I park by the hangar. The airport is swarming with people, both civilians and military, and the army band is playing in the distance. I’m five minutes late.

“Three months is nothing,” I tell Roman. “It’s like I’ll be back tomorrow. Please, send me off with a smile so I can be happy.” I lift her chin and look at her, but her sorrow settles into my heart. She smiles for a moment, but it isn’t real. I need more, so I tickle her—she’ll do anything for me when I tickle her.

“Oh, Tsegaye, please,” she says, smiling and giggling. Her laughter is my favorite music.

I look around to make sure nobody is watching—I hate to be impolite—and then I kiss her. I hand her the car keys and move to get out, but she grabs my arm.

“Tsegaye, I’m scared. I don’t know why. But I’m scared.”

“You’re the patriotic fiancée of a Red Star campaigner. We’ll be fine. Just smile.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” she says.

“Then what?”

“Everywhere you go, you make yourself at home. Any new place, you get used to it right away. I’m afraid you’re going to give my love to someone else. Those Asmara women with their braids—they move fast, like eagles.”

“If there’s a woman more beautiful than you, then I suppose you could be outdone, but I doubt she exists. So don’t worry about it. Oh, and could you please drop the car at the mechanic? I’ll call you when I get to Asmara. Ciao!” I jump out of the car to avoid seeing her cry.

I’m about to cry as well. When two people are in love, even a brief separation is a heavy burden. Are time and space the enemies of love? I don’t know.

I run to the plane and I’m almost there when the guards grab me—I forgot about the security check. Thankfully it’s just a quick inspection. A soldier frisks me, then lets me board.

Everyone else is already in their seat, waiting for the Chairman to arrive. The chief of protocol, Tedla Regassa, looks at me with disdain. If people aren’t in their assigned seats on time, he gets nervous, bemoans his bad luck, and curses everyone. He’s checking names off a list clutched in his hand. I’m the last to arrive, and he’s relieved.

“What happened, Comrade Tsegaye?” he asks.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” I lie, with a smile.

“You Ministry of Information people, what are we going to do with you? Can you ever turn up in the right place at the right time? It gives me a stomachache, heartburn.”

“We’re only late because we’re weighed down by our equipment.”

“You’re late because you’re weighed down by your hangovers.” His face hints at a smile. “We should install a special telephone line in the Jimma Bar for you journalists. And maybe one at the July 19 Bar as well.”

Now that everyone is in their assigned place, he relaxes and can joke around. The Chief of Protocol can seem stern, but he’s a good guy. When he laughs, his mouth, eyes, and big rolling belly all laugh along with him. He lacks good looks but makes up for it with his humor and open personality. A major in the army, he traded his military fatigues for stylish three-piece suits the minute he was appointed Chief of Protocol.

The airplane is full, front to back. All the important people in Addis are heading to Asmara for the Red Star Campaign. There are journalists and poets, historians and speechwriters, artists and musicians, photographers and filmmakers. Along with them are agricultural experts, engineers, leaders of industry and commerce. Nobody is left in Addis. We better not crash.

Here on the plane are some who are happy and glowing, some melancholy from too much smoking and booze, some rested and some sleepless, some with beards and some clean-shaven. There is hardly anyone I don’t recognize. We all know each other; we are all connected somehow, tightly or loosely. We are all from the same generation. Young, in a hurry, ambitious. We are destined to bring about the renaissance of Ethiopia. To bring pride, unity, prosperity, and peace to the Revolutionary Motherland. This is a special gathering, maybe the first time our new generation holds the future of Ethiopia in our hands. It is a revolution, the energy and ambitions of the young, fighting for our dreams for this land, this country, this Ethiopia, the land of our ancestors, of patriots. We are a revolution, come to replace our elders, singing songs of triumph:

I shall return victorious,
After vanquishing the enemy,
As my forefathers did.

I move up the plane to find my seat. It looks as if Asmara is going to be the new capital of Ethiopia, at least for the next three months. Maybe the sun is setting on Addis, like the song says.

A writer calls out to me, “Mr TV!”

“Over here, over here,” interrupts the Chief of Protocol, waving at me to follow. I don’t hesitate. With the Chairman about to arrive, everyone is all business. The Chief of Protocol takes me to the front of the plane and points at the last empty seat in first class. The rest of the section is filled with members of the Derg—the top leadership of the country—along with ministers and party officials.

“Comrade, are you sure this is my seat?” I ask the Chief of Protocol.

“Just sit down, darling.” That’s how he talks to people he likes.

“This is protocol?”

“Yes, Tsegaye, this is your seat.”

The Chief of Protocol is not the kind of man who makes mistakes. He takes his job very seriously, and thinks carefully about who should sit where. He knows where everyone stands politically. Some Derg officials call him “Comrade Hierarchy” and it’s no joke—his seating charts reflect who is gaining or losing power.

I’m quite impressed with myself, sitting here rubbing shoulders with the country’s leaders. It feels good when the big guys greet me. They know me from being on Ethiopian TV, but their greetings aren’t really a gesture of friendship. I can tell by their expressions that they’re wondering what the hell I’m doing, sitting up here with them.

There are other professionals like me seated in first class. To my left is Director Betru Tessema, his big round face reflecting his usual serenity. Trained by both the CIA and the KGB, he’s an expert at breaking up anti-government movements. To look at him you’d think he’s a rich businessman, not a spy. He always greets people with a smile, speaks with a smile, and says goodbye with a smile. Mr Happy. Betru doesn’t say much, but he knows the organization and strategy of every opposition group and splinter faction. He smiles at me, and I smile back.

Seated to my right is Metshafe Daniel, our chief economist. He has a small face and a bald patch on his head that makes him look like a squash. His limbs are thin, but his belly is large and protruding, as if he has a kebero drum under his shirt. To make up for his awkward appearance, he wears fancy clothes. That said, he’s an expert economist, well-versed in the theory and practice of both capitalist and socialist systems. During the Somalia conflict I travelled with him all over Harrarge, the eastern province, as he documented the economic impact of the war. I know him well. Right now Metshafe looks like he’s forgotten something and is worried about it. Sometimes he will insist on talking to you at length. Other times you can say something to him and he will ignore you, scratch his belly, and check himself for signs of disease. A hypochondriac, he’s convinced that he has every illness known to medicine, and maybe some new ones too. He’s scratching his stomach and I silently wish him a speedy recovery.

In front of me is the man we call the Ethiopian Suslov, the chief ideologue of the party. His real name is Yeshitla Masresha and he comes from a long line of priests. He has light skin and a handsome, angular face, all sharp edges. His personality is sharp as well, his words strong and cutting. Even his Afro, though thinning, has sharp edges. He can come across as egotistical, but if you get to know him, he is kind and considerate. I enjoy talking with Yeshitla, but he can be hard to understand.

Behind me is Colonel Wolday Tariku. He seems dejected—longing, I imagine, for whiskey and war. Thin, almost emaciated, he looks like a famine victim. He is tall with long arms, like he was designed to retrieve items from high shelves. His unruly black hair gives him the appearance of a bandit just back from the bush. I went to elementary school with Wolday. Even as a child, his favorite pastime was playing war games with the other boys in our neighborhood. His family is from Eritrea, and his father, Grazmatch Tariku Bahita, was a celebrated fighter in the war against the Italian invaders. Grazmatch Tariku walked almost seven hundred miles from Asmara to Addis Ababa to fight alongside other patriots and free his beloved Ethiopia from the fascists. Wolday turned out to be a great soldier like his father, and is famous for his battles against the insurgents. When they hear him coming, they take off and don’t stop running for days. Give Wolday a drink and a rifle and he is a happy man.

A familiar voice calls my name and I turn around. Standing in the aisle is my friend Firew Zerihun, a photojournalist I often work with. “I saved a seat for you, next to mine,” he says, his big voice booming out of his small body. Even sitting down, I’m almost as tall as him.

“Well, it seems my seat is here,” I say. “They’ve put us in different sections.”

“So this is a class difference between us?” Firew asks with a smirk.

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his need, comrade.”

“Ah, such a democratic revolution.” He hurries back to his seat. Firew walks fast and talks fast. He works the same way, swift and daring. People love him, especially women.

The Chief of Protocol gets our attention and announces in a loud voice, “Comrade Chairman.”

All the noise and chatter in the airplane stops. It is silent. You could hear a tear fall.

“Good morning, comrades.”

The Chairman’s voice is strong, and his friendly smile projects an earthy humility. He’s wearing his military uniform, impeccable as always. His arrival gives me an overwhelming feeling of confidence and courage.

The leaders of a country are human, just like the rest of us, so I don’t understand why their presence fills me with patriotism and devotion, as if they were larger than life. Maybe it’s because they are the protectors of the people, responsible for our dignity and well-being. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, I do respect authority. My colleagues notice this and behind my back will say, “There goes Tsegaye, wagging his tail for the big bosses.” But I’m not that kind of person at all. There are many things I don’t know about myself, but I know I don’t wag my tail. Where would that get me? My goal is not to have a powerful high-profile position. I want to be admired and respected for being good at my job. That much I do know about myself. My work drives me, and that is a fact. If you don’t tackle life’s challenges, then what is the point of being alive? To live is to strive. Being a passive observer is not for me. You swim through the waves of life, you float on top of them, or you drown, that’s it. The true meaning of life is to work for a cause. As long as I can do that, I am at peace.

“Come here quickly,” says the Chief of Protocol and waves at me to follow him. He’s always in rush.

“Where to?” I ask and get up from my seat.

“The Chairman is asking for you. Hurry!”

I follow the Chief of Protocol up the aisle to the front of the plane. Everyone follows me with their eyes.

The Chairman has a hearty smile, and an unassuming manner and modesty that brings out the humility in others. His eyes continually shift from side to side, never fixing on any one spot. He is usually reserved, like a panther, though sometimes he can be an angry wounded panther. The anger comes, I suppose, when he is given bad information by some expert or another. I know him, to a certain extent. During the past eight years I have travelled with his entourage in Ethiopia, and abroad to East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Moscow and Yemen. In that time I have watched him grow from a curious man to a wise one, from an eager patriot to a seasoned revolutionary, from an upright military officer to a shrewd leader. Is there any better way to learn than being in the driver’s seat? Compared to him, the rest of us haven’t done much during the eight years of the Revolution, other than grow our hair grey and our fingernails long. Someone once said that engaging in class struggle in the streets, factories, or farms will teach you more than any university education. I don’t remember who said that, but they were right.

“Comrade Tsegaye, the cameras and the film ordered by your Ministry of Information for the campaign, have they arrived?”

“Comrade Chairman, the photo film is here,” I say. “We’re still waiting for the movie cameras and their film.”

“And why is that? It’s been twenty days since the money was allocated—80,000 Birr. Is the importance of this campaign and its urgency not clearly understood? Orders were given to import these items without delay or unnecessary bureaucracy. What happened?”

“Comrade Chairman, the movie cameras we ordered are professional grade, the kind that are not kept on hand but assembled at the factory only after the purchase order is made. We are making every effort to—”

“Comrade Tsegaye, we do not have the luxury of time. We are men of action fighting to cement the survival of a proud and respected Socialist Ethiopia. Our revolutionary mission is critical and momentous, and, as such, every aspect of our operation must be recorded and documented because what we do today will be tomorrow’s legacy. We might not be capable of manufacturing the cameras ourselves, but why are we incapable of buying them?”

“We are constantly in touch with the manufacturer via telex and telegram, Comrade Chairman. They should arrive—”

“They have to arrive in Asmara by January 18th. I repeat, January 18th.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” I say. I calculate in my head how much time we have. Three weeks. God help me.

“We will be making a major speech in Asmara, at our high-level policy conference with representatives from worker collectives, the Church and every ethnic group. All the necessary arrangements must be made so that everyone in Ethiopia will be able to listen to the conference on the radio, watch it on television, and read about it in the newspapers. The Eritrean problem requires the efforts of every patriotic Ethiopian. Popular opinion is critical, now and for the future, so propaganda and activism will play a major role in this campaign. You will be given a detailed set of instructions before the conference.”

I bow my head and start to leave, but he isn’t done with me yet.

“There is more. The two Asmara newspapers, Hibiret and Ethiopia Today, need to be changed to align with the objectives of our Red Star Campaign and we must also find ways to increase their distribution and readership. Don’t worry about money or manpower, do what it takes. The programmes on Radio Asmara should also be reviewed to make them reflect the purpose, objective, and progress of the campaign. Another critical task is jamming the signal of the insurgency’s radio station, Dimtsi Hafash, to stop the lies they are broadcasting. We’re not going to Asmara for a holiday—we’ll be working day and night, and everyone must contribute their energy and intellect to make this national campaign a success. Am I clear Comrade Tsegaye?”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman.”

I silently pray to Gabriel, Saint of Kulubi, and ask him to get me out of this fix. Then I curse whoever nominated me for this job and go back to my seat. As soon as I sit down I fasten my seat belt tight, before the stewardess even tells me.

Next it is Metshafe Daniel, the chief economist, who is summoned for a discussion with the Chairman. He isn’t wasting any time getting the Red Star Campaign started. His words, “We are men of action,” echo in my ears. Nothing goes over the Chairman’s head and he does not forget. He remembers names, dates, figures. He keeps track of everything. When I think about it, I’m not just impressed, I am astounded. How would I manage if I were in his place? Good thing I’m not. It’s lonely up there.

Word comes that the plane is about to take off, or else the Chairman would have kept giving us instructions. With this kind of start, I know it will be even busier once we arrive in Asmara. The Chairman never has enough time, so he won’t allow us any rest either, unless Saint Gabriel intervenes with a miracle.

A voice on the loudspeaker announces, “On behalf of Comrade Chairman, welcome to Special Flight 709. We will be flying at an altitude of 29,000 feet and our total flight time will be fifty-five minutes. Please fasten your seat belts.”

We all need to buckle up for this historic mission, and I pull my seat belt even tighter. The plane taxis down the runway and gains speed. A special flight, its mission the Red Star Campaign. I cross myself as we rise into the sky and head north.