In this trade — a worldwide enterprise, really, for Europe, both Americas, and many countries of the Near East and Asia participated in it — Zanzibar is a sad, dark star, a grim address, a cursed isle. Toward it, for years — no, centuries — drew caravans of slaves freshly seized in the interior of the continent, in Congo and Malawi, in Zambia, Uganda, and the Sudan. Frequently tied together with ropes, to make escape more difficult, they served at the same time as porters, carrying to the harbor and onto ships valuable mechandise: tons of ivory, gallons of palm oil, the skins of wild animals, precious stones, ebony.
Transported on boats from the continent’s coast to the island, they were then exhibited for sale in the marketplace. It was called Mkunazini, and it occupied the square near my hotel upon which today stands the Anglican cathedral. The prices varied: from one dollar for a child, to twelve for a young, beautiful girl. Rather expensive, since in Senegambia for one horse the Portuguese could get twelve slaves.
The healthiest and strongest were then driven from Mkunazini to the port: it is close by, several hundred meters. From here, on ships specially designed for the transport of slaves, they would sail to America, or to the Near East. The seriously ill, for whom no one wanted to pay even a few cents, were thrown upon the rocky shore after the day’s activity in the marketplace ended; here they would be devoured by prowling bands of wild dogs. Those among the weak who managed in time to get better and regain their strength would remain on Zanzibar and work as slaves to the Arabs — the proprietors of the enormous plantations of clove trees and coconut palms. Many who took part in the revolution were the grandsons of these slaves.
In the early morning, when the breeze from the sea was still crisp and the temperatures relatively cool, I set out for town. Two young men with machetes follow me. Protectors? Guards? Police? I don’t try to engage them in conversation. Their simple, poorly made machetes clearly present a problem for them. How should they carry them? Proudly and fiercely, or shyly and discreetly? The machete has always been the tool of the laborer, of the pariah, a sign of low status; now, since a few days ago, it has become prestigious, a symbol of power. Whoever has one on him has to belong to the victorious class, for the conquered walk around empty-handed, weaponless.
Immediately upon leaving the hotel one enters the narrow streets typical of old Arab towns. I cannot say why these people built in such a cramped and crowded fashion, why they pressed together this way, practically one atop another. Was it so that they would never have far to walk? Or to be better able to defend the town? I don’t know. But one thing is certain: this mass of piled stone, this accretion of walls, this layering of balconies, recesses, eaves, and rooftops, somehow secured, as though in an icy treasury, a corner of shade, a tiny breeze, and a bit of coolness during the most terrifying noontime heat.
The streets were constructed with similar foresight and ingenuity. They are so situated and arranged that whichever one you take, and in whichever direction, you will ultimately arrive at the seashore, at a wide boulevard where it is more spacious and pleasant than in the congested center.
The city is now deserted and lifeless. What a contrast with how it looked just a few days ago! For Zanzibar was the place where you could meet half the world. Centuries ago, Muslim refugees from Shiraz, Iran, settled on this island already inhabited by indigenous people. With time, they mingled with the local population, nevertheless retaining a certain separateness: they did not come from Africa, after all, but from Asia. Later, Arabs from the Persian Gulf started to arrive. They conquered the island’s Portuguese rulers and seized power, which they then exercised for 260 years. They filled the leading positions in the most lucrative lines of business: the trade in slaves and ivory. They became the proprietors of the best stretches of land and the largest plantations. They commanded a great fleet of ships. With time, Indians and Europeans — mainly the British and the Germans — also came to play key roles in the trade.
Formally, the island was ruled by a sultan, the descendant of Arabs from Oman. In reality, it was a British colony (officially a protectorate).
The lush, fertile plantations of Zanzibar lured people from the continent. They found work here harvesting cloves and coconuts. With increasing frequency, they remained here and settled. In this climate and with the pervading poverty, moving from place to place is not difficult: in just a few hours, you can erect a shelter and stash all your possessions inside — a shirt, a pot, a water bottle, a piece of soap, and a mat. A man can quickly have a roof over his head and, most importantly, his own place on earth; he can now start looking around for something to eat. This presents more of a problem. In practice, he can get work only on an Arab plantation — everything is in their hands. For years, the newcomer from the continent treated this order of things as normal — until, that is, a leader and agitator showed up in the neighborhood and told him that this Arab was someone Other, and that there was something ominous, satanic, about this Other: he was not only a stranger, but a bloodsucker and an enemy. The universe that the immigrant had perceived as preordained once and for all by the gods and the ancestors, he now saw as an injurious and degrading order, which, if he was to continue living, must be changed.
Herein lies the attractiveness of ethnic agitation: its ease and accessibility. The Other is visible, everyone can recognize and remember his image. One doesn’t have to read books, think, discuss: it is enough just to look.
On Zanzibar, this racial dichotomy, increasingly fraught, is created on the one hand by the ruling Arabs (20 percent of the population), and on the other by their subjects, black Africans from the island and the continent — small farmers and fishermen, an indeterminate and fluid mass of laborers, house servants, donkey drivers, porters.
These tensions mount at the very moment when the Arab world and black Africa are both setting out on their respective roads to independence. What does this mean on Zanzibar? The Arabs are saying, We want independence (meaning: we want to stay in power). The Africans are saying the same thing: we want independence. But they imbue this slogan with another meaning: because we are the majority, power should be transferred into our hands.
Those are the states and the essence of the conflict. And the British then add fuel to the fire. Because they have good relations with sultans of the Persian Gulf (from whom the sultan of Zanzibar traces his descent), and because they fear an Africa in revolt, they announce that Zanzibar is part of the Arab world, not of the African, and by granting it independence they simultaneously ratify Arab power. The African party — the Afro-Shirazi Party, whose leader is Abeid Karume — protests against this, but it protests legally, observing the law, because although it consitutes the opposition, it is a parliamentary opposition.
Meantime, a young man from Uganda turns up in Zanzibar — John Okello. He has just turned twenty-five. As is frequently the case in Africa, he has, or he pretends to have, many professions — he is a stonecutter, a bricklayer, a house painter. A semi-illiterate, but endowed with charisma, a self-made man with a sense of mission. He is animated by several simple ideas, which come to him as he is cutting stone or laying bricks: