament of the Eritrean diplomat cited above testifies to the broken promise. In the new millennium, Eritrea is known as a rogue state ruled by a rigid dictatorship. Following a reckless war with its giant neighbour Ethiopia that lasted two years (1998-2000), Eritrea has become a place where comrades-in-arms of a lifetime have turned on each other, heroes of yesterday are the `traitors' of today, and brother dare not trust brother. Imprisonment and disappearances designed to keep the population in line are common, while famine is stalking the countryside. Once again, Eritreans are seeking refuge abroad, this time fleeing oppression from their own government, and those who fled Ethiopian oppression earlier, are not planning to return. Why did Eritrea fall from grace? What happened to the celebrated heroes who fought for freedom? What happened to the promise of peace, democracy and prosperity? Who is to blame? The answer lies in the fact that the people willingly conferred absolute power on the leadership of a guerilla movement that won their freedom from Ethiopian occupation, and then deprived them of liberty. Values such national unity and focus on a single goal (i.e. independence), translated into uncritical loyalty and unquestioning obedience. Eritreans became prisoners of the warrior culture that brought them independence. By the end of the first decade of independence, values such as dialogue, compromise and consensus needed to build a democratic society came to be regarded as symbols of weakness, even treason. Constitutional Games A turning point in the transition to dictatorship came with the drafting of a constitution, a process that took three years (1994-1997) to complete. The launching of this process seemed to vindicate the hope that Eritrea would move towards democracy. The Constitutional Commission of Eritrea (CCE) was chaired by Bereket Habte Selassie, a distinguished academic who had served as the EPLF's international spokesman since the early 1980s. The Commission included EPLF officials, prominent Eritreans from the diaspora, and a few veterans from other nationalist organisations, including the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), who had made their peace with the regime. Great pains were taken to portray the CCE as an independent body, popular participation was a carefully orchestrated exercise, and opinions were gathered from public gatherings throughout the country. Forged during the long armed struggle, the authoritarian culture of the EPLF set definite limits to the debate. Dissenting views were either ignored or interpreted to fit the tradition of democratic-centralism that is part of EPLF's culture. Debate on multi- culturalism, ethnic identities and rights, and religion that may have challenged the EPLF's passionate commitment to an Eritrean national culture and identity was constrained. CCE members who brought up issues related to ethnic group rights, especially historically marginalised communities like the Kunama, Saho, Afar, and Hedarb were told they should not aspire to copy the `ethnic federalism' of neighbouring Ethiopia, an innovation the Eritrean leadership regards as anathema. `Sub-nationalism', that is, ethnicity/ tribalism, is a political crime in Eritrea. Indeed, the CCE adopted an anthem that vowed to combat this crime. It was made quite clear that ethnic group concerns that challenge the EPLF/PFDJ's version of a mythical, homogeneous, national Eritrean culture would not be tolerated. The issue of social identities (family, religion, language, region) and political identity (Eritrean) was never addressed openly, then or later. As early as 1973, identities deriving from ethnicity, region, clan and religion were denigrated by the EPLF as `sub-national' (tribal) and `sectarian'. Current PFDJ ideology requires that social identities be effaced to accommodate the consolidation of a unifying national identity. The CCE avoided choosing an official language by proclaiming Arabic and Tigrigna as `working' languages. These are the languages of choice of the two dominant population groups in Ethiopia � the Muslim communities of the Red Sea coast, and the Christians of the highland respectively � and have been the working languages of all nationalist movements in Eritrea. The debate about language concerns the wish of minority ethnic communities to choose a language of instruction deemed to be appropriate for the future of their children. EPLF education policy requires the use of the `mother-tongue' (ethnic language) as the language of instruction at the elementary level, to be followed by instruction in English. This way the thorny question of the wider impact of Arabic as an international language of commerce and culture is avoided. Islamic communities would prefer Arabic as the first language of education to be followed by English, something they believe would make their children more competitive. These communities fear the present curriculum puts their children at a disadvantage in comparison with Tigrigna-speakers, who are fluent in one of the country's two working languages. Likewise, discussion of political pluralism that may have touched on the status of rival nationalist organisations banned from returning to Eritrea was muted. Those who raised this issue were accused of sectarianism. Statements like `the time is not yet right' often closed off debate on the model of democracy suitable for Eritrea. Issayas Aferwerki, the popularly revered leader of the EPLF, was often heard to say that the western model of liberal democracy is not suitable for his country, and speculated vaguely about a system rooted in local tradition and customs. Such statements were taken on faith by a public that was not ready to question the motives of its warrior heroes, nor sophisticated enough to know that power corrupts. In retrospect, the constitution-making process was a public relations exercise. And not a very successful one at that, because it did excite the political imagination of many Eritreans who were to be bitterly disappointed before long. The establishment of the Special Court in 1996 was the first sign of the sort of democracy envisioned by the EPLF. This court, whose members answer only to the President, deals with economic and political crimes. It dealt severely with EPLF fighters who mutinied on the eve of independence in 1993, refusing to serve longer without pay, with supporters of the Eritrean Islamic Jihad, and with former officials of the Ethiopian administration in Eritrea. Most of these people were arrested without due process, and their families were not notified for long periods, if at all. Some were abducted from neighbouring countries such as Ethiopia and Sudan. Persons who had been tried and freed by the civil courts were later re-arrested and sentenced by the Special Court. There was no disquiet when this court was established in the midst of the constitution-making exercise, because it was presented as necessary to combat corruption. It was only later, when it became known how this court operates in secrecy, the harsh sentences it metes out, and the fact that there is no right of appeal against its decisions, that concerns were voiced. The standing of the civil courts plummeted as the public became aware that real power lay in the Office of the President, and people began to petition his staff directly. The protracted constitution-making process came to an end in May 1997, when a bulky document was ratified by the National Assemby � an appointed body packed with EPLF cadres and supporters � then consigned to the deep freezer. Before the ink on it had dried, anonymous articles criticising the CCE Chairman appeared in government-controlled newspapers; a private press had not yet appeared. Many stories and articles were published in the same papers that disparaged the history of rival nationalist organisations. Since these organisations are the only existing political groups that can compete with the ruling party, the articles were harbingers of what could be expected in terms of political pluralism. Restriction of religious freedom and cultural autonomy, justified as combating fundamentalism and `cultural pollution', were other straws in the political wind. Revivalist sects of Islam and Pentecostalism came under attack by the state. Immediately after independence, communities seeking to build mosques were regarded with suspicion as jihad sympathisers. Jehovah Witnesses were harshly persecuted for refusing to participate in the independence referendum and later on in military service. The 1994 targeting of Islamic communities as jihadists and the stripping of Jehovah Witnesses' rights became a pattern repeated in 2002 with the closing of two inter-faith congregations, the Kalae-Hiwot and Kdus Yosef. These were justified as the need to limit the mushrooming of non-traditional churches which are not older than forty years. The banning did not elicit any opposition from the Christian and Muslim population. Religious leaders of the majority churches have become increasingly visible at official functions, creating the impression of a politicised clergy. They compete for prestige and resources, and such rivalry is used by the regime to play them against each other, so that there is no effective inter-faith solidarity to fight for religious freedom. The majority of Eritreans, be they Christian or Muslim, appear to have grown accustomed to government imposed limitations of the freedom of worship. The few who object, do so in whispers and behind closed doors. Since Eritrea remains a society where Muslims and Christians co-exist politically but in the main are socially segregated, there is always room for divide-and-rule tactics. Adopted in 1997, the Constitution remains in the deep freezer. The regime makes no secret of its belief that the people are not ready for democracy. Nonetheless, national elections � sans political parties - were scheduled twice only to be canceled without explanation. An official declaration on 1 January 2003 claimed that: "in accordance with the prevailing wish of the people it is not the time to establish political parties, and discussion of their establishment has been postponed" (Hadas Ertra, 1 January 2003). How `the prevailing wish of the people' was ascertained was not stated. By way of diversion, local elections in the six administrative Zoba (zones) were held in 2003. All candidates were EPLF/PFDJ loyalists picked by the party machinery in line with the tradition of democratic centralism. Generation Clashes Independence brought neither peace nor prosperity to Eritrea's youth. Instead, it brought state regulation of their lives ranging from school to workplace. A National Service introduced in 1994 obliged men and women, aged 18-40 years, to serve 18 months for military training. University and secondary school students are temporarily exempted from the draft, but are sent to work in agricultural and construction projects in the countryside during summer. Youth resentment grew as the period of military service was repeatedly extended; the rural areas were particularly affected by the loss of labour power. Eritrea's wars against its neighbours led to further militarisation of society, and worsened the disaffection of the younger generation, creating a conflict between them and the veterans of the war for liberation. Early marriages and increased use of the veil by young Muslim women became noticeable in the countryside, prompting the regime to denounce these practices as unpatriotic. By 2001, marriage no longer exempted young women from military service, pushing them into pregnancy, because having children exempts them. By mid-2001, reports of sexual abuse of female conscripts by army officers began to circulate, first informally then in the private press. The National Union of Eritrean Women (NUEW), a PFDJ adjunct, stridently upheld the official line claiming that cases of abuse were isolated, thus leaving the abused without any institutional backing for an investigation of their complaints. It fell to university students to translate the disaffection of their generation into a political manifesto. Until July 2001, their demands were apolitical and were directed at administrators who replicated the EPLF tradition of rule by command. They asked for fairness in examinations, enough chairs in classrooms, clean dormitories, and the like. They also persevered against the President of the University who pressured them to join the government-controlled National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students (NUEYS), and fought hard to establish their own, autonomous Student Union (SU). The SU charted its own agenda by calling for the abolition of National Service and summer work camps. Subsequently, student demands began to focus on issues of freedom of thought, expression and movement. The students had already taken a page from the history of Eritrea's struggle for independence, and began to organise clandestine cells to support the reformists' call for the implementation of the Constitution. The first public statement challenging the regime came from Semere Kesete, the President of the Student Union. In July 2001, he gave a speech at his graduation ceremony denouncing summer work camps as forced labour. Hundreds of students responded by boycotting the camps. Semere's arrest a month later made him the hero of an emerging political opposition. The Chief Justice issued a writ of habeas corpus requiring the police to bring Semere to open court, rather than the Special Court. The writ was ignored, and the young rebel remained in custody, while some 3,000 of his colleagues were rounded up and dispatched to labour camps. The death there of two students from heat stroke further galvanised student opposition. The Chief Justice was summarily dismissed from his position, after he publicly criticised executive intervention in the affairs of the judiciary. These events were reported in the fledgling free press that had emerged during the constitution-making period. Its editors, reporters and artists belonged to a generation that came of age after the end of the struggle for liberation and is not overawed by the nationalist mystique. They boldly pushed against the barriers to establish the first free press the country has known since the 1940s. The diversity of views voiced in some ten weekly and fortnightly publications found an eager audience in a population ready to embark on the path to political pluralism as guaranteed by the Constitution. The majority of reporters and editors were detained and dispatched to labour camps during the last quarter of 2001. Sometime later Semere escaped to Ethiopia. His path was followed by other youth who fled to avoid conscription, army deserters, and journalists who fled Eritrea when the regime brought to a close an all too brief period of freedom for the press. When their papers were banned, only the official newspaper was left in Eritrea. Women in Independent Eritrea Women's participation in the struggle for independence is a story often told and much exaggerated by the EPLF and its supporters abroad. Indeed, female participation was extensive and significant in the struggle for independence, and much was said and done to improve gender relations within the nationalist movement. Yet, in essence, the guerilla war machine used female power without necessarily altering traditional views of their role in society. Few women occupied command positions, and their presence in the decision-making bodies of the EPLF remained token throughout. The presence of women from different ethnic and religious backgrounds in the CCE reinforced Eritrea's international image as a country where women's equality had been established during the war for independence. In reality, Eritrean society rejected the gains made by women during the war, and the EPLF/PFDJ did little to empower them. The Constitution paid tribute to the participation of women in the war of liberation, but made no specific provision to protect their rights. The women who asked for constitutional guarantees were scolded for wanting to copy the Ethiopian constitution, which contains articles enshrining women's rights. Women, including former fighters, have no role as political actors in Eritrea. The body that officially speaks for them � the NUEW � remains an integral part of the EPLF/PFDJ, although it presents itself as a non-governmental organisation. BANA, an alternative organisa- tion set up by women fighters, has collapsed. Dissidents Turned Reformists How did the challenge to the authority of the President arise? Who were those who called for reform after three decades of unquestioning loyalty to Issayas Afewerki? At the forefront of this movement were veteran comrades of the President who had lost ground steadily in the decision-making process to a clique of relative newcomers that formed around Issayas after independence. Issayas' supremacy throughout the long war of independence notwithstanding, he had worked with a group of male colleagues of solid standing within the movement, who had to be convinced rather than be dictated to. The remarkable solidarity of this group over three decades of war is testimony to his political talent. This relationship began to fray after 1991, when Issayas became increasingly dependent on the state apparatus as his power base and less on the EPLF/PFDJ. He surrounded himself with people of no great standing in the movement and largely dependent on him, who could be relied upon to carry out his orders, no matter how quixotic they seemed. His former comrades, on the other hand, were kept hopping from one administrative post to another, leaving few marks in any field, while the EPLF/PFDJ itself was being transformed into another bureaucratic apparatus attached to the state. Ultimately, Issayas was to use the state apparatus to crush the opposition that emerged within the PFDJ. As the rift between Issayas and his former comrades widened, the latter began to feel the consequences of the cooling of relations in the bizarre tactic of `freezing' (medeskhal). A `frozen' official is stripped of his functions, yet not dismissed formally or demobilised from military service, continues to collects his salary and may even occupy his office. Numerous EPLF veterans whose loyalty to Issayas is not absolutely certain are currently in this limbo. The latest and best known is Sebhat Ephrem, longtime military chief of the EPLF and Defence Minister of independent Eritrea. A reshuffle in the autumn of 2002 placed four army generals loyal to the President in charge of both military and civil administration in the four zones into which the country was divided. Since they report directly to Issayas, General Sebhat was left holding a post devoid of authority and responsibility. The split in the Eritrean leadership is traced directly to the displacement of former comrades from the centre of power, where Issayas now stands alone towering over a clique of minions. The nature of decisions made there and the manner in which they were made public, also served to provoke dissidence and to raise the cry for reform. The mindless provocation that led to the disastrous war with Ethiopia is the best example. That other cabinet officials were not informed, let alone consulted, is proven by the fact that the Eritrean Foreign Minister arrived in Addis Ababa to consult with the Ethiopians on the very day the border clash occurred, and was given the news there. The issue of accountability was raised at a PFDJ Central Committee meeting in August 2000, after a cease-fire was declared in the war with Ethiopia in mid-year. Some members asked for an assessment of the conduct of the war, and also requested that the National Assembly, which had not met for sometime, be convened. At a meeting of the National Assembly the following month, a significant number of its members supported a motion asking the President to convene the Assembly regularly. They also stressed the need to assess the EPLF/PFDJ's governance of the past decade, including the practice of `freezing'. Lastly, they asked for the implementation of the Constitution to serve as the guide in rectifying past errors. These sessions produced a common focus for those who had become dissatisfied with the slide towards dictatorship, their goal being to move towards a constitutional government after the end of the war. At a subsequent meeting of the National Assembly in September 2000, the dissidents succeeded in forcing the President to agree to schedule national elections for December 2001, and to appoint committees to draft legislation regulating political parties and elections. The Minister of Local Government, Mahmud Sheriffo, was appointed chairman of the committee for political party legislation. He, in turn, appointed the Minister of Justice, Fawzia Hashim, the Attorney-General, Moussa Naib, the Minister of Trade & Industry, Haile Woldetensae, the Minister of Energy and Mines, Tesfay Gebreselassy, and the Director of Investment, Ahmad Taha Badouri, to this committee. In October 2000, a group that included former CCE members and its chairman, but no high ranking Front members, met in Berlin to draft a letter addressed to Issayas voicing their concerns and asking for reforms. Signed by thirteen persons, it was published on the Internet. This was the first crack in the fa�ade of unity and discipline so highly prized by the regime, and it was greeted accordingly. The signatories were condemned for acting during time of war, for writing the letter in a foreign language, and for proposing an international meeting to recommend internal political reforms. A month later, some of them met the President in Asmara, but failed to persuade him of the need for reform. Eight journalists who wrote reports of the so-called `Berlin Manifesto' were arrested in Eritrea. This was the first salvo of a regime assault on the free press. The government press lashed out against the critics, accusing them of being power-hungry, corrupt and treacherous. The Eritrean public, which has a very high regard for Issayas, appeared to agree that his critics could have waited for a better time. In January 2001, in a precautionary move, the President formed a Commission of Inquiry to investigate the political crimes of `sub-nationalism' and `defeatism'. This commission included the Minister of Justice, Fawzia Hashim, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ali Said Abdella, and the Deputy Police Commissioner, Simon Gebredengle. Its mission was to counter the reformists' activities and intimidate their supporters, and to orchestrate support for their eventual condemnation as `traitors'. The reformists responded with a public relations campaign, giving interviews to the private newspapers and providing responses to Commission of Inquiry insinuations and insults. Newspaper sales � both government and private � skyrocketed in the spring and summer of 2001, indicating keen public interest in the political clash between old comrades now turned political foes. When the first draft of the political party legislation was completed in March 2001, the committee Chairman circumvented PFDJ's practice of democratic centralism by submitting the document directly to the members of the National Assembly. This deprived the President of an opportunity to censor the draft, and amounted to a personal affront from a subordinate who, until that moment, had been a trusted comrade. It was also proof that the reformists had penetrated the upper echelons of the PFDJ hierarchy. Dismissed instantly from all his posts, Sheriffo promptly issued a press release accusing the president of impropriety; another first in the reign of this regime. The reformists worked to recruit colleagues in the PFDJ Central Committee and the National Assembly to their cause. Their objective was to use the rules of the PFDJ Charter, the procedures of the National Assembly, and the provisions of the ratified Constitution to push through a no-confidence vote on the President, and thus open the way to national elections. Regime supporters, on the other hand, moved to identify and isolate the leading critics, and to dissuade others who seemed inclined to side with them. Tried methods of co-optation and intimidation served to undercut the reformists' efforts. By mid- summer 2001, they had to face the fact they could not count on significant support in the National Assembly or the PFDJ Central Committee, and sought to appeal directly to the populace. In May 2001 they issued an `Open Letter to the PFDJ', appending copies of their correspondence with the President. The letter was intended for party members, but immediately found its way to the Internet. Fifteen men and one woman signed the letter. Among them were several of the best known EPLF veterans and comrades of Issayas since the founding of the Front in the mid-1970s. They included Mahmud Sheriffo, former minister of local government; Haile Woldetensae, former foreign minister; Petros Solomon, former security chief and foreign minister; Mesfin Hagos, former defense minister, Germano Nati, former governor of Gash province; four former ambassadors � Hamid Himid, Adhanom Gebremariam, Beraki Gebreselasy, Haile Mankerios � four former generals � Berhane Gebregziher, Ukbe Abraha, Stefanos Seyum; Astier Fisehazion � ELF veteran Mohamed Berhan Blatta, and Salah Kekiyah, the only female signatory and former vice-minister of foreign affairs. All were members of both the Central Committee of the PFDJ and the National Assembly. The `Open Letter' and subsequent declarations made by the reformists confirmed what the people had suspected, that is, the President controls and manipulates the legislative body, intervenes in the function of the judiciary, and has the only voice that matters in the party and the regime. The free press provided his opponents with a forum where probing and blunt questions by young, bold journalists elicited revealing responses about the conflict within the PFDJ. Ministers and generals gave interviews to the private newspapers, and raised a range of issues the public was unaware of. Errors of the past, the mistreatment of female soldiers, the need to revise the language policy, and to allow people a voice in their government, were openly discussed. Two army generals � Berhane Gebregziher and Ukbe Abraha � openly criticised the practice of `freezing'. Top ranking EPLF officials and government minister like Mahmud Sheriffo, Petros Solomon and Haile Woldensae, who were themselves soon to be frozen out of their offices, referred to past misuse of power and the need to acknowledge mistakes and correct them. They lobbied confidently and quite openly for their cause under the watchful eye of the regime. The summer of 2001 was a time of hope in Eritrea, when many voices mingled in a lively debate about the country's political future. While the regime's critics had yet to gain significant public support, they had succeeded in putting the issue of reform on the public agenda. Throughout, the attitude of the Eritrean people remained ambivalent. Issayas' immense popularity is not easily dented. Despite his autocratic temperament, he has not lost touch with the common people. Nor has he lost the talent for outwitting and outmanoeuvring opponents that kept him at the helm of the EPLF/PFDJ for four decades. Active hostilities with Ethiopia enabled him to charge the opposition with defeatism and treason, and to raise the spectre of an Ethiopian re-occupation of Eritrea. Understandably, Eritreans found it difficult to credit the newly-found commitment to reform of those who, after all, were the founders and leaders of the regime. Many saw this dispute as a power struggle at the top, which was the essence of it. Unaccustomed to public airing of differences among the elite, and uncomfortable with the promises of the regime's critics, most Eritreans reserved judgment. People were becoming concerned, however, about the split and its potential consequences. In July 2001, a reconciliation committee made up of 52 elders sought to bring the two sides together to talk over their differences. They were supported in this effort by the private newspapers. However, Issayas rejected it out of hand, and some of its members found themselves talking to security officials. Eight members of the Committee of Elders were later detained and one of them, Hedad Kerar, passed away in prison in 2003. In August 2001, the reformists played their last card, issuing a document addressed to the public. The `Open Paper to the Eritrean People: Important and Urgent Issues' summarised earlier statements and rebutted the regime's accusation of treason. To prove their innocence, they asked for a public inquiry with access to the minutes of National Assembly sessions. To refute regime accusations of `sub-nationalism' leveled against them, they asked Eritreans to note that their movement was multi- ethnic and included persons of all faiths. They warned that if the political system was not opened up immediately the country's descent into tyranny would be inevitable. To prevent the loss of freedom and to rectify mistakes, they called for a number of measures to be taken. Key of which were the following: -- neutrality of the armed forces in the ongoing political struggle between those who seek openness and those who fight to keep the status quo; -- stop the forced conscription of women in the military until further consultation with the people; -- release prisoners held without due process, and notify their families of their whereabouts or execution; -- establish a Public Trust Fund to administer PFDJ funds, and extricate the PFDJ from business activities if it chooses to function as a political party along with other parties; -- direct election of representatives by their communities, instead of PFDJ appointment, in zone, district and village bodies; -- establishment of fair electoral laws to enable all citizens to participate without discrimination, whether they support or oppose the PFDJ; -- dissolve the Special Court, amend the Press Law, protect judicial autonomy, and set a date for the transition towards a constitutional government; --conduct relations with neighbouring countries on a basis of mutual respect and formal agreements. This was an open challenge to the regime and Issaya's own position. As August 2001 drew to a close, the reformists were subjected to a campaign of vilification that accused them of defeatism and treason during the war with Ethiopia. Heavy security surveillance and open threats failed to intimidate them, and they continued to meet and plan. Finally, on 18 September 2001, eleven of them were arrested and detained in undisclosed locations; three others who signed the letter were abroad at the time. No charges were laid against them before a court of law, but in a speech to the National Assembly in February 2002 Issayas indicted the prisoners for `committing treason by abandoning the very values and principles the Eritrean people fought for.' The Assembly responded by condemning them `for the crimes they committed against the people and their country.' Two years later, their whereabouts remain unknown. Given the harshness of the regime's language, and the preemptive condemnation by the National Assembly, there is fear that some of them may have been executed. Many others, including journalists, members of the Committee of Elders, and suspected sympathizers were detained in September 2001. Some three thousand students were rounded up and taken to remote camps in the interior for a month. All private publications were banned. Arrests and `freezing' have continued ever since. A steady stream of young Eritreans � students, soldiers, journalists, civil servants, former PFDJ cadres � crossed the borders to Ethiopia and Sudan seeking political asylum. The mothers of some of them are in prison for helping them escape. This political drama was enacted against a background of sharp economic decline and widespread famine. The war dislocated external trade and brought Eritrea's urban economy, such as it was, to a standstill. Prices rose steeply, while many households whose males served in the army were left without income. Foreign aid was suspended when the regime fell out with European Union over its treatment of dissidents, and with the United States when it arrested local employees of its embassy and charged them with espionage. Drought over the last couple of years left three quarters of the population without food, and only a massive international humanitarian effort prevented a major famine. Debessay Hedru is an academic based in the US. ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~--> DonorsChoose. A simple way to provide underprivileged children resources often lacking in public schools. Fund a student project in NYC/NC today! http://us.click.yahoo.com/EHLuJD/.WnJAA/cUmLAA/TySplB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> -------------------------- Want to discuss this topic? 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