THE STORY BEHIND MY NAME

In the Eritrean calendar, June is a solemn month, with 20 June being Martyrs’ Day—a day Eritreans at home and abroad observe with the utmost reverence. It was the first national holiday decreed by the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF), the movement that achieved Eritrea’s independence and later formed the Eritrean government. Eritreans achieved independence on 24 May 1991 after a thirty-year war of liberation against Ethiopia. While the nation was immersed in euphoria, President Isaias Afwerki announced at Asmara Stadium on 19 June that 20 June would be observed as a day of remembrance for the men and women who paid the ultimate price.

Out of a population of just three million, Eritreans paid a heavy price of 65,000 lives during the struggle for independence, with another 19,000 lost in defense of the country’s sovereignty during Ethiopia’s invasion in 1998. To Eritreans, these are not mere figures; they are an integral part of life that transcends the generations who fought for independence and those who did not partake in either the struggle or the latter war. They represent a father who will never come home, a mother who will never see her child again, a son gone forever, siblings who will never see their parents, parents who will not even see one of their children, a friend who will never be there to listen, a child who will never know the face of a parent, and much more. I am part of that latter generation, and this is my story.

I was born to freedom fighter parents during Eritrea’s war of independence, when freedom was on the horizon. I was conceived by combatants who were never certain they would see each other again. My father left my mother with clear instructions: if the baby was a boy, she was to name him after his best friend and comrade-in-arms; if it was a girl, she could choose the name herself. To an outsider, this detail reveals that the previous bearer of the name had paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Being born in the final years of Eritrea’s war of independence meant that I would not grow up in the Revolutionary School. Located far from the front lines, the school was where the children of freedom fighters lived and learned, playing daily hide-and-seek with Ethiopian warplanes that sought to bomb and strafe them.

Growing up in independent Eritrea, my parents, like all parents, took me to light a vigil candle on 19 June when the entire city poured into the streets to do so. We lit candles at home beginning on 19 June and continuing for more than two days. We fasted on the day if our health allowed it. This was, and still is, the ritual. In my young mind, I understood that it was all done for the people whose portraits hung on the walls of homes, people whose presence would never again grace those households in person. That much I understood. It was only during adolescence that I began to grow curious about the person whose name I carried.

The name, mostly used by older generations, made me stand out whenever I introduced myself or was called upon. It had become so rare that I thought I was the only person in the entire country who bore it. In my thirty plus years of existence I have only found two people who share my name. When adults asked what it means, I would proudly reply with, “It is a martyr’s name”, the explanation my father had given me. It was a reply that immediately stopped further questions from those who asked because of the respect Eritrea’s martyrs command.

I knew that the person after whom I was named had died to free Eritrea, but what was he like as a person? What was he like to his family, his friends, and his colleagues? He was the firstborn in a family of eight children. As the eldest son, it was expected that he would help his parents raise his siblings. Once he reached adulthood, he embraced that responsibility with grace by becoming a banker. Like many of his peers, he was fully aware that he was living under Ethiopian occupation and believed that taking up arms was the only remaining path to dignity and freedom.

Burdened by family responsibilities, he did not join his peers in the field. Instead, in early 1970, he became a resistance fighter in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital. His struggle was cut short when his network was betrayed by a traitor. He was apprehended by Ethiopia’s notorious security services and he was tortured in an effort to force a confession that he was a resistance fighter and reveal his associates.

He withstood the torture, denied the accusations, and saved the lives of his fellow network members, who ultimately received lighter sentences because of his silence. As for him, he was sentenced to five years in what was then Ethiopia’s infamous prison, Alem Bekagn. The prison’s name literally translates to “Goodbye, World” in Amharic. It housed those sentenced to life imprisonment and those destined to die before their release because of the horrific conditions and routine torture. No one was expected to emerge alive. Even among the rare survivors, coming out with one’s sanity and body intact was uncommon.

After surviving routine torture for four years and nine months, it appeared to his fellow prisoners that he would soon be released. His spirit remained unbroken, and he was in good health until one fateful day when he was taken for what appeared to be another routine torture session.

When he failed to return to his cell bruised and bloodied as usual, his fellow prisoners became concerned. They knew he had not been taken for execution because prisoners selected for execution were removed from their cells only at night. Later, through the prison grapevine, they learned that he had died during the torture session due to negligence.

During the session, his torturer had suspended him upside down in a barrel filled with human excrement and filth but failed to remove him. The torturer left to answer a phone call and became so engrossed in the conversation that he forgot about him. Only when he brought another prisoner into the torture chamber did he remember what he had done. Unbothered and without remorse, he simply continued with his routine.

My father learned of his best friend’s fate from a former cellmate who was released by sheer chance and later joined him in the field. Left without a breadwinner, the family descended into destitution. Unable to learn his whereabouts, one of his sisters died from grief that proved too much to bear.

This is the short story behind my name.

A name whose feminine version is so common that the clerk who issued my residence card marked my gender as female, even though I had clearly indicated male on the application form. A name that made me the lanky kid who stood out from the groomsmen in his brothers̛ wedding. A name so common among older generations that people assume I am hiding my age even when I tell the truth. A name so uncommon today that it is often mispronounced, and one that I refuse to shorten or alter for the sake of convenience until people learn to pronounce it correctly.

In a country where I know there are thousands of names that carry equal or greater sorrow and countless stories similar to mine, my name is one that I am deeply proud to bear and hold on to for dear life.

By: Abrehe Rezene