DAVID CHACKO

Probably, the day I became a writer was when I stood on a balcony four stories above the African highland city of Asmara. The Americans on the next balcony were throwing trinkets to the crowd in the street below. They were almost worthless things like ballpoint pens and pairs of gloves (which were good against the highland cold) and cigarettes and candy.

 

But it got weird down there in the street. Scuffles started—and if it was a fight for gloves or Jujubees no one will ever know. A lot more people poured quickly in from the neighboring streets to get a piece of whatever it was worth fighting for. And so it became a brawl that took place. Since most Ethiopian men—even street people--carried slender four foot clubs made of very hard wood, the melee turned into an armed battle without much transition.

 

Probably, no one even asked what it was they were fighting for. It had to be valuable if so many people were clawing and gouging for it, didn't it? Well, didn't it?

 

Of course it got bloody out there in a hurry, and standing four floors up gave a bird's eye view into the chaos. The Americans on the next balcony were appalled to find that they had started a riot. Since they had no thoughts of their own, they wondered out loud—they even asked me--what they should do to stop the thing they couldn’t deny having brought into being.

 

I had no answer. These things happened. If you were stupid, they happened a lot more. I didn't know what this scene told me about human nature, but I knew it was political and that I would use it some day.