14 terrorists for interrogation

‘The operation was a success which exceeded our expectations, with everybody safely back - the most serious casualties were two cuts and a bruise. The snatch from ZIPRA base in Botswana brought back 14 terrorists for interrogation . . .’. This is Ian Douglas Smith, the white Rhodesian politician born a century ago today, who led his country into independence from Britain and through many years of international sanctions and mounting opposition and attacks by black Rhodesians. The quote, along with just a few others, comes from a diary kept by Smith. They are quoted in his sole autobiographical work, but there is almost no other readily available information about his diaries.

Smith was born on 8 April 1919 in Selukwe, Rhodesia (now Shurugwi, Zimbabwe), then a British colony. He was educated locally, and at Rhodes University, Grahamstown (South Africa) until 1939, when he joined the Royal Air Force. He was shot down twice during World War Two (after one crash, part of his face was reconstructed surgically), but survived to complete his university studies in commerce. Back in Selukwe he married Janet Watt, with whom he had one child (though he also took on Janet’s two young children). Having decided on a career in politics he served, from 1948, in the Legislative Assembly as a Rhodesian party member. And when the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland was formed in 1953, Smith was elected to the federal parliament as a member of the ruling United Federal party. He was appointed chief government whip in 1958.

In 1961, though, when the federalists supported a new constitution allowing for greater black representation in Parliament, Smith resigned from the party, and became a founding member of the new right-wing Rhodesian Front party This won a surprise victory in the 1962 general election. Under Prime Minister Winston Field, Smith served as deputy prime minister and minister of the Treasury. The Federation was dissolved in 1963, and in 1964 Field was ousted, and Smith became prime minister of Southern Rhodesia. He soon ran into a serious stand-off with Britain, and in 1965 unilaterally declared Rhodesia independent. Britain refused to accept this move. It sought and won approval from the UN for economic sanctions - nevertheless, Rhodesia continued to receive oil and other goods from South Africa and Portuguese Mozambique. In 1969, Smith won a referendum establishing Rhodesia as a republic and enshrining a constitution favourable to the white minority.

In the early 1970s, Smith’s government was preoccupied with developing military capability to counter increasing black Rhodesian guerrilla activity. In 1977, finally, he negotiated with the moderate black leader Bishop Muzorewa for a transfer of power from the whites to the black majority. Smith remained as prime minister and a member of the Transitional Executive Council that oversaw the process until mid-1979. In 1980, Robert Mugabe easily won an election and established the first free African government in Zimbabwe. Smith remained a member of parliament until 1987, when he was suspended. Although his influence was waning, he continued to criticise the government, and tried, unsuccessfully, to rally opposition parties in the 1995 elections. He moved to Cape Town in 2005, and died there two years later. Further biographical information can be found at Wikipedia, Encyclopaedia Britannica, and Encyclopedia.com.

In 1997, after Smith had effectively retired from politics, John Blake published The Great Betrayal: The Memoirs of Ian Douglas Smith. This was subsequently republished under slightly different titles: Bitter Harvest: The Great Betrayal, and Bitter Harvest: Zimbabwe and the Aftermath of its Independence. Some pages of this latter can be previewed at Googlebooks. In the memoir, Smith refers to - and quotes from - his diary on a few occasions. However, I have not been able to find any further information about this diary. In a Washington Post article from 1983, Smith is quoted as saying that, after his house had been searched, some of his diaries had not been returned. And Dr Richard Wood (I presume, though his name is absent) in an obituary on the website for 1st Battalion Rhodesian Light Infantry Regimental Association says he helped Smith on his memoir but was not, however, ‘offered access to his private papers or his diaries’. 

Here are most of the quotes from Smith’s diary that he includes in his memoir.

6 February 1976
‘A message from Harold Hawkins [the Rhodesian diplomat] to say that Vorster had called him in for a briefing on how the talks were going, and then thinking aloud wondered whether it might not be a good idea for South Africa to have an observer present. If we agreed he hoped an invitation would come from us, as they did not want to be seen to be pushing in! We discussed the idea and concluded that it would be preferable if they stayed at home.’
 
7 February 1976
‘Spent a few hours this morning watching our Currie Cup cricket game against Western Province, and Rhodesia put up a very good performance. Eric Rowan, one of South Africa’s great batsmen, was there, and he came and had a good talk with me - cricket and politics! That evening a message came in reporting a successful encounter, where we had bagged 18 terrorists with no casualties on our side. An enjoyable and successful day.’
 
13 May 1978
‘A pleasant break away from it all, with a happy trip to Kariba to unveil a
memorial to Operation Noah. This had been a fantastically successful exercise, rescuing thousands of wild animals [when Lake Kariba started to fill for the first time], something quite unique and which had never previously been done in the world. My heart was in tune with that small, simple, dignified ceremony, in keeping with the concept and execution of the operation, which extended over a period of a few years in order to ensure maximum rescue.’

12 April 1979
‘For the past week I’ve been talking with Nat JOC about a few trans-border operations. From captured terrorists we have information that it is their intention to step up operations during our election in order to harass and embarrass us. ZIPRA has a base in Botswana, and they travel to and from Zambia using the Kazangula ferry. The ZIPRA HQ is in Lusaka, the nerve centre from which all their operations are planned. And they have a large base west of Lusaka from which operations in that area are conducted. One captive from that base tells us that they are planning a big operation to take over a landing strip in north-western Matabeleland, to which they will fly in aircraft from Angola. Our chaps on the ground are hoping that they will try, because they will all be eliminated and we would welcome a few extra aircraft to add to our fleet! But of course, they have neither the ability nor the nerve for such an operation.

So we are going in tonight with a four-pronged attack, just to give them a reminder. The preparations have been meticulous, because at this kind of game the element of surprise is crucial and for that reason one seldom has a second chance. As always, there are great risks, especially with daring operations, and one of these involves driving over the Kafue Bridge on the main trunk road, which is heavily guarded. But our SAS have a plan, and they are confident. These fantastic chaps have proved so many times in the past that they can do the almost impossible. I wished them well, and that night offered up a prayer for their safe return. Many a time I have heard visiting military specialists comment that our Army and Air Force must be, for its size, one of the finest in the world.’
 
13 April 1979
‘The operation was a success which exceeded our expectations, with everybody safely back - the most serious casualties were two cuts and a bruise. The snatch from ZIPRA base in Botswana brought back 14 terrorists for interrogation, the Kazangula ferry was at the bottom of the Zambezi River, Nkomo’s house, which is a stone’s throw from State House in Lusaka, was demolished, and ZIPRA HQ and an arms cache nearby blown up. The base west of Lusaka was sent flying in all directions.’

Victorian eclipse diary

Sir William Crookes, a British scientist and inventor, died a century ago today. He is noted for his discovery of the element thallium, for being a pioneer of vacuum tubes and inventing the Crookes tube, and for being an early exponent of scientific investigation into psychic phenomena. There’s no evidence he was a diarist like many other eminent Victorians, but he did keep a detailed journal during one expedition, in 1870, to North Africa to study a total solar eclipse. This was published, soon after his death, as part of a biography put together by his scientist colleague Edmund Fournier d’Albe.

Crookes was born in London in 1832, the eldest child of a prosperous tailor, originally from the north, and his second wife (who would have 15 more children). He was educated at Prospect House School, Weybridge, and, aged 16, began a scientific career at the Royal College of Chemistry, London. From 1849 to 1854, he was a personal assistant to the College’s director, August Wilhelm von Hofmann, an organic chemist. Influenced by Michael Faraday and others he met at the Royal Institution, he became more interested in optical physics and photography, researching new compounds of the element selenium. He left the Royal College in 1854, taking up a position as superintendent of the meteorological department of the Radcliffe (Astronomical) Observatory in Oxford; and, the following year, he was appointed lecturer in chemistry at the Chester Anglican teachers’ training college. In 1856, he married Ellen Humphrey with whom he had ten children, although only four survived into adulthood.

With an inheritance from his father, Crookes set up his own laboratory in London. Over the years, he became well-known for his pioneering research: among other things, he discovered the element thallium, invented the radiometer and developed cathode ray tubes (such as the Crookes tube). He accumulated 17 patents for inventions (the radiometer, improvements in a spectrum camera, incandescent lamps, and the treatment of water gas); and he was successfully involved in the business exploitation of many of them. Throughout his life, also, he wrote many scientific papers (though he never actually achieved an academic position) and edited scientific journals. Indeed, he was the founder in 1859 of Chemical News and in 1864 of the Quarterly Journal of Science. He was named a fellow of the Royal Society in 1863, was knighted in 1897, and in 1910 received the Order of Merit, among other awards and honours.

Crookes is also well remembered for his forays into the spiritual world. Following the early death of a much-loved brother, Crookes began to attend seances, and to investigate psychic phenomena. He, himself, became convinced that some psychics were genuine, but he failed to persuade scientific colleagues to publish his research (and so published it in his own journals). He joined the Society for Psychical Research, becoming its president in the 1890s; he also joined the Theosophical Society and The Ghost Club, of which he was president from 1907 to 1912. In 1890 he was initiated into the newly-formed Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. He died on 4 April 1919. Further information can be found at Wikipedia, the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (log-in required), PSI Encyclopedia, and Encyclopedia.com.

Some of Crookes’ lab notebooks are held by the Science Museum and some by the Royal Institution. However, the National Archives lists no diaries among his literary remains. Nevertheless, Crookes did keep a diary on at least one journey abroad, in 1870-1871, when he travelled with the Government Eclipse Expedition. A notable team of scientists was dispatched aboard HMS Urgent: it landed one team on Sicily, and Crookes’ group at Oran, Algeria. Their main objective was to use the coming eclipse (on 22 December) to study the sun’s corona. Part of the impetus for the expedition came from the fact that it was known there would be no further total eclipse within easy reach of England for the next 17 years. Poor weather meant that Crookes was unable to carry out his experiments; nevertheless, extensive extracts (some 30 pages) from the diary he kept during the expedition was published in The Life of Sir William Crookes by Fournier D’Albe (T. Fisher Unwin, 1923). This is freely available to read at Internet Archive.

Here are several extracts from Crookes’ diary as found in the biography.

6 December 1870
‘After breakfast walked on deck. A host of young Oxford men, some nearly boys, pressed into service as observers with polariscope. “What is a polariscope?” Favouritism and jobbery.

Urgent a mere shell a week ago. Sudden orders to fit her out. Everything done since Tuesday last. Interior fittings, curtains, beds, sheets, china, glass, stores, etc., all got in red-hot haste. All spoons and forks newly plated. Not cost Government less than £10,000, half of which might have been saved if more time had been given. Most of men and officers come from Duke of Wellington. Everyone strange to ship except Captain Hamilton. This expense, however, will not appear in Estimates. Red tapeism - parsimony in treatment of observers and lavish expenditure of money in other ways.

Professor Newcomb and Mrs. Newcomb (the only lady on board). Conversation as to American eclipse. Two parties in U.S., the Naval Board and the Observatory. The Naval Board report not printed yet. The Observatory report out first. Dr. Coffin the head of the observers. His name not mentioned in my article in Quarterly Journal of Science by accidental omission.

Swinging ship for compass deviation. A long job, some hours. Queen’s ships do not adjust by permanent magnets as in the Mercantile Marine, but by table of errors and deviations.

Telegrams sent to Echo and Nelly. Also long letter to Nelly, posted and sent by officer who superintended swinging of ship.

Carpenter and Noble sent to other papers.

At last moment last night a telegram arrived from Admiralty (in answer to urgent appeal from Huggins) ordering the ship to take the Oran party on to Oran from Gibraltar. This is good news, for I shall be with the Urgent all the time, and shall not have to leave the ship for a smaller one.

Bread and cheese lunch at 12.30. Too early for appetite. [. . .]’

12 December 1870
‘At 2 this morning we passed Cape St. Vincent, and then bowled along well, the wind for almost the first time being of some use. We made this morning 11 knots an hour. In the afternoon we began to look out for Cadiz. Soon white houses and a tali white lighthouse commenced to appear above the waves. “There’s Cadiz,” everyone said, and the ship’s course was altered direct to the lighthouse. As we neared it the houses got higher until we could see a small town, on a low sandy shore appearing. Then a pilot boat put off to us, and a man was seen in it waving his hat violently to attract our attention. “There’s Lord Lindsay,” cried Huggins, who was looking through his aluminium telescope. The word went round, and the ship was stopped. The man came alongside, when, instead of Lord Lindsay, he turned out to be a seedy-looking pilot who could not speak English. We mustered sufficient Spanish, however, to find out that the place was not Cadiz, but that he would take us there. This was a thorough sell, so we gave him a sovereign and bundled him back, and steamed away a little further south. The lighthouse (a new one not on our chart) had misled the master, and the village it seems was Chipiona. As it got dark the lighthouse of Cadiz appeared, but the navigation being difficult, it was thought better to lay to all night at sea. So here we are, some miles from shore, very little wind, and no steam up, rolling about in a helpless manner. We expect to be in Cadiz to-morrow morning by breakfast-time.’
 
15 December 1870
‘I am greatly disappointed to find that there were no letters for me, and that we shall leave Gibraltar this morning before the P. & O. steamer, which is expected to-day with mails from London of last Saturday, comes in. At about 9 a.m. the gunboat which is to take the Estepona party started, and in about an hour we followed on our way to Oran.

The Mediterranean was as calm and smooth as a pond, scarcely a ripple to be seen, and there was no wind. The appearance of the rock of Gib. is singularly grand viewed from the Mediterranean side, resembling a lion couchant, the head towards Spain and the tail towards Africa. Soon the African coast disappeared, and we skirted the Spanish shore nearly all day. The little wind which now blew was rather chilly, coming as it did from the Sierra Nevada range of mountains, which could be seen in the distance, their tops covered with snow. The day passed without any event at all. My head ached rather badly all day (the result of the dinner last night - or perhaps the penny cigars!), but towards night, after a nap, it got better. The phosphorescence of the sea was very beautiful, the track of the vessel was left in a sheet of silvery flame, and looking down the screw well the whole body of water seemed a mass of light, which illuminated the surrounding objects. I tried to get a spectrum of this light, but could only see that there was little or no red in it.’

16 December 1870
‘We passed close along the African coast all the morning. It is extremely bold and picturesque, high mountains alternating with beautiful green valleys. Not a tree, however, was to be seen anywhere, and the heights were perfectly bare of vegetation. After some delay we at last anchored in Oran bay, and had the usual officials in gold lace on a visit of inspection. Huggins and Admiral Ommaney went ashore, and as the captain thought it better for no one else to leave till they had come back to say it was all right, we were kept prisoners for nearly 4 hours - much to our disgust. At about 4 p.m. we left the ship, and for the first time put our foot on African ground. I was disappointed at the appearance of Oran. It is an inferior edition of a dirty French town, and has all the vices and inconveniences of a low garrison town without much redeeming points of Oriental life. Moors and Arabs and darker gentry there are in abundance, and the quaintness of their costumes, in spite of the dirt and filth about them, is very picturesque. Still there was quite as much to be seen at Gibraltar. The streets of Oran are wide, and there are many good shops. It is quite as large a place as Boulogne, but of course vastly inferior as far as the French life is concerned. From a comparison of the photographs I should say it greatly resembled Scarborough in outward aspect and scenery. On the high ground around are perched forts, and one tremendous hill close at the side of Oran has a large fort on it. Every other man one meets is a Zouave, or Chasseur d’Afrique, and the place is entirely under military rule.

We returned to the ship to dinner, and afterwards went out in a party to see “life” in Oran, which consisted in going into a café chantant of the lowest description, sitting beside the biggest blackguards I ever saw (together with some decentish people), drinking a villainous mixture of coffee and curaçoa, and seeing some highly disgusting dancing, terminating with the can-can. On returning to the ship we had a committee meeting. Little Huggins’s bumptiousness is most amusing. He appears to be so puffed up with his own importance as to be blind to the very offensive manner in which he dictates to the gentlemen who are co-operating with him, whilst the fulsome manner in which he toadies to Tyndall must be as offensive to him (Tyndall) as it is disgusting to all who witness it. I half fancy there will be a mutiny against his officiousness. Wrote to Nelly.’

18 December 1870
‘Cloudy and rainy. We had service on the main deck. Mr. Howlett preached, the text being from Amos viii. v. 9: “And it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Lord God, that I will cause the sun to go down at noon, and I will darken the earth in the clear day.” The sermon was a very excellent one. In the afternoon walked up to the observatory, and saw how the sappers were getting on with the foundations and instruments. Several of the principal men of the town came to dinner this evening, so we put on full dress and furbished up our French. The speeches were very amusing, and the way in which the Frenchmen mixed their liquors, taking sherry, hock, champagne, moselle, bitter ale, curaçoa, coffee, brandy, and then bitter ale again, was a wonderful sight. The dinner party did not break up till very late.’

19 December 1870
‘Raining, blowing, thundering, and lightning almost all day. Prospects very unfavourable for eclipse. Went up to the observatory tents and worked at the telescope and spectroscope I am to have, it having been decided in committee this morning that Huggins was to have the large telescope and equatorial. On the road home made some purchases at the shop of Moïse Ben Ichou, 22 Rue Philippe. Towards evening the rain, wind, and lightning got much more violent.’

22 December 1870 [part of a very long entry this day]
‘[. . .] At about 11 a.m. I was watching the sun through my opera glass protected by dark glasses, when I detected a distinct indentation a little above the centre, on the right. The eclipse for which we had travelled so many hundreds of miles, and spent so much time, trouble, and money had commenced. Ten seconds afterwards a cloud came over and nothing more could be seen till 11.8, when the advance was clearly visible. At 11.10 thick clouds covered the sun for several minutes. 11.25 sky quite overcast. 11.30 clouds breaking. 11.40 sun visible, and occasionally so till 12.10, when it disappeared behind light fleecy clouds. At 12.15 the sun totally disappeared, and was no more visible till about half an hour after totality. At 12.20 the whole sky was overcast. Here and there a few patches of blue sky could be seen in various parts to windward, and over the landscape patches of sunshine were seen sweeping along as the clouds moved. At 12.28 approximately, at which time totality was to commence, the sky was anxiously scanned for blue patches. One approached, but passed too much to the north, and on going out of the tent at 12.25 I saw that there was not the least chance of the next blue patch coming across our meridian for at least a quarter of an hour, whilst it seemed certain then to pass to the north of the sun. The light was now declining rapidly, and although there was no sign of break in the density of the obscuring clouds, I went to the eye-piece of the instrument and looked in on the chance of seeing something. Not a trace of a spectrum could be seen, and I had to decide rapidly whether to stay there in the absolute certainty of seeing nothing, or to go outside and at all events see something of the general effect of the approaching darkness on the landscape. Had there been the faintest chance of seeing anything with the spectroscope I should have stayed at it, but as it was I decided to go outside, where most of the observers were already. 

On the distant horizon and here and there in the far east gleams of bright light and patches which looked like sunshine were tantalisingly visible. The western horizon was of a dark blue-black, the sky overhead was like indigo. Suddenly a dark purple pall seemed to rise up behind Santa Cruz, the high ground on our west, and rapidly cover us in deep gloom spreading to the east almost as far as the eye could see. The sky overhead looked as if it were crushed down on to our heads, and the sight was impressively awful. The darkness was not so great as I had expected, for at no time was I unable to read small newspaper type, or see the seconds hand of my watch, but the colour of the darkness was quite different from that of the ordinary darkness of night, being of a purple colour. The high range of mountains in the extreme south (about _ miles off), which were out of the line of total phase, were visible the whole of the time, whilst some light fleecy clouds in the north, where the sky was not so thoroughly overcast, showed reflected sunlight all the time. This, however, made our darkness more impressive.

The reappearance of the light was much more sudden and striking than its disappearance. A luminous veil with a comparatively sharp upper boundary shot up from behind the western hills. It passed over us and spread its illumination towards the east before we could fairly realise the fact that the long-expected total phase of the eclipse of 1870 was over without any of our observers seeing anything of it.

Ten minutes after totality Captain Noble and I went to the telegraph office and sent messages announcing the failure of our expedition to the London daily papers. He sent a short message to the Daily News. I sent a message of 19 words to The Times (cost 20 frs. 80 c.), and one of 40 words to the Daily Telegraph (cost, 41 frs. 60 c.). Owing to the rupture of the cable between Gibraltar and Lisbon, the messages had to go through Algiers, Malta, Gibraltar, Madrid, Lisbon, and Falmouth. [. . .]’

Best president Nigeria never had

Today marks the 110th anniversary of the birth of Obafemi Awolowo, a Nigerian politician some describe as the best president Nigeria never had. The son of a Yoruba farmer, he pressed himself through layers of education to become a successful lawyer, and then a powerful mover for his country’s independence, one embracing a federal structure, inclusive of all tribes and regions. Though never president, he served in various positions which allowed him to introduce much progressive social legislation. He wrote several influential political books, and some autobiographical works.

Awolowo was born on 6 March 1909 in Ikenne, some 50km northwest of Lagos, then part of British controlled Southern Nigeria. His father, a farmer, died when he was 10. He went to a local Baptist school and Wesley College in Ibadan. To support himself, he worked as a teacher, a clerk, and a newspaper reporter. He was an active trade unionist. In 1927, he enrolled at the University of London as an external student, graduating with a degree in commerce. Back in Nigeria, during the 1930s, he became increasingly involved in nationalist politics, rising to become an official in the Nigerian Youth Movement. In 1937, he married Hannah Adelana, and they had five children. In 1944, he returned to London to study law, and was called to the bar in 1946. While in the UK, he founded Egbe Omo Oduduwa to promote the culture and unity of the Yoruba people. He also published an influential book Path to Nigerian Freedom, in which he made his case for an independent Nigeria in which the interests of each ethnic nationality and region were safeguarded.

Returning to Nigeria in 1947, he set up a sucessful law practice, acting as a solicitor and advocate of the Superior Court of Nigeria. In 1949, he founded the newspaper The Tribune to help disseminate his political ideas, and the following year he cofounded a political wing of Egbe Omo Oduduwa called Action Group, and became its first president. He won the first Western Region elections in 1951 and was chosen as minister for local government structure. In 1954, he was appointed the first premier of the Western Region. It was a position in which he was able to improve education, social services and agricultural practices. He resigned his post, in 1959, to run for a seat in the Federal House of Representatives, but his Action Group party was heavily defeated in the election, leaving Awolowo as leader of the opposition.

A power struggle soon developed between Awolowo and Samuel Akintola, his Action Group deputy, who had taken over as premier of the Western Region. Ultimately, this led to the federal government suspending the Western Region’s constitution, and to Awolowo being prosecuted for treason. In 1963, he was found guilty of conspiring to overthrow the government, and was sentenced to 10 years in prison. Three years later, as the result of a coup and the empowerment of a military government, Awolowo was released. He became a member of the National Conciliation Committee, which attempted to mediate a rift between the federal government and the Eastern Region (inhabited predominantly by the Igbo people), but when this failed, and the region seceded as the Republic of Biafra, he backed the government. During the civil war that followed, Awolowo was federal commissioner for finance and vice chairman of the Federal Executive Council. In the mid-1970s he was chancellor of the University of Ife (now Obafemi Awolowo University) and Ahmadu Bello University.

In 1977, Awolowo published The Problems of Africa: The need for ideological reappraisal. And, the following year, when a 12-year ban on political activity was lifted in preparation for a return to civilian rule, he emerged as the leader of the Unity Party of Nigeria. He ran for president in 1979 and 1983 but was defeated both times by Shehu Shagari. Following yet another military coup at the end of 1983, political parties were again banned, and Awolowo retired from politics. He died in 1987 (though his wife Hannah lived to 2015, just a few months short of her 100th birthday). Further information can be found at Wikipedia, Encyclopaedia Britannica, New World Encyclopedia, the Obafemi Awolowo Foundation or Zaccheus Onumba Dibiaezue Memorial Libraries.

Apart from his political books, Awolowo left behind a couple of autobiographical works: Awo - Autobiography of Chief Obafemi Awolowo; My Early Life; Adventures in Power: Book 1 - My March Through Prison; Adventures in Power: Book 2 - Travails of Democracy. None of them seem to be available online (nor available for preview at Amazon or Googlebooks). It’s possible that the first Adventures in Power book contains a prison diary by Awolowo but I’m not sure. Two biographies, however, do make mention of diaries (described variously as personal, political or prison diaries), and both these can be previewed at Googlebooks: Chief Obafemi Awolowo: The Political Moses by Adedara S. Oduguwa (Trafford Publishing, 2012); and The Political Philosophy of Chief Obafemi Awolowo by Olayiwola Abegunrin (Lexington Books, 2015).

In his preface to the first book, Oduguwa states: ‘As readers will discover, Chief Obafemi Awolowo: The Political Moses is a book that encompasses politics, law, and the search for power, as well as incarceration, denial, and betrayal by respected members of the Action Group (AG) and the political environment of Nigeria in the 1960s. It is a book that vividly investigates a 1962 treasonable felony, bringing into focus the case hearings and its implications for the young Nigerians. [. . .] This book reminds us of how a man who dedicated the entirely of his life (as stated in his diary) to serve his fatherland was denied his ambition, and now, twenty-five years after his death remains the most celebrated Nigerian that ever lived. Even one of his contemporaries at the time attested “Awo is the best president Nigeria never had.” ’

Here is one quote he provides from Awolowo’s diary.
19 August 1959
‘I affirm that by the grace of God, the AG will win 200 seats at the federal elections, I also affirm that I Chief Awolowo will be the Prime Minister of Nigeria. In the return for this privilege, I solemnly aver and promise in the presence of God that I will strive and do my utmost best for the entire people of Nigeria irrespective of their tribe, religion, political affiliation and ensure individual freedom, human dignity and cultural progress, for Jesus says: whatever we ask for, we shall have it; I believe the AG will win 200 seats and 1 will become the prime minister of Nigeria. I affirm that by the grace of God, the AG will win 200 seats. I also affirm that I Chief Awolowo will be the prime minister of Nigeria at the conclusion of the election.

As prime minister of Nigeria, I will strive to ensure the rule of law; happiness and spiritual well being of the people of Nigeria. I therefore believe firmly that the AG will win 200 seats: I thank God for granting my desire.’

And here are two quotes provided by Olayiwola Abegunrin in his biography of Awolowo.

7 March 1939
‘After rain comes sunshine: after darkness comes the glorious dawn. There is no sorrow without its glorious joy: there is no joy without its admixture of sorrow. Behind the ugly terrible mask of misfortunes lies the beautiful soothing countenance of prosperity. So. tear the mask.’

2 August 1966
‘On this triumphant occasion I believe that the following decision of mine is irrevocable under all and any circumstances, namely: That I hereby solemnly and resolutely dedicate the rest of my life, even second of it, to the service of the peoples of Nigeria in particular, and of Africa in general, by promoting their welfare and happiness. So be it-Amen.’

Mother of the Revolution

Deolinda Rodríguez de Almeida, Mother of the (Angolan) Revolution, was born 80 years ago today. She was a gifted individual, a poet and translator, but circumstances led her to become a militant nationalist. She was a defender of human rights, but also an activist enabling women to play a role in the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA). Aged only 29, she was captured, with others, by an opposing liberation movement, and tortured and murdered. She left behind a diary written during most of her adult years, although it was not edited and published until 2003.

Rodríguez was born in Catete on 10 February 1939 into a Methodist family. Her parents were teachers, and she was educated at Methodist missionary schools. In 1956, she joined the MPLA as a translator. She won a scholarship to study sociology at Methodist University of São Paulo; and from there, in 1959, she exchanged correspondence with Martin Luther King. Fearing political problems in Brazil (because of her support for growing Angolan independence movement), she moved to the United States, where she studied at Drew University. However, in 1961, before concluding her studies she returned to Angola. She took part in an MPLA attack on São Miguel fortress prison and police headquarters in Luanda at the start of, what would be known as, the Portuguese Colonial War.

Rodríguez traveled to Guinea-Bissau and Congo Kinshasa, where she helped found the women’s division of the MPLA (Organização da Mulher de Angola - OMA). She underwent guerrilla training in Kabinda. Back in Angola in 1962, she emerged as a revolutionary leader and activist, but also campaigning for human rights. Later, she was given the honorary title of ‘Mother of the Revolution’. She was also associated with the Corpo Voluntário Angolano de Assistência aos Refugiados.

The following year Rodríguez and the rest of the MPLA leadership were expelled from Angola. They fled to Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo, and then to Cabinda, an Angolan province within Congo. There, fighting intensified, and in 1967, she and four other members of OMA were captured by Holden Roberto’s National Liberation Front of Angola. They were tortured, dismembered and killed in a Zaire prison. The date of Rodríguez’s death, 2 March, came to be celebrated as Angola’s Women’s Day. A little further information is available at Wikivisually, Bookshy books, and in Immortal Heroes Of The World by M S Gill (at Googlebooks).

Deolinda left behind a diary - a rarity in African cultures -  that she had kept from 1956 to 1967. This was edited by her brother, Roberto de Almeida, and published first in 2003 (with an updated second edition in 2018). The book is titled Diário de um exílio sem regresso (Diary of an Exile without Return), and includes a letter sent by Martin Luther King to Deolinda. A short article about the book can be found in the Portuguese language Journal de Angola, and there is a film, based on the diaries, available at YouTube (from which I’ve taken two screenshots). In 2017, Roberto de Almeida handed over his sister’s diaries and letters to MAAN, the Memorial Dr. António Agostinho Neto in Luanda. Unfortunately, I have not been able to find any extracts of the diary, in English or Portuguese.

The extraordinary Mr Newton

The extraordinary John Newton died all of 210 years ago today. At sea from the age of 11, he was pressed to work for the Navy, then on a slave ship before being virtually enslaved himself in West Africa. He was rescued, underwent a spiritual conversion, yet became a captain of slave ships. He turned tax collector, then lay preacher, and then evangelical curate. He proved a very popular pastor, friend to the poet William Cowper (with whom he wrote the hymn Amazing Grace) and to the leader of the slave abolition movement, William Wilberforce. Much of what we know about this remarkable man comes from his own hand, an autobiography and diaries.

Newton was born in 1725 in Wapping, London, the son of a shipmaster. His mother died when he was seven, and from the age of eleven he sailed on his father’s voyages. When his father retired, he, still a teenager, signed on with a merchant ship. Before long, he was pressed into the naval service, becoming a midshipman on HMS Harwich. He was caught trying to desert and was severely flogged. He transferred to the Pegasus, a slave ship heading for Africa, but was left in West Africa, in the hands of a slave dealer, and was treated no better than a slave himself. In 1748, he was rescued, and brought back to England, by a ship’s captain who had been asked by Newton’s father to look for him. On the journey home, the ship almost sank which led to Newton undergoing some kind of spiritual conversion, and thereafter living a far more sober life.

Back in Liverpool, Newton secured a position as first mate on the slave ship Brownlow bound for the West Indies. In 1750, he married his childhood sweetheart Mary Catlett, and they adopted two orphaned nieces. He went on to become captain on several slave ship voyages, only giving up in 1754 after suffering a stroke. Thereafter, he worked as tax collector in the Port of Liverpool, but at the same time serving as an evangelical lay minister. He first applied to be ordained in the Church of England in 1757, and to other denominations, but it was not until 1764 that he was finally accepted into the C of E, and took up the living of Olney, Buckinghamshire. He was supported by John Thornton, a wealthy merchant and evangelical philanthropist, and proved a popular curate, well known for his pastoral care. In 1767, the poet William Cowper moved to Olney, attended Newton’s church, and the two became friends. They collaborated on a volume of hymns, the most famous of which is known as Amazing Grace.

In 1779, Thornton invited Newton to take over as Rector of St Mary Woolnoth, Lombard Street, London, becoming one of only two evangelical Anglican priests in the city. He remained a popular churchman, friendly with evangelicals as well as Anglicans, and is known to have advised a young Member of Parliament, William Wilberforce, who would become a leader of the abolition movement. In 1788, Newton published a pamphlet, Thoughts Upon the Slave Trade, breaking a long-lived silence on the subject, in which he apologised abjectly for the part he had played many years earlier. Mary died in 1790, which led Newton to publishing Letters to a Wife. Newton, himself, died on 21 December 1807. Further information is readily available online at Wikipedia, The Abolition Project, The Church Society, or Banner of Truth.

Newton kept a diary for much of his life, and although it was not published (as far as I can tell) until the 1960s, substantial extracts can be found in a biography put together in the 19th century by Rev Josiah Bull and published by The Religious Tract Society: John Newton of Olney and St. Mary Woolnoth: An Autobiography and Narrative compiled chiefly from his diary and other unpublished documents. This is freely available online at Internet Archive. In 1962, Epworth Press issued The Journal of a Slave Trader 1750-1754 edited by Bernard Martin and Mark Spurrell. Some pages from the manuscript of Newton’s journal (taken from The Slave Trade and Its Abolition by John Langdon-Davies) can be view online at Getty Images.

Transcribed extracts from Newton’s journals can also be found on two contrasting websites: The International Slavery Museum and The John Newton Project (which advertises is objective as ‘the transformation of society through faith in Jesus Christ, using the life and works of John Newton as one great example). However, neither website (as far as I can ascertain) give any clue as to the source for their extracts, nor can I find any indication as to where the original manuscript diaries might be held. The John Newton Project says there are ‘several diaries’ covering the period 1751 to 1805, but not where they are or how it, the Project, has access to them.

The following extracts have been taken from the 19th century Autobiography, the International Slavery Museum website, and The John Newton Project.

Extracts from An Autobiography and Narrative:

22 December 1751
‘I dedicate unto thee, most blessed God, this clean, unsullied book; and at the same time renew my tender of a foul, blotted, corrupt heart. Be pleased, O Lord, to assist me with the influences of Thy Spirit to fill the one in a manner agreeable to Thy will, and by Thy all-sufficient grace to overpower and erase the ill impressions sin and the world have from time to time made in the other, so that both my public converse and retired meditation may testify that I am indeed thy servant, redeemed, renewed, and accepted in the sufferings, merit, and mediation of my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, to whom, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, be glory, honour, and dominion, world without end. Amen.’

21 November 1753
‘As it has pleased God already to raise me above dependence, and to give me more than I could have presumed to ask, not only food and raiment, but a great variety of conveniences and comforts, insomuch that I number myself amongst the most happy on earth, I cannot but think it incumbent upon me to bestow a part of my superfluities towards relieving those who are struggling under a want of necessaries. I have not come to a full determination of the quota I intend to set apart for this purpose. I will guard against being too sparing, leaving myself, however, at liberty to suspend or leave it on such an unavoidable emergency as my conscience shall allow, and, on the other hand, looking upon it to be my duty to enlarge it, if Providence sees fit to bless me beyond my present expectations; for I cannot think I have a right to gratify myself in mere indulgences any further than as I shall purchase it by charitable actions and imparting occasionally to those who have need.’

Extracts from the International Slavery Museum website:

26 May 1754
‘. . . ln the evening, by the favour of Providence, discovered a conspiracy among the men slaves to rise upon us, but a few hours before it was to have been executed. A young man, who has been the whole voyage out of irons, first on account of a large ulcer, and since for his seeming good behaviour, gave them a large marline spike down the gratings, but was happily seen by one of the people. They had it in possession about an hour before I made search for it, in which time they made such good dispatch (being an instrument that made no noise) that this morning I've found near 20 of them had broke their irons. Are at work securing them.’

27 May 1754
‘. . . A hard tornado came on so quick that had hardly time to take in a small sail; blew extream hard for 3 hours with heavy rain. . . At noon little wind. . . ln the afternoon secured all the men's irons again and punished 6 of the ringleaders of the insurrection.’

28 May 1754
‘. . . Secured the after bulkhead of the men's room, for they had started almost every stantient. Their plot was exceedingly well laid, and had they been let alone an hour longer, must have occasioned us a good deal of trouble and damage. l have reason to be thankful they did not make attempts upon the coast when we had often 7 or 8 of our best men out of the ship at a time and the rest busy. They still look very gloomy and sullen and have doubtless mischief in their heads if they could find every opportunity to vent it. But I hope (by the Divine Assistance) we are fully able to overawe them now. . .’

Extracts from An Autobiography and Narrative:

14 February 1772
‘Went to meet the little society at M. Mole’s. The Lord has been pleased to awaken several young persons of late, and to incline their hearts to meet together.’

10 May 1772
‘Preached at Collingtree. Had a large congregation. The church crowded, the chancel and belfry nearly full. My dear and Mr. Cowper went with me.’

31 December 1772
‘The comforts, the trials of another year finished, and can be repeated no more. It has been to me a year of great mercy and great sinfulness. Many proofs of the Lord’s goodness, and of the evil of my own heart has it afforded. [Referring to the fact that he had come to the end of the second volume of his diary] It is now more than sixteen years since I began to write in this book. How many scenes have I passed through in that time, - by what a way has the Lord led me! - what wonders has He shown me! My book is now nearly full, and I shall provide another for the next year. O Lord, accept my praise for all that is past. Enable me to trust Thee for all that is to come, and give a blessing to all who may read these records of Thy goodness and my own vileness. Amen and Amen.’

Extracts from The John Newton Project:

21 January 1773
‘Our trial still continues, and I think increases. The Lord knows how and when to moderate it. We all find it a sharp trial for faith and patience. How mysterious are the Lord’s ways, but we are sure all that he does is right and good. Met the children. In the afternoon sent Miss T and A to Newport. Preached in the evening and was favoured with liberty. Acts 13:17’

22 January 1773
‘My dear friend [Mr Cowper] still walks in darkness. I can hardly conceive that anyone in a state of grace and favour with God, can be in greater distress. And yet no-one walked more closely with him, or was more simply devoted to him in all things. Thus as in the case of Job he shows his right to deal as he wills with his own, he knows how to make up for all, to bring light out of darkness and real good out of seeming evil. When we presume to say, Why hast thou done this? He answers in his word, Be still and know that I am God.’

23 January 1773
‘Much like yesterday. Our great trial still continues. Writing at leisure times. Mr Cooper of Loxley came in the evening.’

Father of African philology

Wilhelm Bleek, sometimes called the father of African philology, was born 190 years ago today. His most enduring legacies are the work he did with his sister-in-law on the |xam language and his published books such as Comparative Grammar of the South African Languages. But, early on in his career, having studied and worked with African languages in Bonn and Berlin, he visited Natal to help compile a Zulu grammar, and while there he kept a detailed diary - not published until the 1960s.

Bleek was born on 8 March 1827 in Berlin, to a professor of theology and his wife. He studied in Berlin and Bonn, and looked set to follow in his father’s footsteps, but, while at university, he developed an interest an African languages, and this became his prime area of study. He graduated in 1851 with a doctorate in linguistics. He was then entrusted by the eminent zoologist, Professor Wilhelm Peters. with interpreting and editing material, including as yet unknown languages, that Peters had collected during his travels in Africa.

Bleek was subsequently appointed official linguist to an expedition to Niger in 1854, but ill-health forced his return to England. There he met John William Colenso, the Anglican Bishop of Natal, and George Grey, soon to become governor of Cape Colony. The former invited him to Natal to complete a Zulu grammar, after which he went to Cape Town to work as Sir Grey’s official interpreter and to catalogue his private library. While working for Grey, Bleek continued with his philological research and contributed to various German publications. 

Bleek visited Europe in 1859, for health reasons, but soon returned to Cape Town. In 1862, he married an English woman, Jemima Lloyd with whom he had two children, though they both died in infancy. Jemima’s sister, Lucy, came to live in the household, and before long was working with Bleek helping to document the culture, language and history of the |xam and !kun people of Southern Africa - see the online Bleek and Lloyd Collection. Bleek published several important books, which helped establish his reputation as the father of African philology. These include Vocabulary of the Mozambique Language; Handbook of African, Australian and Polynesian Philology; and Comparative Grammar of the South African Languages.

Grey, on being appointed to the governorship of New Zealand (for the second time) and leaving Cape Colony, gifted his collection to the National Library of South Africa on condition that Bleek be its curator, a position he occupied from 1862 until his death in 1875. For more information on Bleek, see The Digital Bleek and Lloyd, Wikipedia, some pages from Every Step of the Way: The Journey to Freedom in South Africa, or the Dictionary of National Biography 1885-1900.

While in Natal and Zululand, Bleek devoted most of his time to linguistic and ethnological research, contributing articles to the leading German geographical journal of the time. He also kept a diary, well, two diaries (1855-1856 in English and German, and June-Oct 1856 in German). These are held by the University of Cape Town libraries. They were first translated from German by O. H. Spoor and published, as The Natal Diaries of Dr W. H. I. Bleek, for the Friends of the South African Library by A. A. Balkema in 1965. In Spohr’s preface he states: ‘With the translation of these diaries we hope to provide English-speaking historians, linguists and anthropologists with little known source material on Natal and Zululand in the middle of the last century.’ Here are several extracts from the diaries.

29 October 1855
’On October 29th, the cannon sounded thirteen times, announcing the arrival of Sir George Grey, the Governor of the Cape Colony. As usual, his arrival came as a surprise and thus all preparations for a welcome were forestalled. Seldom has so much been expected from a government official, rarely has a government official enjoyed so much confidence and been able to retain his popularity to such an extent as Sir George Grey, even when he had to refuse demands made on him. His position in Natal has been a strange one, since for the last few years Natal has been an independent colony, no longer under the Cape government, but directly linked with the Colonial Office (Dr Petermann adds in a note ‘According to the latest reports, the colony has since July 1856 its own governor in the person of John Scott.’). Sir George Grey is, therefore, not here as Governor, but only as High Commissioner, and as such he has no power to issue proclamations, but only to give advice. However, the Government has been instructed to follow his advice. This mainly concerns the encouragement of immigration of colonists from Europe by leasing property to every married man. Thus a premium has been put on marriage, and many a colonist may have been prompted by a few morgen of land to look around for a wife. Most of the young men do not lack the inclination, but the choice is limited. The labour potential of the colony is to be increased by the importation of Indians. The main problem is what to do with the natives. Sir George decided against the plan of obliging the natives to emigrate into the southern districts. He would prefer to found industrial schools which it would be compulsory for native children to attend. He is going to pay for this out of the £40,000 which he has received from the Ministry and Parliament for the education of the natives.’

5 November 1855
‘Monday 5th November. I managed to have a talk with the Governor, but my negotiations have not yet been finalised. As things stand now, it is likely that I shall go to Cape Town in six months’ time to help the Governor in editing a New Zealand dictionary (Sir George Grey used to be Governor of New Zealand). Afterwards, with his support, I hope to take up my researches into the interior of Africa again. Though this means a delay in my planned travels of discovery, it is important for my plans to win the ear and interest of the Governor. I hope to have climbed some snowy mountain peaks before you set eyes on me again.’

10 June 1856
‘On Tuesday 10th June I set off to climb the u Mpofu mountain north-east of the station. I tried to sketch the outline of the mountain, but as I am not skilled I was only moderately successful. I am enclosing the rough sketch, as it may give an idea of the formation of the mountain. [The sketch was sent to Dr Petermann; there is no copy in the Ms.]

The course which I had chosen was to ascend the u Mpofu on the southern side, as I considered that slope of the mountain as the most gentle. The range runs horizontally, dividing the i Noemane from the streams on the other side. Before I reached the summit, I came across a kraal which was just being built. It was a double kraal with narrow doorways facing one another. Nothing but the outer frame, and a hut in each of them, had been completed. Only two men and a few boys were present. One of the men was a strange sight, as the bone of his nose had the appearance of being cloven in twain. Right in the middle was an ugly ulcer. The Zulus say he looks like a hyena (a Mpisi). I wanted the other man to come with me up the mountain to tell me the names of the mountains and rivers in the neighbourhood, but he declined, being too busy building huts. From then on the path was no longer straight, but wound around the western side of the mountain, so that I reached the summit from the north. On top of the mountain there were quite a few kaffer gardens. The view was only fair; generally the view is only clear immediately after the rain. Riding down the eastern slope of the mountain, I arrived at a kraal, or rather three kraals grouped together, called u Ndabepambile, and their u Mnumzana (master of the kraal), u Mcaguza. The doors were so low and narrow that my horse could only squeeze through in a bent position. How cattle, especially those with big horns, can get through remains a mystery to me. I had the same dinner as the previous day. While I was there, the man whom I had wanted to take as a guide appeared suddenly in full splendour, he had dressed himself smartly and had followed me, but had missed me on the mountain. Though he was of no use to me now, I was touched by his eagerness. On my way back, I climbed the summit again and descended the steep southern slope towards the huts in construction, and then home the same way. I sketched the outline of the u Mandawe mountain from a spot above the spring of the i Noemane. This little river runs towards the north-east and then winds northwards round the slopes of the Mpafu.’

15 August 1856
‘Friday 15th August, I questioned u Walapansi. He is a servant of Masipula, a commoner, who, however, was very useful to me in procuring food, naturally for a stout commission. His home is not really Zululand, but the country of Sotohangane, who was the successor to Zuite. Before Tshaka ascended the throne, he left Selmtetwa for the north-east. Between Delagoa Bay and Inhambane (u Ingambane) is supposed to live part of a tribe related to the Zulus. They originate from the Umtetwa and speak the Tefula dialect which nearly half the Zulu nation speaks, a Moelalapansi [sic!J I also spoke about the customs and language of the natives in that part.’

16 August 1856
‘Saturday 16th August. The king gave a big beer-drinking party, from which many of the chiefs returned towards evening in more than merry mood, u Mnayamane demonstrated this usually by beating his wives and young men, while Masipula did not show it so obviously, but his servants had to approach him very obediently. One of the chiefs un Nkalakuwa was bold enough to tell him, ‘ndakiwe’ (you are drunk) whereupon Masipula said very indignantly, ‘ndakive [sie!] wena’ (you are drunk yourself).

In the evening Tshalaza arrived to ask for an i hofu, a red woollen neckerchief to give to one of the king’s daughters, who was to take part in the celebration of her womanhood at u Mnayamane’s place. u Mnayamane also sent a message, bidding me farewell. He was off on an elephant hunt the next day and naturally asked me for a farewell present. I let him know that as he was not the king I could not consider his message.’

8 September 1856
‘Monday 8th September. After breakfast, I started on my way to D’Urban. My servants had caught up with me on Saturday night and had left very early. I had to cross the u Mhlango. There was no mistake about the aptness of its name - ‘Reed River’. It was very difficult to get through the reeds and the marsh. I was soon in a dense, high forest with impenetrable undergrowth and for hours followed the hilly path. In these forests one still heard not so very long ago of natives being torn to pieces by hyenas. It is impossible to penetrate the thicket which is supposed to be inhabited by elephants which the most courageous hunters cannot capture. There is also a great deal of game and wild animals of different species. This is where the four lions must have come from which were seen recently in Cato Manor. I saw nothing on the road except an ordinary troop of monkeys and when I came nearer they climbed quickly into the tree-tops. I could easily have shot down one or two with my revolver, but I have a great aversion to wounding an animal which is so much like a human and whose death agony is supposed to be like that of a being gifted with reason. I would have loved to catch a small one to find out how far one can civilise it, a sort of missionary activity more prompted by my desire for knowledge than any humanitarian motives.

A number of wagons were on the way to and from the Bay. On the front seat of one of the wagons sat a native in an elegant white suit and a hat, swinging his whip. Inside sat someone clad in black with a white tie and a blank, melancholy look, unmistakably an American missionary. Next to him sat his wife, very much the same in attire and appearance. It was undoubtedly Mr Alden Grant [Aldin Grout] and his family on their way from his mission station on the Umvoti down to D’Urban, just to take a Sunday service in the Presbyterian congregation. The American missionaries take turns in doing this. Behind the wagon rode one of the missionary’s small sons and a Hottentot youngster.

The dense forest stretched as far as the Umgeni, which I crossed below the refinery of Springfield’s sugar plantation. The water just reached up to the horse’s girth. I then went along below the Berea, past sand-dunes which stretch from here down to the sea. I arrived in D’Urban about 2 o’clock. Along the way I saw none of my men, nor did I see them at the place where we were to meet. A parcel from Liverpool had arrived for me by the ‘Royal William’. It contained a few newspapers from Elberfeld, several English and American ones, two parts of ‘Petermann’s Mittheilungen’ and ‘Die Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft’ and also several books. Some came from my family and for some I was indebted to my friend. Daniel Wichelhaus.’

The magnificent Sahara

‘Now that the torrid heat of summer has suddenly come again, now that Algiers lies in a glaring daze once more by day, the notion that I am back in Africa is slowly sinking in. Soon I will feel completely at home, especially if my plan to go to Bou Saada comes off. . . Oh, that journey! It will mean a brief return, not to the magnificent Sahara itself, but to a place nearby that has all the palm trees and sunshine one could want!’ This is from the diary of Isabelle Eberhardt, born in Switzerland 140 years ago today, but who only found peace when living in North Africa, wearing men’s clothes, and having converted to Islam.

Eberhardt was born on 17 February 1877 in Geneva, Switzerland, to an odd couple: her father, Alexandre Trophimowsky, was an atheist, anarchist and former Orthodox priest who had been hired as a tutor for the children of the widower General Pavel de Moerder. His aristocratic mother, Nathalie Moerder (née Eberhardt) was Moerder’s wife, some 40 years his junior. Eventually, Nathalie and Trophimowsky, who was also married, left their families, and had two children, one, Augustin, was accepted by de Moerder as his own, but, a few years later, Isabelle was registered as Nathalie’s illegitimate daughter. She grew up well tutored by Trophimowsky, and speaking several languages, including Arabic. Biographers say she disguised herself as a boy from an early age so as to enjoy more freedom, a trait not discouraged by her father.

From around 1895, Eberhardt began publishing short stories, some inspired by the letters from Augustin who had joined the French Foreign Legion and from Eugène Letord, a French officer stationed in the Sahara, who had advertised for a pen pal. Aged but 20, she traveled to North Africa with her mother, where they both converted to Islam. Soon after, her mother died, her father died also, and then a half-brother committed suicide. With family ties severed, Eberhardt called herself Si Mahmoud Saadi, began to wear Arab male attire all the time, and assumed a male personality. Residing in Paris, trying to pursue a writing career, she was offered money to return to the Sahara region and investigate the death of a friend’s husband.

By mid-1900, Eberhardt had settled in the oasis town of El Oued, some 650 miles southeast of Algiers, close to the border with Tunisia, but she made little headway with the investigation. However, she fell in love with an Algerian soldier, Slimène Ehnni, and they were soon living together openly. The French authorities began to suspect Eberhardt of being a spy or an agitator, and Ehnni was posted away, some 300km north. Eberhardt also became involved with a Sufi order, the Qadiriyya, and, in early 1901, at one of its meetings was attacked by a man with a sabre. She suspected her attacker had been hired by the French authorities, who, eventually expelled her from North Africa. In June the same year, she was allowed to return to Algeria briefly to give evidence against her attacker, who, she said, she forgave.

Back in France, Eberhardt lived with her brother Augustin and his wife, worked alongside him as a dock labourer, and continued writing. Ehnni, meanwhile, was reposted, this time to near Marseilles, where he was free to marry Eberhart (earlier, in Algeria, they had been denied permission to marry). In early 1902, Ehnni completed his military service, and the couple returned to Bône, Algeria, to live with Ehnni’s family, at first, and then in Algiers. There Eberhardt worked for the newspaper Al-Akhbar, publishing stories, including serialised chapters of her novel Trimardeur. In mid-1903, she was sent to report on the aftermath of the Battle of El-Moungar, and became friendly with a French officer, for whom she may have engaged in some kind of spying activity. She fell ill with fever, and travelled to Aïn Sefra to recuperate. Ehnni joined her there, and they rented a mud hut. When a flash flood struck, Ehnni escaped, but Eberhardt was killed - only 27 years old. Further information is available at Wikipedia, Pathos, Rejected Princesses, Atlas Obscura or from a biography review at The New York Times.

Eberhardt’s diaries - three cardboard notebooks and a small linen volume - were first translated by Nina de Voogd and published in English by Virago in 1987 as The Passionate Nomad: The Diary of Isabelle Eberhardt. More recently, in 2002, Summersdale has reissued the translation, as edited by Elizabeth Kershaw, under the title The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt. The book’s introduction can be read online here; and for a short review see The Guardian. According to Kershaw, Eberhardt used her diaries ‘for observation and introspection; to record literary ideas; as a ledger and as a portable library of copied material from her favourite writers’. Here are several extracts.

27 May 1900
‘Geneva. Back to this gloomy diary of mine in this evil city in which I have suffered so much. I have hardly been here a week and once again I feel as morbid and oppressed as I used to in the old days. All I want to do is get out for good.

I went to have a look at our poor house, with the sky low and sunless; the place was boarded up, mute and lost amongst the weeds. I saw the road, white as ever, white like a silvery river, straight as an arrow, heading between those tall, velvet trees for the Jura’s great mountaintops.

I saw the two graves in that faithless cemetery, set in a land of exile, so very far away from that sacred place devoted to eternal repose and everlasting silence . . . I feel that I have now become a total stranger in this land, and tonight I feel an unfathomable and indescribable sadness, and increasingly resigned before my fate . . . What dreams, what enchantments and what raptures does the future still hold in store for me? What dubious satisfactions, and what sorrows?

And when will the clock strike the hour of deliverance at long last, the hour of eternal rest?’

8 June 1900
‘Over there in Africa, above the great blue gulf of unforgettable Annaba, the graveyard on the hill is asleep under the blazing sky of a summer day’s sunset. The white marble tombs and those made of glazed and multicoloured tiles must look like bright flowers among the tall, black cypresses, creepers and geraniums the colour of blood or pale flesh, and fig trees from the Barbary Coast. . .

At that same moment, I was sitting in the low grass of another graveyard. As I sat facing the two grey tombs set among the spring weeds, I thought of that other grave, the White Spirit’s resting place . . . And in the midst of all that indestructible nature, my thoughts turned once again to the mystery of the end of people’s lives.

Birds sang their innocent, peaceful song above the untold amount of human dust accumulated there . .

So far, this diary can be summed up as follows: an endless record of the unfathomable sadness there is at the bottom of my life, it consists of increasingly vague allusions, not to people I have met or to facts that I have observed, but to the invariably melancholy effect these facts and people have upon me.

How useless and funereal are these notes of mine, and how despairingly monotonous, without even the slightest hint of lightness or of hope. The only consolation they contain is their increasing Islamic resignation.

At long last I do find that my soul is beginning to show signs of indifference to pedestrian things and people, which means that my strength is on the increase. I find it contemptible and unworthy of myself that for so long I have put so much store by pitiful things and by futile, meaningless encounters. At long last, the realisation that I am utterly incapable of joining any coterie whatsoever, and of feeling at ease with people whose only reason for being together is no mere happenstance but rather the fact that they share their lives.

For the time being at least I know what I want: I would like it if Archivir understood the things I said and wrote to him. I would like him to smile at me as only he can, to hear him tell me in that tone of voice of his, the way he did the day I came so close to baring my soul: “Go Mahmoud, and do great, magnificent deeds . . . Be a hero . . .”

It is true that of all the men I have come across, this one, whose beloved picture I have in front of me, is the most bewitching of all, and that his charm is of the most elevated and noble sort: he speaks to the spirit rather than to the senses, he exalts whatever is sublime and stifles the base and lowly. No one has ever had such a truly beneficial effect upon my soul. No one has ever understood and bolstered those blessed manifestations that, since the White Spirit’s death, have slowly but surely begun to take root in my heart: faith, repentance, the desire for moral perfection, the longing for a reputation based on noble merit, a sensuality that makes a mockery of my suffering and abnegation, a thirst for great and magnificent deeds. I judge and love him for what I have seen of him so far.

Time will tell whether I have been perceptive, whether I have seen him as he really is, or whether I have made another mistake. I will not swear to anything, but nothing has so far given me reason for suspicion, even though I have become terribly, incurably wary. If he is but another dissembler and a sham . . . that will be the end of it once and for all, for if what I hold to be pure turns out to have a hidden blemish, if what looks to me like true beauty masks the usual horror, if the light I take to be a beneficial star showing me the way or a beacon in life’s black maze is but a trick meant to lead wayfarers astray - if so, what can I expect after that? Yet, once again, nothing, absolutely nothing has so far suggested there might be anything to such unthinkable conjecture ... if he is the way I think he is, he may well put me through terrible but magnificent paces . . . he may well turn out to be responsible for sending me off to die, but spare me the worst of fates, namely disillusionment.’

1 December 1900
‘El Oued, at the house of Salah ben Taliba. The beginning of this month of December is curiously reminiscent of the same time in that deadly year of 1897. Same weather, same violent wind lashing against my face. In those days, though, I had the vast, grey Mediterranean for a horizon, breaking furiously against the black rocks with a deafening, cataclysmic sound. I was still so young, and even though recently bereaved, I still had a full measure of joie de vivre.

Since then, however, everything has changed, everything; I have aged and matured thanks to this strange destiny of mine.

Yes, everything has changed indeed. Augustin has found his haven at long last, and it does look as if he is meant never to leave it again. After all those ups and downs and twists of fate have settled down at last, however oddly.

I could never be content with the genteel pleasures of city life in Europe. My idea of heading for the desert to satisfy my need for both adventure and peace required courage, but was inspired. I’ve found domestic happiness, and far from diminishing, it seems to grow stronger every day.

Only politics threatens it . . . But alas! Allah alone knows what is hidden in the sky and the earth! and no one can predict the future.

Barely two weeks ago I went to meet my beloved in the night, as far as the area south of Kouïnine. I rode Souf in a darkness so dense it made my head spin.

Lost my way several times. Had strange impressions down in those plains, where the horizon seems to rise in the shape of dunes, and villages look like hedges made of djerid.

I was thinking about the passage in Aziyade about Istanbul graves lit by dim and solitary lights, when I suddenly spotted the gate to the Teksebet cemetery’s dome.

Every afternoon for several days in a row I have been along the road to Debila, either with Khalifa Taher or by myself. One day, as I was on a solitary outing, I had a strange feeling of familiarity [i], of a return to a past that was dead and buried. Going through the shott I stopped my horse beneath the palm trees. I closed my eyes, and listening to the sound of the wind rustling in the foliage, I was off in a dream. I felt as if I were back in the big woods along the Rhone and in the Parc Sarrazin on a mellow summer evening. The illusion was almost perfect. It was not long before a sudden movement of Souf’s brought me back to reality, though. I opened my eyes . . . an endless succession of grey dunes rolled out before me, and above my head the foliage rustled on the tough djerids.

At the foot of the dune behind our house, next to an enclosure containing three low palm trees, stands a small African-looking mosque built of ochre-coloured plaster that looks like mud. It only has a tiny, fortified dome, a koubba, ovoid in shape. Behind it stands a splendid date palm which, seen from our rooftop, seems to grow out of the koubba itself.

Yesterday, I went up there at maghreb time. In the blaze of the setting sun I could see grey silhouettes drenched in scarlet light move by the post office in the distance. While the little dome seemed to be on fire and the muezzin’s slow and languorous voice recited the evening prayer in the direction of every corner in the sky, men came down the dune on my right-hand side in the splendour of that melancholy hour.

Poignant memories of the end of the White Spirit’s life have come to haunt me these last few days.’

9 February 1901
‘Around five o’clock this afternoon, Abdallah ben Mohammed [her attacker] was put in a prison cell. I saw him arrive and studied him while he was being searched by soldiers . . . I had a profound feeling of pity for this man, the blind instrument of a destiny whose meaning he does not understand. And seeing that grey silhouette, standing with his head bowed, flanked by the two blue uniforms, I had perhaps the strangest and deepest impression I have ever experienced of mystery.

Much as I search my heart for hatred towards this man, I cannot find any. Even less contempt. What I do feel for him is curious: it seems to me that I am close to an abyss, in the presence of a mystery whose last word - or rather whose first word - hasn’t yet been spoken, and which would contain the whole meaning of my life. As long as I do not know the key to this enigma - and shall I ever know it! God alone knows - I shall not know who I am, or what is the reason or explanation of my destiny, one of the most incredible there has been. Yet, it seems to me that I am not meant to disappear without having plumbed the depths of this enigma, from its strange beginnings to the present.

“Madness,” sceptics will say, who like easy solutions and have no patience with mystery. They are wrong, because to see the chasms that life conceals and that three-quarters of the population don’t even suspect exist cannot be treated as folly, in the same way that an artist’s descriptions of sunset or of a stormy night would seem ridiculous to a man born blind.

If the strangeness of my life were the result of snobbery of a pose, yes, then people could say, “She brought those events on herself”, but no! No one has ever lived more from day to day and by chance as I have, and it is very much the events themselves, inexorably linked to one another, which have brought me to where I am and absolutely not me who has created them. Perhaps the strange side of my nature can be summed up in a single trait: the need to keep searching, come what may, for new events, and flee inertia and stagnation.’

8 June 1902
‘Life goes on, monotonous as ever, yet there is the hint of some future direction in the midst of all this dreadful emotional turmoil. I am going through another slow period of gestation, which can be quite painful at times. I am beginning to understand the character of the two people, Barrucand and Mme ben Aben, who have helped us here, both of them good people and very tactful. Barrucand, a dilettante in matters of thought and in particular of sensations, and a moral nihilist, is, however, a man who is very positive, and knows how to live. Mme ben Aben is the second woman I have known after my mother who is good to the core, and enamoured with ideals. Yet in real life, how ignorant the two women are! Even I, as someone intimately convinced that I do not know how to live, even I know more than they do.

Augustin is now gone from my life. As far as I am concerned the brother I used to love so much is dead. That shadow of him in Marseilles who is married to ‘Jenny the work-horse’ does not exist for me, and I very rarely think of him.

Now that the torrid heat of summer has suddenly come again, now that Algiers lies in a glaring daze once more by day, the notion that I am back in Africa is slowly sinking in. Soon I will feel completely at home, especially if my plan to go to Bou Saada comes off. . . Oh, that journey! It will mean a brief return, not to the magnificent Sahara itself, but to a place nearby that has all the palm trees and sunshine one could want!’

31 January 1903 [the last entry]
‘Bou Saada. We arrived here from El Hamel yesterday at three in the afternoon.

Every time I see Lella Zeyneb I feel rejuvenated, happy for no tangible reason and reassured. I saw her twice yesterday in the course of the morning. She was very good and very kind to me, and was happy to see me again.

Visited the tomb of Sidi Muhammad Belkassem, small and simple in that large mosque, and which will be very beautiful by the time it is finished. I then went on to pray on the hillside facing the grave of El Hamel’s pilgrim founders.

I did some galloping along the road, together with Si bel Abbes, under the paternal gaze of Si Ahmed Mokrani. Some women from the brothel were on their way back from El Hamel. Painted and bedecked, they were rather pretty, and came to have a cigarette with us. Did fantasias in their honour all along the way. Laughed a lot. . .

The legend of El Hamel’s pilgrims appeals to my imagination. It must be one of Algeria’s most biblical stories . . .

I began this diary over in that hated land of exile, during one of the blackest and most painfully uncertain periods in my life, a time fraught with suffering of every sort. Today it is coming to an end.

Everything is radically different now, myself included.

For a year now I have been on the blessed soil of Africa, which I never want to leave again. In spite of my poverty, I have still been able to travel and explore unknown regions of my adoptive country. My Ouïha is alive and we are relatively happy materially.

This diary, begun a year and a half ago in horrible Marseilles, comes to an end today, while the weather is grey and transparent, soft and almost dream-like here in Bou Saada, another Southern spot I used to yearn for over there!

I am getting used to this tiny room of mine at the Moorish bath; it is so much like me and the way I live. I will be staying here for a few more days before setting off on my journey to Boghar, through areas I have never seen; living in this poorly whitewashed rectangle, a tiny window giving out on the mountains and the street, two mats on the floor, a line on which to hang my laundry, and the small torn mattress I am sitting on as I write. In one corner lie straw baskets; in the opposite one is the fireplace; my papers lie scattered about . . . And that is all. For me that will do.

There is no more than a vague echo in these pages of all that has happened these last eighteen months; I have filled them at random, whenever I have felt the need to articulate. . . For the uninitiated reader, these pages would hardly make much sense. For myself they are a vestige of my earlier cult of the past. The day may come, perhaps, when I will no longer record the odd thought and impression in order to make them last a while. For the moment, I sometimes find great solace in rereading these words about days gone by.

I shall start another diary. What shall I record there, and where shall I be, the day in the distant future when I close it, the way I am closing this one today?

“Allah knows what is hidden and the measure of people’s sincerity!” ’

From playboy to ascetic

Charles de Foucauld, a wealthy playboy who turned to god and then became a monk living like a hermit among the Tuareg people of the Sahara desert, died a century ago today. According to his biographer, René Bazin, he was killed by Arab raiders, the very people for whom ‘he had toiled so hard with body and mind.’ Bazin’s biography relies heavily on diaries kept by Foucauld, right up the weeks before his death, and includes many verbatim extracts.

Charles de Foucauld was born into an aristocratic family in 1858 in Strasbourg, France. He was orphaned as a child and raised by his maternal grandfather, and was destined to inherit the family wealth. He studied at Saint-Cyr Military Academy and Cavalry School of Saumur before joining, in 1880, the 4th Hussars as Sous-Lieutenant and being posted to Algeria. However, his wealth and position had led him to become an amoral young man, living a riotous life. He was also an indisciplined soldier which led him to being censured by his military superiors.

Foucauld was much affected by his experiences of the Sahara Desert, and, after leaving the army in 1882, he set about exploring Morocco disguised as a rabbi. On returning to Paris, he wrote up his travels, with drawings, and the resulting book, Reconnaissance au Maroc, inspired Societé Française de Géographie to award him a gold medal. Subsequently, he became increasingly interested in religion. He undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and, in 1886, converted to Catholicism. A few years later, he joined the Cistercian Trappist order as a monk, first in France and then at Akbès on the Syrian-Turkish border.

But still Foucauld had not found fulfilment. In 1897, he left the monastery to work as gardener and sacristan for the Poor Clare nuns in Nazareth and later in Jerusalem. In 1901, he returned to France, was ordained a priest, and travelled to Béni Abbès, Algeria, near the border with Morocco, intending to found a monastic religious community that offered hospitality to all faiths as well as those with no faith. But he did not manage to attract any adherents, and he came to live a quiet, hermetic life with monastic routines. By the middle of the 1890s, he had moved further away from the French presence, into the mountains in southern Algeria to be with the Tuareg people, in Tamanrasset, where he built a small hermitage. For the next ten years or so he shared the life and hardships of the Tuareg, studying their culture and traditions, and writing a lengthy dictionary of their language (posthumously published in four volumes). He returned to France a couple of times, hoping, but failing, to recruit companions for his hermitage.

With the outbreak of WWI, Germany’s ally Turkey promoted attacks on French outposts in Africa, causing tension in Algeria and Morocco. Foucauld with Tuareg help built a fort to protect the surrounding population; it also served the French military as a stockpile for the arms and ammunition of their local allies. But, in one raid, Foucauld was taken hostage by stranger Arabs, apparently intent on holding him for ransom, but he was shot and died on 1 December 1916. The Hermitary concludes: ‘Charles de Foucauld is a complex historical figure within Catholicism, history, and eremitism. That is to say, he is uniquely modern, and his life was an unconscious striving to attain an ecumenical eremitism, a universal eremitism.’ While, Franciscan Media concludes: ‘The life of Charles de Foucauld was eventually centered on God and was animated by prayer and humble service, which he hoped would draw Muslims to Christ. Those who are inspired by his example, no matter where they live, seek to live their faith humbly yet with deep religious conviction.’ Further information is also available from Wikipedia, Jesus Caritas (biography, video), and Ignatius Insight.

Foucauld’s Reconnaissance au Maroc is largely based on diaries he kept while travelling around the country. This was used much later by Foucault’s friend, René Bazin, along with other diaries, for a biography Foucauld. The biography was subsequently translated into English by Peter Keelan and published as Charles de Foucauld: Hermit and Explorer (Benziger Brothers, 1923). This is freely available at Internet Archive. All the following extracts from Foucauld’s diary are taken from Bazin’s biography; and, after the last extract (16 November 1916) below, I have also included Bazin’s account of Foucauld’s death.

16-17 June 1883
‘In vain do we try to find a way of entering into the Rif: many of the Jews whom we consulted declare that one can only enter by Nemours with the protection of a certain Moroccan sheikh who will perhaps come here in a fortnight or a month, perhaps later; and even this means would be uncertain; they add that it is as difficult in starting from here to cross the Rif as it is easy in setting out from Tetuan, where men of influence can give efficacious recommendations. I do not wish to wait a fortnight or month at Nemours; much better reach Tetuan by sea and begin my journey from there.’

18 June 1883
‘A steamer appears in the roadstead. It is going to Tangier via Gibraltar. I embark on it with Mardochee. Being Jews, we take the lowest class and cross on deck in the company of Israelites and Musulmans. Start at 9 a.m.: pretty bad weather.’

19 June 1883
‘Wake up in the roadstead of Gibraltar. The packet-boat will lie at anchor all day. I land and visit the town; Mardochée remains on board. A young Jew of eighteen who knows Spanish accompanies me; as for me, I know nothing but Arabic. My excursion has a practical aim. On board, the water we are given is filthy; took a large iron pot and brought it back full of water. I walk about for five hours in Gibraltar, pot in hand; I push on to a Spanish village under a mile from the town. Cross the frontier and note the English and Spanish sentinels mount guard only 60 yards apart, the former as well as the latter badly dressed.’

20 June 1883
‘Left Gibraltar at midday; arrived at Tangier at 2.45.’

8 May 1914
‘Began to make a fair copy of the whole Tuareg-French dictionary.’

31 July 1914
‘This evening reached page 385 of the dictionary.’

31 August 1914
‘Reached page 550.’

3 September 1914
‘Express to hand from Fort Motylinski, telling me that Germany has declared war on France, invaded Belgium, attacked Liege. M. de La Roche (commander of the station) starts on the 4th or 5th for Adrar, with all his band. He orders Afegzag to muster a gum, and Musa to come with at least twenty men, into Ahaggar.’

Saw Afegzag; he orders 10 Dag-Rali, 10 Iklam, 10 Aguh-n-Tabli, 10 Ait-Lohen, 10 Kel-Tazulet, to muster immediately; personally, he sets out this evening for Motylinski, where he will be to-morrow morning.’

9 September 1914
‘Received 1,500 cartridges of 1874 for Musa.’

11 September 1914
‘Noon post to hand. Captain de Saint-Léger orders M. de La Roche to remain at Ahaggar with his whole force. I forward the order by express. Bad news; we are retreating all along the frontier, before superior forces. We cannot help Belgium. The Germans occupy Brussels.’

24 September 1914
‘Received news on September 11 from In-Salah and on 3rd from Paris. Always falling back; Government sits at Bordeaux.’

30 September 1914
‘This evening page 700 of the dictionary.’

21 October 1914
‘This is the war for Europe’s independence of Germany. And the way in which the war is carried on shows how necessary it was, how great was Germany’s power, and how it was time to break the yoke before she became still more formidable; it shows by what barbarians Europe was half enslaved, and near becoming completely so, and how necessary it is once for all to deprive of force a nation which uses it so badly and in such an immoral and dangerous way for others. It is Germany and Austria that wanted war, and it is they who deserved to have it made against them, and who, I hope, will receive a blow that will make them unable to do any harm for centuries.’

7 December 1914
‘The Tripoli disturbance has not crossed the frontier. We cannot thank God enough for the numberless favours that He has bestowed on the eldest daughter of His Church; not the least is the fidelity of our colonies. . . .

The confidence of the Tuaregs in me keeps on increasing. The work of the slow preparation for the Gospel is pursued. May the Almighty soon make the hour strike for you to send workers into this part of your field. . . .’

20 February 1915
‘The south of Tripoli is disturbed; Saint-Léger and 200 or 300 soldiers are on the frontier, to prevent bands in revolt against the Italians from breaking into our territory. Only one French adjutant and six or seven native soldiers remain at Fort Motylinski. This adjutant is a capital fellow. We often write to each other, but we rarely see one another; being alone, he cannot leave his post, and I, having a great deal to do, cannot move from here without serious reason. I have not been to Fort Motylinski for two years.’

12 March 1915
‘Like you, I hope that from the great evil of this war will go forth a great blessing to souls - a blessing in France, where the sight of death will inspire serious thoughts, and where the accomplishment of duty in the greatest sacrifices will uplift souls and purify them, bringing them nearer to Him who is the uncreated good, and make them more fit to see the truth and stronger to live in conformity with it; - a blessing to our Allies, who in coming nearer to us come nearer to Catholicism, and whose souls, like ours, are purified by sacrifice - a blessing to our infidel subjects, who, fighting in crowds on our soil, learn to know us and get nearer to us, and whose loyal devotion will stir up the French to work for them more than in the past, and govern them better than in the past.’

15 April 1915
‘Saint-Léger leaves In-Salah, and takes command of another Saharan company, that of Twat. . . . He is replaced by another friend, also very much liked, Captain Duclos, whom I knew there as lieutenant, an officer of great worth and fine character. . . . I constantly see Uksem. Marie asks me if he knits: he knits wonderfully, and all the young people in his encampment and village have begun to knit and crochet under his directions; knitted socks, and crocheted vests and caps. That took a long time, but since his return, thanks to one of his sisters-in-law who set about it with a great deal of good-will, it started, and everybody is beginning it.’

2 August 1915
‘A young negro who knows Ghardaia, the Fathers and Sisters, told me a few days ago: “When the Sisters come here I shall put my wife with them, so that she may learn to weave, and I shall ask to be their gardener.” . . . The time is near when the Sisters will be received by the natives with great gratitude, above all by the settled cultivators. . . . Will God arrange things in such a way as to bring the White Fathers and the White Sisters here?’

7 September 1915
‘To-morrow will be the feast of the nativity of the Blessed Virgin, ten years since my Tamanrasset hermitage was built and I have said Mass in it. I owe much thanksgiving to God for al the graces He has bestowed on me here.’

16 November 1916
‘How good God is to hide the future from us! What a torture life would be were it less unknown to us! and how good He is to make so clearly known to us the heaven thereafter which will follow our earthly time of trial!’

Bazin comments: ‘The writer of these lines had only two weeks to live. He did not know it, but he was ready to receive death any day form the hands of those for whom he had so much prayed, walking so far over the sand and pebbles, suffering o severely from thirst and hear, working so many days and nights, in so much solitude, and for whom, in short, he had toiled so hard with body and mind.’

Further, Bazin sets down the facts about Foucauld’s death from the combined evidence of Paul, a negro servant, and that of another harratin, as they were recorded in two official reports:

‘On December 1, after having served the marabout’s dinner, I went to my zariba, about five hundred yards from there. It was about 7 o’clock, and dark. A short time afterwards, when I had myself finished my meal, two armed Tuaregs sprang into the zariba and said to me: ‘Are you Paul, the marabout’s servant? Why do you hide? Come and see with your own eyes what is happening: follow us! ‘I replied that I was not hiding, and that what was happening was God’s will.

On arriving near the marabout’s house, I perceived the latter seated, his back to the wall, on the right of the door, his hands bound behind his back, looking straight in front of him. We did not exchange a single word. I crouched down as ordered, on the left of the door. Numerous Tuaregs surrounded the marabout; they were speaking and gesticulating, congratulating and blessing the hartani El Madani, who had drawn the marabout into the trap, foretelling a life of delights for him in the other world as a reward for his work. Some other Tuaregs were in the house, going in and coming out, carrying various things found in the interior - rifles, munitions, stores, chegga (cloth), etc. Those who surrounded the marabout pressed him with the following questions: ‘When does the convoy come? Where is it? What is it bringing? Are there any soldiers in the bled? Where are they? Have they set out? Where are the Motylinski soldiers?’ The marabout remained impassible, he did not utter a word. The same questions were then put to me, as well as to another hartani, who was passing in the wady and caught in the meantime.

The whole did not last half an hour. The house was surrounded by sentinels. At this moment one of the sentinels gave the alarm, shouting: ‘Here are the Arabs! Here are the Arabs (the soldiers of Motylinski).’ At these cries, the Tuaregs, with the exception of three, two of whom remained in front of me and the other standing on guard near the marabout, went towards the place whence the cries came. A lively fusillade broke out. The Tuareg who was near the marabout brought the muzzle of his rifle close to the head of the latter and fired. The marabout neither moved nor cried. I did not think he was wounded: it was only a few minutes afterwards that I saw the blood flow, and that the marabout’s body slipped slowly down upon its side. He was dead.’