Perhaps the crudest claim by the EPRDF in its bungled-rigged-election
saga this year is its “triumph” in Birtukan Mideksa’s wereda where
she was born, raised and resided until she was imprisoned in 2009.
Popularly known as Ferencay Legasion, the area was first settled by
two prominent nobles of Haile Selasie’s era — Ras Seyoum and Ras
Kassa — and the French embassy; which is said to sprawl on over
eighty acres of land allotted to it by a jubilant Menelik who had just
overwhelmed the Italians at Adwa in 1896.
Few people had ever heard of Birtukan Mideksa in 2000, the year of
Ethiopia’s second illusory experiment with multi-party elections,
when, after resigning from her position as a federal judge, as was
then required by law, she sought public support in her bid for a seat
in federal parliament as an independent candidate. “ I first heard her
speak at a town-hall meeting a few months before the elections,” told me
Nebeyou Bazezew, who was to later serve as her de-facto campaign
manager. More than 1,300 residents had bizarrely turned out for
usually sparingly attended town-hall meetings summoned thrice a year
to review police conduct. “Police brutality and corruption had become
unbearable. The people had lodged their complaint, and they had come
out in large numbers to hear the results,” says Nebeyou.
But the authorities had other ideas. Suspecting that police issues
were being manipulated by the opposition, they showed up geared for a
showdown. “The complaints about police brutality are
unsubstantiated,” said one of them ominously. “Only known criminals
have been beaten up.” Birtukan’s hand shot up. An anonymous and
innocent face poised in-front of him, an official mockingly pointed
towards her, beckoning her to speak. She stood up to speak; her words
flowed out clearly and calmly, and people suddenly peered pryingly
towards the young woman that was speaking. “I am fully acquainted with
the law,” said Birtukan with censorious tone, surprising the officials
amongst whom was not a single female. “And the law clearly stipulates
that even suspected criminals are protected from physical harm while
under custody. They should not be beaten up.” The applause was
instantaneous and vociferous. The officials were furious. They glared
at her for a few seconds, not sure what their next move should be. The
very law they had prolifically used to silence the public was being
used against them. And worse, by a young woman that had suddenly
appeared out of nowhere. “Ah,” one of them finally shrieked. “What
does she know about the law? The law we know has no qualms about how
criminals should be handled. It teaches them a lesson in no uncertain
terms,” he said dismissively, his head held up; staring smugly into
her eyes. “ I don’t know what law she speaks of,” he winded down
mischievously. She rose up from her seat, flushed and demanding to be
heard. “I won’t let you speak,” told her the presiding official
defiantly. He could see that the crowd was captivated by her, and he
wanted to deny them a leader. “Then this is not a democratic forum. I
have no reason to be here,” she countered irately; and walked out. To
the utter amazement of the officials, almost everyone else rose up
spontaneously and walked out with her. The officials sat frozen in
their seats, humiliated and no doubt in serious trouble with their
superiors. Thus was born Birtukan the politician: hero to thousands in
her wereda long taken for granted by snooty local officials.
Almost overnight she was catapulted into a serious rival of
established political parties. Freed from the daily routine of a 9 to
5 job, she became an assiduous campaigner. “Ours became the only
campaign run almost exclusively by the youth,” recounts Nebeyou. “We
were swamped by volunteers. They came to us. We did not go to them.”
The campaign took off quickly, and her name recognition amongst voters
rose phenomenally; but for the crucial break, her volunteers were soon
to realize, money was indispensable. And this is where an anomalous
supporter in the person of a half-brother of the Minister of
Education, Genet Zewede, stepped into the scene with a cartload of
promises. “He promised us almost everything under the sun,” says the
source of Genene Asefa, who now fervently supports her imprisonment,
and is the butt of jokes amongst returnees from the US (where he once
lived) for his embellished — and patently faked — praise of Meles Zenawi.
(Meles tolerates but also disdains sycophants, say those who know
him.)
“Genene said — and I quote — ‘these people (the EPRDF) are
animals (awreh, in Amharic) and uncivilized (yalseletenu, in Amharic).’ He
told us that there is hope only in young people organizing and
fighting them,” says a source who was part of Birtukan’s campaign. But
by then a threatened EPRDF felt that it was time to contain a growing
threat. Key members of her young volunteers were summoned by officials
and threatened with imprisonment. They left in droves, propped by the
urging of Birtukan herself who told them that it was best to pull
back. Few weeks short of the election, the grassroots network was
suddenly undone, curbing the momentum that was building up. “She was
not bitter,” says Nebeyou. Her experience only confirmed what she had
long suspected: an EPRDF that is by disposition and calculated design
authoritarian. But even then, she went on to secure more votes than
could be reasonably expected in lieu of the limited budget and
narrowed political space.
Five years later, Birtukan, who was tenaciously courted by political
parties save the EPRDF, which she politely rebuffed, was not to
contest again in the 2005 elections as many of her supporters had
hoped and expected she would as CUD’s candidate. Instead, Mulualem
Tarekegn, wife of a prominent opposition politician, Admasu Gebeyehu,
and herself an emerging political personality, represented CUD and
went on to win by a huge landslide.
Fast forward another five years to 2010, and Birtukan, by now
affectionately dubbed the “indomitable lion” by friend and foe alike,
had mustered the enthusiasm of not only her core supporters but even
those who had not voted for her in 2000. For most residents of the
wereda, one of the Addis’ many low income enclaves, the rise to
national prominence of one of them resonated with their deepest
aspiration: their pride in her achievement is palpable to outsiders.
And as she sat in Kaliti Prison this year, victim of EPRDF’s malaise
and conceit, few doubted the resolve of her wereda’s residents to send
her a message by according her party, the eight parties’ coalition
Medrek, a resounding victory in the election. The EPRDF, on the other
hand, acutely cognizant of both the domestic and international
implication of the election’s outcome in the wereda, was no less
determined to prevent such an outcome. Defeat at the polls was
perceived as no less than a personal affront to Meles Zenawi,
panicking his cadres. Birtukan’s party was to be “defeated” at any
cost. The alternative was not even contemplated.
Medrek fielded Baheta Tadesse, a popular high school teacher in a
prestigious high school in Addis, for the seat that Birtukan would
have run for if not for her incarceration. “Everyone knew that a vote
for him meant a vote for her,” says a pundit who lives in the wereda.
Few weeks before Election Day, wereda streets were inundated with
posters dominated by her picture urging voters to cast their votes for
Baheta. “You couldn’t miss it,” says the pundit. Baheta, it seemed,
was set to win with his hands down.
For its part, the EPRDF relegated more resource, time and energy in
Wereda 12 than anywhere else in the country. Every household was
carefully scrutinized, each member profiled and for every five people
a party member was assigned to garner their support. “A group of EPRDF
members, usually led by a kebele official you know, will knock on your
door and ask if you registered to vote,” says a resident. They will
then ask to see the registration card, and without asking for
permission, silently proceed to register its contents. “That had
tremendous effect,” says the resident. People were terrified. “Many of
those who live in Kebele houses felt that they could lose their
house.” And few weeks before Election Day they returned with a form in
hand. “In most cases, they refused to leave unless the form was filled
and signed, committing the person to vote for the EPRDF,” told me the
resident. Most people thought their signature was legally binding,
potentially landing them in trouble if they voted otherwise. To cap it
all, they were everywhere on Election Day, reminding residents of
their promises as they went to polling stations. “We couldn’t avoid
them on election day,” says the resident. A climate of fear had
ingeniously been set up.
But this is only part of the story. Detailing what happened on Election
Day requires a whole new article. I will save that for a future date.
