A flash of history in an Eritrean field

The playground was alive with chatter. The students lined up in their huge classes, and my colleagues and I hurried up and down taking register, so that those who had stayed at home to avoid the harvest would not escape punishment.
Soon the students were restless, pushing and shoving each other, stamping and swinging their blades carelessly. Their scythes gleaming in the African sun, they stood armed in line before me like a legion of diabolicals.
We set off at a trot, Mr. Zerai leading the way on his bicycle. Awet soon fell into step with me.
“In your country you have machines. But Eritrea is...look at us. Cutting with hands.”
I opened my mouth to reply but Awet burst away
“Atta! You!” He stormed off, stick in hand, swiping at a boy who had run away from the line to pee in the field.
A few yards further a chained dog rushed the children and was rebuffed by a hail of stones and derision.
I was all smiles, glad to be out of class. Lately, school life had been getting tough. I had problems getting water, and was often sick and weak in class. My classes, seventy or more, were coming to school hungry. I spent more time on crowd control than teaching.
It had been getting harder to silence the voice in my head saying
‘Just hit them. They expect it. Just use the stick. The organization will never know. Have a quiet life...”

We arrived at the field. There was no ceremony. The boys ran at the crops like warpath Indians hungry for scalps. They crouched, grasped the teff in one hand and pulled it tight, then cut it clean with their blades. If they accidentally cut too low, they’d pause to slice off the earthy roots and then crouch again. All competed to progress fastest and best. The older boys, practiced on their father’s farms, raced ahead and the children were soon left behind and needed cajoling. The adults patrolled the lines of stooped bodies. Sometimes a swipe with a stick was aimed at the prone backside of a dawdler, but there was no serious punishment.
I wanted to join in, but Awet dissuaded me.
“Better to take a rest. If they see you work, they’ll only stop and watch.”
He was right, but I was obstinate.
I knelt and cut a handful of teff. Some students nearby cheered.
I felt the sun on my skin and the soil in my hand. The rubbery produce between my fingers. For a brief moment, I knew at last what it was to labour for my food, as it had been laboured for by most of humanity before me, in Eritrea as elsewhere, even to the beginning of the world.