Of fictions and the 'disappeared'
Spy fiction, science fiction, and authoritarian regimes
A couple of weeks ago, I joined for the first time the Silent Book Club of the Society for Intelligence History. The book of the month was a spy (shocker) novel called Oromay, recommended by a good colleague and friend, Dr Martin D. Brown (you can follow him here).
The novel is set during the Derg military dictatorship in Ethiopia. It follows the (mis)adventures of a journalist, Tsegaye, who is sent to report on the Red Star Campaign, an effort by Colonel Mengistu Haile Mariam (replaced by a fictional character in the novel) to destroy the insurgency in Eritrea.
The novel is part love story (that of Tsegaye and his fiancé, but also of Tsegaye and the mistress his finds in Asmara, Fiammetta), part exploration of the nature of politics and propaganda, and part counter-intelligence tale. Like the love adventure(s), the counter-intelligence tale runs through the novel and - without giving too much away - has to do with the uncovering of a spy network within a group of recent deserters from the guerrilla ranks. Over time, and especially after participating in a pointless attack against one of the enemy’s positions, Tsegaye becomes disillusioned with the war effort and - more broadly - with the consequences of war.
In the novel - rich in references to the Italian colonial past (and pasta) - Oromay is the name of the deserters’ intelligence operation, but the Italian ‘Oramai’ also entails that everything is futile, it is too late. This disillusionment and the (never too explicit) critique of the Ethiopian authorities appear through both Tsegaye, and other characters. At one point, during an alcohol-filled chat, the main character talks to Colonel Wolday Tariku, who is leading the charge against the insurgency. The Colonel is very pessimistic about the future of the regime, it will end very badly. One of the main reasons very much echoes in the present:
‘Incompetent leaders will band together united by their shared knowledge that they are unqualified for their posts: “I know you, you know me, we cannot advance by merit, so, instead, let’s scratch each other’s backs'.’ Bu running a country is no game, and incompetence can bring it all to a halt.’
(Or to sharing war plans on Signal).
The novel is - at least in part - an autobiography of its author’s experiences. Baalu Girma served as Deputy Minister and then Minister of information under the same dictatorship.
***
As I was finishing the book, I noticed that Netflix had launched a series that I had long been waiting for, The Eternaut, El Eternauta. As you might know from a previous post, I am very much a fun of science fiction, especially if it has post-apocalyptic undertones.
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The series is based on a graphic novel. The novel first appeared as a series of comic strips between 1957 and 1959 in the Argentinian weekly magazine Hora Cero Semanal. The novel was written by Héctor Germán Oesterheld. At face value, the novel tells the story of an everyday man banding together with a group of friends (and for a brief moment with a larger group of well-armed resistance) to confront an alien invasion.
The invaders “They” have launched a series of attacks against planet Earth, starting with a deadly snow. It soon becomes apparent that the snow is only the first wave and ‘They’ control a series of monstrous creatures ‘They’ have subjugated on other planets. ‘They’ have complete control of these seemingly all-powerful creatures. Traditional military weapons are often useless against the invaders superior technology, but Salvo - the main character (“saved” in Spanish) - and his companions a too-often cold and detached professor, and a brave worker often outsmart the alien creatures. Again, without giving too much away, the ending isn’t the most comforting, but it isn’t the darkest either.
Below the surface of a very exciting graphic novel, though, there is also a political tale, explained exceptionally well in an essay at the end of the English translation of the graphic novel. The essay ‘Superpowers and underdogs’ by Juan Caballero, explores how the novel reflects Argentina’s interest in science fiction, its ability to adopt and adapt literary genres, but also the politics of Argentina and of The Eternaut’s author. It is the humble worker that very often saves the day. The Cold War confrontation is very often an hindrance. The weapons and the Cold War arms race prove pointless when they are needed the most. Only everyday people can save us from brutal invaders and repression.
The disappeared
If you are still reading, you might be wondering why I am talking about these two very different works. To be clear, you had been warned that The Brush Contact would contain mostly things I am interested in. But there is more. There is a tragic coincidence here.
Baalu Girma, the author of Oromay, was disappeared, most likely assassinated by the Ethiopian military junta in 1984. The disappearance certainly had to do with Girma’s work that had already been censored by Ethiopian authorities. Héctor Germán Oesterheld was also disappeared by the Argentinian Military dictatorship. According to Alberto Ongaro, an Italian writer who continued the work on The Eternaut, the government’s reason for the disappearance was Oesterheld’s authoring of a famous biography of Che Guevara. This sounds unconvincing, a more convincing picture as to do with the evolving politics of the author. By the mid-1970s, he (and his family) had become more critical of the Argentinian military dictatorship.
Oesterheld had started working on a El Eternauta - Parte 2. This is still not available in English and there are concerns as to whether Oesterheld authored its last instalments. But the sequel is a more explicitly critique in which Argentina is ruled by a brutal military dictatorship. Some speculate that he had also joined the Montoneros, an armed resistance to the dictatorship. What is certain, author Uki Goñi reports, is that Oesterheld went into hiding and continued to release work, ‘but in April 1977 he was seized, and taken to army’s clandestine Vesubio prison where torture, murder and rape were the norm.’ He was last seen alive in January 1978 by a fellow prisoner. His four daughters – two of them pregnant – and their partners, ‘were murdered by the dictatorship, their exact fate unknown to this day.’
There is, of course, a long history of (fiction) authors being killed for their criticisms of authoritarian regimes. Georgi Markov - perhaps one of the most famous assassinations of the Cold War - was killed for his (literary) critique of the Bulgarian regime. What other episodes come to mind? is it possible to find commonalities? What pushes authoritarian regimes to remove authors whose reputation often goes far beyond the confines of the dictatorship they are criticising?