THE DIARY OF JOHN DALTON
TRANSCRIBED (FOR THE FIRST TIME) BY SIMWA TESEMAi
AND PUBLISHED BY INAT NEGATCHii PRESS
WITH FUNDING FROM
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
The Diary of John Dalton is not new to academia. Since its discovery by Sudanese fishermen over thirty-five years ago, it has been the subject, in fact, of much discussion and discord. Whether the text was what it seemed to be – that is to say, a true first-hand account of what transpired on the Island of Ethiopia – or what many suspected it to be – a fictional work created as part of an elaborate hoax, was for a time at the heart of public discourse. The complete mystery surrounding Ethiopia after its split from the African continent, the failure of all other expeditions to reach the newly-formed island, the sometimes fantastical accounts within the text itself, and the ignoble past of its writer have, to date, all worked against the diary in its bid for respectability. Recent events, however, have cast a new light upon the work and proved that it is worthy of further investigation.
But before there was John Dalton's Diary, there was Ethiopia's cataclysmic Rift Valley split. The tragedy had cleaved the rock-hewn Biete Medhane Alemiii church in twain, rearranged the face
of the globe, created miles of coastline, killed millions and displaced countless more. In the weeks that followed, the nations of the world regrouped from the tragedy, formed planning committees, and saw to it that two of five planned aid ships were stocked and staffed, ready to sail towards the newly-formed island. The Justice and the Spirit Pacification were the first ships to cross the Sea of Ethiopia and, until recently, the last. After their twisted and mangled wreckage, the gorged and gouged bodies of their crew washed up on the Sudanese coast, no further attempts to reach Ethiopia were made. The sea and, following the loss of several reconnaissance drones, the skies above it were deemed unsafe for travel and global announcements demarcated it as a no-go area. All efforts to regain communication or visual contact with the island failed. And in time the world lost interest in seeking to re-establish links with the island and turned to the more immediate and pressing concern of coping with the millions of desperate people its formation had displaced.
In a sense, this is where my personal history intersects with that of Ethiopia. My parents were amongst the millions that were left homeless by the disaster. Their families had fled Ethiopia when the earthquakes had begun to threaten the imminent split. They had met as undocumented night-shift workers in a chocolate packing plant in France, married in the migrant camp on the same night they had been smuggled aboard a lorry, honeymooned in the Channel Tunnel – en route to England. By the time I was born, nearly three years later, my parents had settled into the little apartment above their corner shop on the outskirts of Manchester. As a child of the Ethiopian Exodus, as it is now called, and a first generation Brit I struggled (as many do) to find a place for myself in my new homeland. There were many of us in Manchester, and we knew each other on sight – the children of the rift, and soon enough others learned to recognise us as well. We drifted
together and apart as political pressure and social discord buffeted us. As our numbers grew, so did the sense that we had overstayed our welcome and, yet, we had nowhere else to go. We were a people in limbo, neither here nor there. Ghosts shimmering on the edges of nothingness. The land of my ancestors was adrift on the ocean, concealed by electric storms and opaque fog. I was no-one. Of no place. Of betweens. It was my parents who grounded me with their stories of the Rift Valley split, survival, and hope. My mother, especially. The tales she told me – of home and other worlds, the traditions she invoked and instilled, the lessons she secreted into song – like medicine nestled in a sweet, formed the foundations of my personhood and self-worth. I imagined Ethiopia through her tales – memories of the long dead, flavours and perfumes, ethereal as smoke dispersing on a breeze – a shrine to break oneself against, a podium to raise oneself upon. From those days until these, I have devoted my life – personal and academic – to the study of that country that had been so vital to my existence and yet managed to remain a complete mystery to me.
About forty years ago now, and in conjunction with a team of other academics and artists of the Exodus, I founded East of the Rift, an umbrella organisation dedicated to the research,
preservation and dissemination of the cultures of Ethiopia, Eritrea, Djibouti and Somalia. As then director of the Ethiopian Cultural Preservation Society, my chapter of East, I heard of the discovery of the diary nearly twenty-four hours before it hit the news. I flew immediately to Sudan to join the University of Khartoum research group assigned to authenticating, restoring and transcribing the text. The Diary of John Dalton had been discovered by construction workers along the newly settled coastline. A recent development boom had cluttered the area with all-inclusive resorts in various stages of completion and destroyed the thriving fishing industry that had sprouted up after the disaster.
The pages were loose, edges jagged where they had been torn free from a notebook, folded together vertically down the centre, stuffed and sealed in a plastic water bottle covered with barnacles and slimy with mould. It was a marvel. Incredibly well-preserved, but for a few places where condensation, time and wear had smudged or smeared the text. Extensive testing on the quality of the paper and the state of the plastic bottle had seemed to point to its authenticity as had research into its author. Records confirmed the existence of a John Dalton in Manchester, and of his travel to Khartoum after the split. Research also confirmed his arrest, trial, and subsequent aquittal for the brutal murder of Dawit Wolde Giorgis, another unfortunate child of the Ethiopian Exodus. In a case that had divided the nation and pitched it to the edge of upheaval, Dalton and two others had been convicted of a racially motivated attack on the teenager and son of immigrants. But a
controversial plea bargain had allowed Dalton to go free after serving a mere year at HM Prison Manchester, commonly referred to as Strangeways. News of his release had been followed
immediately with that of his disappearance. By the time investigative journalists had tracked him to Sudan, he had vanished, never to be heard from again. All these facts had corresponded with what was written in the diary. Everything then had seemed to point to its veracity. Everything, that is, but for the contents of the text itself.
The world that John Dalton describes – how he traversed the sea, travelling through the forbidden zone, the extraordinary people he met and the strange events that befell him on the island of Ethiopia – were simply too fantastical for many to credit. Every question we answered seemed to sprout another line of inquiry. The more we learned of John Dalton, the more his narrative seemed suspect, and yet there seemed to be no motivation behind the fabrication of a false diary, no author present to profit either by prestige or monetary gains. There was also, at least amongst us of the Exodus, a further knowledge that muddied the waters somewhat. It was a small enough thing, and yet in light of the diary it had taken on a sudden and unexpected importance and seemed very relevant indeed to the progress of our study. Ethiopian children play a traditional clapping game known as Tegni Teneshi or Sleep Awaken, that is accompanied by a nursery rhyme whose lyrics became of profound interest to our research team. I remember vividly playing Tegni Teneshi with my mother, sitting in our little kitchen to keep warm as it drizzled outside, moving my arms and hands in mirror image to hers, our voices loud and happy in the small space.
Two gates, two keys
The wax above and the gold beneath. A Queen, a cross, and so she sleeps While father awakens within the void. A thousand worlds for the mother's flames
The daughter's waves cast out again. Her earth, the forest, the beasts within
Break and fall and switch again. Cleave the cross and raise the Queen Two gates, two keys and the gold beneath.
The words to the song seemed to fit, in some strange and profound ways, with some of the events and stories referenced in the diary. This was not definitive proof that what John Dalton had written was fact, but it did lend credence to my growing belief that the diary was indeed a true one. A real, first-hand account of what had taken place on the island after the split. A text, then, of profound cultural and historical importance. On a more personal level, the diary also raised another hope,
long forgotten, from the ashes of my memories. There could still be survivors out there.
The publication of the Diary of John Dalton was met with much fanfare by the international press. Like a phoenix, Ethiopia once again arose within the global imagination. In the midst of all the turmoil surrounding the diary's release, the debates and conjectures never-ending, the countries of the Exodus enjoyed a sort of cultural revival. From the runways of London Fashion Week to the blockbusters of Hollywood, the cultural accoutrements of Ethiopia, Eritrea, Djibouti and Somalia were suddenly de rigeur. The euphoria lasted about a year and culminated, in grand style, with the release of Dalton, a three hour saga, at the Cannes Film Festival. The Universal Studios' epic biopic had, rather infamously, bastardised the diary completely, casting the title character as a young aid worker on a grand mission of mercy to the island's zombie infested wilderness. The movie had been universally panned by critics and audiences alike and is today largely unavailable for purchase.
Since then, I have written extensively on the diary's place in history, arguing for its
recognition as an integral thread to the tale of Ethiopia and its Exodus – whether it is a 'true' story or not. The Rift Valley split rippled out beyond the children of the Exodus, beyond geopolitical
ramifications, development schemes and into the lives of individuals across the globe. John Dalton, whether he kept a diary or wrote a fictional story, whether he was a cold-blooded murderer or an unfortunate man twisted by the political jingoism of his time, was changed forever by the Rift Valley split, as surely as though he had been there to witness it first hand. The intersection of the diary with the song from Tegni Teneshi, the wealth of cultural information within the text and the complicated history of its author all serve to highlight the significance of the work as a historical relic. For more critical work on the relevancy of personal account to historical record and the intersectionality between truth and fiction, I recommend Mignotte Mekuria Marru's 'The
Mother(Land) through Narrative and Nostalgia: The Role Stories Play in the Crafting of Imagined (Exiled) Communities'.
My work in this field has often seemed like an uphill battle, but a rewarding one,
nonetheless. But in light of recent events, it seems as though my work has only just begun. It is a pleasure now to be able to witness the release of this anniversary edition of John Dalton's Diary, and I must admit a marvellous and wonderful vindication. The amateur footage filmed by tourists from the beaches of the Nile Rift Resort has breathed new life into this extraordinary tale. I will never forget seeing the news broadcast, not as long as I live.
I had been running on autopilot, rushing through my usual morning routine, half watching the newscasters on the TV – when there it was. Breaking news. The shaky amateur footage blurring in and out. A savage sea drowning in a vast fog that surged forward and was buffeted aside by howling winds. Concealing and revealing in turns. And what it revealed – what you are seeing is
one of many videos being shared, this one taken by Ousmane Diop, a Senegalese tourist staying at the Nile Rift Resort overlooking the Sea of Ethiopia... But I could hardly fathom what was being said. I could only cross the room and stand watching with my hands folded over my heart. The video adjusts, the image clears. The fog fades and a shadow looms. A great vessel. A figure, straight and still. There for an instant and gone in the next... proof that there are survivors...
Simwa Tesema London
Teshagereh beelut queybahren telateh Alula teqota, nededeh indesatih Chan aleh ferehsayn, welwel goradayn
Awred kegirgidah tor inna gashayn Manim iynekatim wuditoon agerayn
June 7th
It is the music I remember. The sounds coalescing into song. The rushing of my blood, the pounding of my heart, the humming in my ears. The whispers and whimpers. The thuds. Bone and asphalt and sirens. One long drawn out note. The rhythms of my nightmares. It sings to me in my silences, underscores my conversations. Discordant, without mercy. Without end. It plays for me now, drowning out the roar of the plane's engines. Pressing me down, inexorably. Battling the lift of the jet engines, the call of the unknown. And I sit. Hunched. Ruined. A broken thing. Named and shamed. The music swells, hovers like a stench. Lingers like an omen. A hand upon my shoulder, a shadow at my back. It has crowned me Damocles and singed my nerves with the screech of violins. John Dalton no longer lives in this body. That person is long gone. I am what is left. The residue at the bottom of the glass. The sludge that remains once the water has drained away. It is all clear to me now and I have accepted it. I know what I am. So, here I sit. Giving in to the very beast that haunts me. They say the only way out, is through. So be it, then. I will traverse these bars and count the beats of my madness. I will go where I am led. I will do what I must. Will do everything and anything at all. Just, God please, let this music end.
They have dimmed the lights. We are supposed to pretend it is night. The lady beside me is snoring softly. I can see her slumping sideways from the corner of my eye. Our interactions so far have been polite but I can tell that she is beginning to lose patience with me. But what can I do when the familiar cramping seizes my belly, when the heat rushes over me and the bile gathers in my throat? What choice do I have but to push past her in a panic and flee down the aisle, praying all the way that the toilets are unoccupied? I would rather not retch into the paper bag for all to see. Not yet, at least. I've programmed my little personal screen to track the flight. The little white plane seems to hover, unmoving, over the Mediterranean Sea. The sight fills me with relief. I know what I am, so I can admit to my cowardice now. I feel as though I am fragmenting into atoms, shivering into non- existence, vanishing into a state of pure emotion. Of one emotion: terror. But that static map with that motionless plane grounds me. I can pretend that I am suspended in the heavens, frozen in time. I can imagine that I have disappeared into the fold between my yesterdays and my tomorrows. No final judgement, no journey, no life, no death. Only this plane. A white dot frozen over a blue smear. 8 hours and 35 minutes to be nowhere and no one.
June 8th
I hate to fall asleep in public but I must have dozed between bouts of roiling nausea. I was lucky this time. I awoke with the screams bubbling up in my throat, clamouring to break free, and I bit my lips until they bled, until the panic subsided. The effort cost me dearly. I've been forced to use my sick bag. My ears were burning as I handed the sloshing bag apologetically to the steward and asked for another. Just in case. The poor woman beside me has turned her entire body away from me now. She's practically crawling into the aisle in her not-so-subtle effort to put some distance between us. It's humiliating as all hell but I understand completely. It is natural to recoil from the grotesque. From the repulsive. I could tell her that I used to be human, as normal as she, but I am not sure if even that is true. And yet, I must have been. Once.
The captain has made his announcement but I can't stop staring at the little two-dimensional airplane on the screen. The symbol for us. We are circling over our destination but on the map, we hover unmoving over Sudan. Khartoum, the airport, the whole universe awaits below. It is a new map, updated since the disaster. The world has moved on. The jagged edges of Sudan's newly- formed eastern coast are lined with blue. The world's youngest sea. It would have been something to fly over it, to see from above the storm-tossed waves and concealing mists. To catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the landmass hidden beneath the perpetual storms. The world's newest island. It could have been a fairytale if it weren't all so tragic. As it is, all travel to the island or through its waters