At five in the morning I was awoken by familiar sounds, but ones I had not heard in Ethiopia. The eight men in my room were on their knees, kneeling, reciting their prayers. It was the first prayer of the day for Allah. More importantly for me, I had not been either robbed, sodomized, or killed by my cellmates during the black night.

I slowly rose from sleep, watching the prisoners wash their cell floors with water. They have no toilets; if they must go to the washroom, they do so on the far wall. So, they must clean it up in the morning.

We were allowed out of the cells at five-thirty for this task; and I got talking to the english-speaking fellow who lived in the cell beside me. All of the convicts in this part of the prison were charged with murder.

The rationality of the decision escapes me, but that's common right now – political prisoners, of which illegal immigrants are considered, are put in the same holding cells as the murderers. He pointed out people to me. "That man, was Somali death squad officer! That man – killed his family! That woman – killed her husband!" I never asked what he did. "I have been here – three years! And still – no trial!"

This is in fact my largest concern about being in jail in thes places – I may become another sad case of not being able to reach a phone for three years to reach my embassy, to even let them know that I'm up here.

At about six I had contact with the soldier again – he was waiting for the prison chief to come to work. He should be here at eight, he said. Simply wait. I waited. I sat on a jerry can and looked at what little there was to look at – about a dozen people lounging about, lying on the ground outside; one was reading and reciting the Koran on his prayer mat. A few were playing a simple game in the dirt that looked like Nine Men's Morris, with rocks and orange peels. Anything to keep you occupied here. And they're fed once per day – a large bag of bread sticks, and tea. Guaranteed to keep you thin.

Eight o'clock rolled around and there was still no sign of the chief. I asked the soldier to call someone – he suggested, through my english prisonmate and translator of course, that if I gave him some money he could get a taxi to bring the immigration man down here. Certainly, I said, and handed him ten birr.

An hour later the chief had still not arrived, but another soldier asked if he should call immigration. The phone was broken here, he said, and he would have to use the public phone. I gave him five birr. This is the way it is. "We never see white men here," the english-speaking prisoner said, "because white people have money!"

I persisted at all ends to get myself out, although there was little I could do to accelerate the process – I showed them my photocopy of my passport, gave the money when they wanted the money. Kept on asking questions, getting their attention. I wanted them to remember that I was here, and was not at all happy about it. At ten in the morning, a soldier unlocked the door and told me to come with him. The prisoners waved goodbye to me, and my translator simply yelled "cigarettes!" to me. Unfortunately I doubt I will have a chance to come back here. Wait a minute – fortunately, that is.

I got to listen to the soldier talk about "respecting the human rights" as we walked to the immigration compound on the other side of town. Yeah, right. The police are the most dangerous element in this damned town.
At immigration the same man was there, poring over my passport. He wanted to know why I didn't call him when the police had me. I told him I tried, but there was no answer. He seemed indifferent to the response. I told him that I had asked here before going into Somaliland if they could issue me a visa when I returned, and they said yes. It was a new guy that said yes. "It's our fault, yes, I apologize. So you must leave." I was assigned the new guy to make sure that I left – the Somaliland people had never given me an exit stamp, so he said that I should be okay to enter. I did not want to enter – I knew there were no flights operating. He stated otherwise. It's pretty much all I have to go on.

So I did one better on this trip than getting knifed in downtown Johannesburg: I got thrown in jail in Jijiga, Ethiopia. I'm still not entirely sure why. The stories of the police and immigration conflict with one another. One of them is lying, and both were certainly breaking human rights charters for tossing me in there without reason.

But it's wartime in Ethiopia, and anyone who might appear to be a threat to security is at risk of being caught up in their mess. I guess a ponytailed guy wandering around a town near the Somalian border looking for a hotel was just a bit too suspicious. And one night in jail makes for a good story – but any more than that would have made a tragedy.

I went back to my hotel to pick up my stuff – the hotel manager was friendly, and apologetic. "You should leave as fast as possible," he told me. I couldn't agree more. The fellow from the OWS who took me to the immigration office the first time met up with me at the hotel as well – word gets around mighty quick in this town. Obviously. He was sympathetic, but could not help much. He simply echoed the hotel manager's words – "leave quickly."

So I did. Back onto a wobbling minibus, back along the same road. The immigration fellow followed me up until the end of Jijiga, where he shook my hand and left. I should have never shaken his hand – and I had thrown all of my etiquette about not sending off bad vibes out the window. I need to cool down a little.

Inshallah. What must happen, will happen.



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