Black Samurai | SLICE I Full documentary

The first modern man, Homo Kibish, appeared here in the great rift valley in southern Ethiopia 195,000 years ago. The Surma are the sons and daughters of this common ancestor of all humanity. As our brothers who've been in existence over time, they can teach us much about both our recent and remote past. There are 28,000 Surma living separately from the outside world. They reveal the secrets of Donga. This legendary violent duel is a regular part of a fierce existence in which weakness means death. We lived in the heavens with Tuma, our god. One day he opened up a large hole in the clouds and gave us ropes to descend upon the earth. We arrived here in the valley of the Kibish river. While grinding millet, a woman broke the ropes by accident. Closed up. Since that time we no longer know where to find Tuma. Our enemies persecute us and we no longer can seek refuge with him. The Sudan lies just opposite. All of the region's ethnic groups have always been at war. To survive, the herds need water and pasture land. Every plain and valley is conquered, then lost and reconquered. Hole Kiwo and his men are watching out for the Bumi. The Surma's ancestral foes have seized the plain below. In war-ravaged Sudan, Muslims in the north fighting Christians and animists in the south are prime targets for arms dealers. In the townships along the border, the Surma trade cattle for automatic rifles. The Ethiopian government is far away. A few gullied trails lead to these remote regions. Bandits of all origins fleece and kill others with impunity and impose their bloodthirsty iniquitous law here. For several weeks, Surma territory has been hit by a devastating heat wave. Daytime temperatures reach a high of 45 degrees in the shade. The spring rains have not come. The animals are prostrate. No one knows how old Dishmo is. The Surma don't measure time in this way. The old man is a Komuru. A Komuru is neither a king nor a priest. He embodies moral authority and wisdom. Dishmo is the living memory of the Surma. In him lies the experience and knowledge of the ancestors who for thousands of years have ensured the survival of a small group of people living on violent lands. Oh my father, the cattle, give us your milk. Give us your blood to drink, may you multiply. Oh my father, the cattle, bring us wealth. Keep us in good health, make us joyful, make us glad. Make the land of the Surma amenable. Endow us with your goodness, with your strength. The Surma are semi-nomadic herdsmen. They have few possessions besides their cattle with whom they identify with great passion. Their huts are only makeshift shelters. They are not craftsmen. The extreme destitution in which they have always lived constitutes their strength. To a certain extent, they float, light and free, playing with time, a constant thread. Foreigners sometimes recount how in the past, the Surma used to force their wives to disfigure themselves to escape the slave merchants haunting the horn of Africa. This is only a rumour, however. Surma women are the only women in Africa who still wear lip plates. No one forces the young girls to follow this tradition. Their lower lips are pierced when they are between 12 and 18 years old. The lip plate is primarily decorative. The larger the plate, the more appealing the woman and the greater the number of cows that need to be given to her family in order to marry her. Dishmoy receives messengers in his village of Regia. Unsettling information comes from all over Surma territory. Not many have experienced droughts on a scale such as this one. Our cattle are suffering. The Kibish River has gone underground. Nothing remains but a few puddles. Our animals are thirsty. They're thirsty. Soon the last water holes will have dried up. What will the cows drink? The rainmaker's prayers go unanswered. Has Turma abandoned us? Seeing our animals perish tears my heart out. Our enemies have infiltrated our lands. They've attacked an encampment of herdsmen in the plain. They've killed four young men and have stolen a large herd. We cannot let them do this. I'm worried, very worried. Dishmoy intends to punish the cattle thieves. Holekiwo and his men set off in pursuit. Who has left these recently made footprints? Friend or foe? No one knows who will suddenly loom up out of the brush. Surma and Bumi play a lethal game of hide and seek. Bands of Bumi warriors attack the Surma enclosure and steal animals to consolidate their decimated herds. The Bumi have raided the camps at the foot of Sejalo Mountain. The Surma seek revenge. The plain along the border becomes the site of bloody clashes. People on both sides are killed. They kill not out of hatred but by necessity to frighten the other and run him off the coveted lands. Holekiwo and his men rummage through the huts of the herdsmen slain a few days earlier. They gather together some moving remains. A small straw shield used to protect the wrist during stick fighting. A piece of hollowed out wood with which herdsmen collect milk and cow's blood. Fragments of pottery in which cereal groats are boiled. Now the Bumi are far away. They've reached the border, their booty in tow. In turn, the Surma will have to steal cattle. Again and again. Forever. The volcanic soil of the Kibish Valley is first There are two annual harvests. The Surma burn the stubble and plough under the soil before sowing sorghum, corn and peas. The women do the cultivating. Young boys keep watch over the herds. The men save their energy for war. The Surma do not have granaries for storing their surplus. Sometimes the grain is damaged or is devoured by parasites. Scarcity and famine are two age-old friends of the Surma. They tamed them long ago, yet they still inflict pain. Tuma has heard the witch doctors' pleas and has granted them. The rains come gushing down, and in great abundance. Each breeder owns his animals and devotes himself to them, body and soul. Cattle are pivotal to the trading system. The number of cows indicates a breeder's wealth and determines his social rank. A family possesses on average some 50 head of cattle, although some herds count more. Once again, the herds supply the milk and blood that give the Surma exceptional vitality and a fighting spirit that they draw upon and expand throughout their lives. Abundance has returned. A new season of stick fighting, or donga, can begin. The young men get ready. It's the only thing on their minds. A valiant fighter draws the attention of the young girls. He automatically joins the community of warriors. Like all boys their age, Haribula, Kiwo and Bartula dream of making a name for themselves. Are you going to fight soon? I hope so, but I'm not sure I'm ready. I will. It's my ancestors' culture. I want my father to be proud of me. I want to fight a great many dongas. I didn't eat enough during the dry season. We need to grow stronger. I need to work on my speed. It isn't easy to pivot quickly. We'll be warriors. Because of the donga, the Surma have a reputation of being a brutal, cruel people who derive pleasure in barbaric violence. Bartula, Haribula and Kiwo are still way too young to take on a full-grown man well-versed in the subtleties of a martial art that combines speed, technique and strength and requires great physical courage. Before donga season begins, the Komuros call together the warriors and the elders. The witch doctors will read the entrails. We are gathered here all together. We are gathered to read our destiny. And the diviners are with us. Let them sacrifice goats and read their entrails. It's good to be here. Our country is good and our god Tuma is with us. The young people are calling for a donga. But first, the entrails must be examined. That looks good. What do you see? That looks good. Yes, that's good. This part is good. That one there is also good. It's good. It's good. We have no problems. Our brothers were killed by the Brumi over there in the plain. We must celebrate a ritual in memory of these dead. We are going to celebrate a kilonga. The witch doctor will choose the place. Follow your cattle. Cultivate your fields. The Brumi are evil, but nothing bad will happen to us. This is what the entrails say. Our young people are too violent during the donga. The dongas must be banned until they calm down. We are losing too many warriors. Gracious vendettas are becoming more common. We must fight the Brumi, not kill one another. The dongas are too bloody. This is unacceptable. Killing a brother goes against the spirit of our people. I do not want to see any more deaths. We will celebrate a kilonga for our dead. The ritual will soothe their spirit. Everything will be fine. I will authorize a donga, and young people will come from near and far. Polygamy is the rule for the Surma. A warrior can marry up to seven or eight women. But violent deaths are so numerous that young women sometimes have trouble finding a husband. By carving the motifs of her people into her flesh, a young woman expresses her loyalty to her kin. She is honoring her ancestors, who gave birth to countless generations of Surma. Beautiful scars exalt femininity and embellish the body. They attract young men. To ward off all risk of infection, the wounds are rubbed with plants that have antiseptic properties. The Surma gather in the village of Dijari to celebrate the kilonga in memory of the dead. An enclosure for the cattle was built on the outskirts of the village for the ceremony. The kilonga ensures that the souls of the dead warriors will always be present in the village. They will look after the community as long as the Surma exist. The dead are summoned by trumpeting through an elephant tusk. The hut on which the warriors are dancing represents the symbolic dwelling of the deceased. The spirits of the dead warriors are appeased. The donga can take place. Hole Kiwo and his men prepare for combat with fighters from other villages. The designs have no meaning. They are purely ornamental. Each one has confidence in the imagination of his comrades. The Surma subject their bodies to rough and painful tests. They train them to serve the group without weakening, scorning all suffering. The young men of the Kibish Valley and the surrounding mountains gather in the clearing chosen by the witch doctor. Hundreds of warriors, pacing impatiently, parade through the clearing, bearing the banners of their villages. The Surma have observed soldiers hoisting the Ethiopian flag. They liked the ceremony and have improvised flags. Valiant fighters, those determined to fight, are carried on their comrades' shoulders. Some fighters wear makeshift armour, which they've patiently made while guarding the herds. Shields for the wrist, made of braided straw. Helmets made of plant fibre. Some wear oxtails, severed during raids to steal the enemy's cattle. The Donga weapon is a flexible pole, 2 metres 20 long. The tip has been carved into the shape of a phallus. The warriors parade about prior to the fights, to daunt the adversary. They challenge one another, size each other up, searching for the Achilles' heel in the other's expression. The Donga is not a tournament. No one wins or loses. The only thing that matters is the confrontation, skill and endurance. Each fighter expects and awaits the wound that will brand his flesh with the mark of courage and forcefulness. The skin bursts on impact. The bones break. Sometimes an internal organ is injured and death follows after one or two days of agony. The fighters do not worry about this. Scars received during the Donga demonstrate the man's readiness to sacrifice his life for his people, as countless lineages of ancestors did. The blood irrigates the existence of the Surma. They drink it, derive nourishment from it, let it flow abundantly. The stick fight is a metaphor for an existence revolving around combat. The Surma, men and women, must fight throughout their lives against enemies, against a climate that causes pain, against diseases that strike man and beast. The blood which they spread profusely is the blood of life, turbulent and obstinate. The powerful, determined blood of the Surma is the blood that our common ancestors, who first surfaced in this very place, handed down 195,000 years ago. Once the drought is over, the majority of Bumi returns to the land and return to the Sudan. Yet bands of warriors remain in the plain. They harass the Surma, killing in broad daylight. Dishmoy is exasperated. The Bumi attack us. They kill here, in our valley. They want our land. We have nowhere to go. We must live and die on our land. What are you waiting for? Why don't you run our enemies off our land? There are many of them, but there are many of us. Why are you letting them do this? Why don't you fight? Why? Why? You must find them and kill them. Your weapons are not water. You must use them. They fire bullets, like those used by your enemies. Load your weapons. Kill our enemies. Attacking the warrior's self-esteem is one of the Komoro's traditional techniques. Dishmoy's scathing words have galvanized his men. We must live and die on our land. The Surma confide their battle cry to the winds. And the winds carry it within earshot of the Bumi. The battle cry is, The Surma are armed. Shudder, yes, shudder. For if they run into you along their path, the Surma will kill you. The Surma are armed. Shudder, yes, shudder. For if they run into you along their path, the Surma will kill you. The Surma are armed. Shudder, yes, shudder. For if they run into you along their path, the Surma will kill you. The Surma are armed. Shudder, yes, shudder. For if they run into you along their path, the Surma will kill you. The Surma are armed. Shudder, yes, shudder. For if they run into you along their path, the Surma will kill you. The enemy has received the message. He has abandoned Surma land. He is retreating to the Sudan. War subsides for a period of time. But tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, it will break out once again. Holi Kiwon his men keep watch over the confines of Surma territory. The warriors have been keeping watch for thousands of years. They will protect their unique people for as long as they live.