14th July 2009

When I first started telling people I was going to move to Ethiopia, the majority of people said ‘be careful’ or gave me advice on keeping safe. I’ve been worried about a few things since being in Ethiopia – amoebic dysentery, wading through a river, and mice in my bed, to name a few – but I’ve only once felt in physical danger from anyone here. I was much more likely to be stabbed or attacked whilst in London than I am in Ethiopia.

But I can’t deny that the word ‘violence’ is one that is often at the forefront of my mind whilst living and working in Lalibela.

Since I’ve been here, there have been several very nasty conflicts around our school. In one, two members of the community came on to the compound and beat one of our workers badly enough for him to be in hospital and unable to work for several months. As far as we know, it was do with the fact the worker had come from Lalibela town (which meant he wasn’t really that popular already) and was having a relationship with a woman from the village, which – presumably – the men weren’t very happy about.

In another instance, some teachers from a government school relatively near our school attacked a member of the local community (I don’t know why). In retaliation, a number of the community came to our teachers’ house armed with various sticks and rocks – they had heard it was a teacher, and so just assumed it was our teachers. Luckily, – with devotion to the job I’m not sure it deserves – our guard grabbed weapons of his own, and told the mob that they’d have to go through him first (I’m paraphrasing – I’m sure the Amharic didn’t sound like a dodgy action film).

The ‘mob’ were eventually convinced that it wasn’t our teachers, and the other teachers had run away from the area (to escape arrest) so they were unhurt. The police are still waiting for the teachers to return so they can be taken to the court.

Another time, when we tried to bring some skilled craftsman (skills the school community doesn’t have) from the town to work on our school, the local men in the community decided they didn’t like these ‘outsiders’ and attacked them, en masse, with sticks and stones. Fighting even broke out in the community after our Sports Day a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the Sports Day itself, thankfully, but the community was together, there was drinking and violence followed.

It happens in the town, too. One night about four months ago, I heard shouting and screaming in the town, and the next morning I discovered a man had been killed by two men he’d spent the evening drinking with. The men knew he was carrying a large amount of money, and beat him to death before robbing him.

I feel like this a more violent place than back home, and a quick look around could back that up: children are disciplined with a clip round the ear, crowds are controlled with a whack from a stick, domestic abuse is considered acceptable (not in all places, but in some places I’ve been it’s considered the only way to keep a marriage running smoothly). However, when I actually think about it rationally, that’s ridiculous. For every example, I could probably think of one back home, in London or even in my home town.

I also want to say that people here are much quicker to resort to violence without thinking or actually understanding the situation – but I remember the news reports of a paediatrician in the UK being hounded out of their office when idiots started rioting outside because someone confused ‘paediatrician’ with ‘paedophile’. So that’s not true, either.

Maybe it’s just that physical violence is more visible here, on a day to day basis? Maybe it’s the fact that it’s accepted as normal, an understandable response to any situation? The only way I can explain it is that, to me, there’s a feeling that life here is very fragile and violence is always just under the surface, quick to ignite.

Ethiopians I’ve spoken to point out that life here is more fragile, there is less security, less to rely on. They have other theories, too, involving a ‘survival of the fittest’ mentality, and a mix of poverty and alcohol. Others point to a lack of education.

Ironically, the catalyst for writing this piece was not any of the situations mentioned above, or any fight at all. It was two things. The first was that the man who tried to steal my bag out of the office and who tried to punch H, the guard’s son, came and apologised to me. He said he was sick at that time (which we knew already) and didn’t know what he was doing, and apologised for scaring and hurting me. I thanked him, but what could I say? I’m sorry for calling the policeman who kicked you in the head and threw you in jail?

The other thing was that one of the street boys here died. He had a growth disorder which made him very short and very wide, and he also suffered from diabetes. He often had money because he was a proficient gambler, and would win against nearly anyone at cards, but he only ever wore a filthy tee shirt and trousers and would beg from any tourist around. The other street boys would pick on him regularly, but he could give as good as he got, and was often as obnoxious as one person could possibly be.

A while ago, he spent some time in hospital after being involved in a car crash, and when I came back from Bahir Dar, he’d disappeared again. A. told me that while I’d been away, the boy had bought a huge amount of food and sat and eaten it all at once. His blood sugar had gone haywire, and he had gone into one of the little shops, lay down, and fallen unconscious. The owner of the shop took him to hospital, and he died there soon after.

It’s not a fight, or an attack, or a beating. But it felt violent to me.