Meskel Square
I am in exile in Europe, while my friend Muze is a rich man in Ethiopia. I left behind all that is of value to me, my family, my culture; and today, while eating breakfast, I read in the newspaper that Muze is depositing what is valuable to him into Swiss bank accounts. The newspaper said that the Swiss banks are feeding off poor Africans and other third world countries and now it is “Ethiopia’s turn.” Muze and I were best friends, comrades for the revolution, and now we are worlds apart. Or maybe we are still friends, in spite of everything. Let me tell you a little bit about him and me. Let me tell you how we became friends, and how our friendship has ebbed.
My name is Waaqoo. Waaqoo Bonayaa. I am from Borana, an Oromo clan living in southern Ethiopia and northern Kenya. I am my family’s first son. Since my father is Qallu, an Oromo spiritual leader, he used to tell the people when the gada election would be, when the incumbent Abba Gada in power would leave, and when the new Abba Gada would be anointed. His duty as a religious leader also included forecasting the time for religious activities like the Irreecha and other public festivals.
My father would burn fire in our yard every Friday evening, spending the night outside praying to God. He would examine the stars and prepare a calendar based on astronomical principles, calculating dates for every activity.
My father never carried weapons. He did not slay animals because he was not expected to do so. He was calm and always spoke gently. He was so religious that I never saw him get angry. Other than that, he watched after God’s safu so that the laws would not be broken or overlooked; hence everybody could live up to his or her expectations. He taught others to act in the right way.
His other duty was to make sure the animals intended to be slaughtered for festivities had nothing wrong with them; animals that have spots, that are lame, or that have any defects cannot be killed for festivals. The animal chosen to be killed must also be uncontested, with no other claim of any sort made on it. If it is to be bought from someone, the seller shouldn’t be a person accused or suspected of murder, theft, betrayal, rape, or any other crime.
I had such a good father and I was proud of him. Many people, especially my schoolmates, were envious of me. Girls of my village wanted to marry me. Some of them even fell in love with me. My father told me that the first Qallu descended from heaven and was found among the Matari clan; Qallu is said to be the son of God.
I grew up in a beautiful and high-minded society in which everything seemed good and balanced. Balance is the mercury of my society’s morals. I didn’t encounter any problems with others until I went to school. The world was perfect for me until then. It was in school that for the first time I saw people who not only didn’t speak my language, but people who hated it. We were not allowed to speak our language in school and had to learn to speak Amharic, the national language of Ethiopia. Learning and understanding Amharic was very difficult for me. And understanding academic concepts in Amharic was another problem. I was facing two interrelated issues: not only would speaking our mother tongue, Afaan Oromo, result in severe punishment, but mispronouncing, misspelling, or misreading Amharic would as well.
I was dismissed from school many times, but thanks to my uncle who worked in the government, I managed to complete my education. Those in town who spoke Amharic despised us from the countryside; they said we were poor farmers who didn’t know anything other than following our cattle. But I had even bigger problems. The Amhara used to tell me that my father is a priest for Satan. I would never speak a word in response because I knew the consequences. For this reason, I kept quiet — quiet as the dead — and now I think that is why they spoke however they wanted. They have the power to speak and I have only the right to listen. They have freedom to speak, freedom to name, and freedom to define who we are. I cannot speak for myself. I cannot name myself. I cannot name my experience and I cannot define who I am. If I tried to do so, they would laugh at me and demoralize me. But in spite of all this, thanks to my uncle, I managed to complete my secondary school and enter university.
One beautiful Friday morning, three months after I arrived at Addis Ababa University, I left my dormitory to go to class. I was a freshman and I didn’t know much about the campus. A dark, thin, tall young man was speaking in front of the university president’s office, which was once Haile Selassie’s palace.
That day, students were gathered in large groups, shouting and clapping their hands. When I arrived, a man was saying: “Students of Addis Ababa University, I think you know about our serious problem. It is feudalism and the petite bourgeoisie. The majority of you are from the countryside. Do your families have land to till? Have you ever had enough food for dinner? How many of you had shoes when you were in school? How many of you have extra pants? How many of you have pocket money for tea? How many of you are proud of yourself and proudly speak your own language? How many of you are proud of your culture and religion?
“Only a few of you, I would guess, manage to live comfortably. Why is that? Is it because our families are lazy? Is it because they do not deserve food and clothes, let alone a happy life? Is it because they are naturally inferior and are not people of worth? Answer me, my follow men: it is not!” he answered himself. “It is not; it is because of this crooked old regime.
“My fellow men, is it just to make the poor weak, to make them sell their pitiful belongings, in order to add more gold to their masters’ wealth? Is it right that the poor should be oppressed, exploited, and made even poorer in order to make the rich richer? Should we, my fellow men, allow this butcher to keep slaughtering our farmers? I tell you! My countrymen came here to the palace carrying the yoke of their oxen to show how much they were subjugated and oppressed by the feudal system. However, the regime didn’t even consider their request. Instead, it arrested them and put them in jail. Is this a solution to our farmers’ perennial problems? My fellow students, issues of land and nationality are our most pertinent problems. Thus I proclaim: land for the tillers, freedom for our nationalities!”
The students gathered shouted back: “Land for the tillers, freedom for our nationalities!”
The mob grew tense when the campus police came and dispersed everyone, arresting the speaker who was standing on the steps that Mussolini had built during his five-year occupation of Ethiopia.
Angry because of the arrest, the students demonstrated again the next day and threw stones at the police. The police responded by firing tear gas, leading to injuries and more arrests.
For the first time, I experienced what I cannot express in words. I felt as if I could contribute something to the future of my people. I had read about revolution but I didn’t understand what it meant. But now I realized I was at the gate of the revolution. For the first time I’d heard someone who spoke on behalf of poor people.
Suddenly I started thinking about freedom: freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of religion, freedom of nations and nationalities. Oh God! How many freedoms were we struggling for? And to what extent?
I remembered the saying of Thomas Jefferson: God who gave us life gave us liberty. What an inspiring thought. Rousseau then came to my mind: Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. This is especially true in Ethiopia, in Oromia, my nation — a nation that failed at the hands of black colonialists while other African brothers failed under the cruel yoke of white colonialism. My black brothers struggled against the whites and won their battle. But for my people, everything came too late. Too late to even understand their problems. Too late to remember what happened to my grandfather.