That day changed my life. I was determined to bring down Haile Selassie’s regime. With others I had started a clandestine movement. We began publishing political pamphlets. We organized workers into unions. We organized youth, we organized women, we organized farmers. We organized all facets of society and began a true social movement.
As I was coming back from a secret meeting one rainy day, I noticed that somebody was following me. I tried to change my course, but another man came straight for me. I moved to pass him but he blocked my path. I turned back and started running, but it was no use; the man easily caught me.
They threw me into a police car and took me to the station. There, they tortured me. They broke my foot. They gave me electric shocks. The most painful part was when they got tired of beating me, sat me down, and started listening to music. How could they enjoy music while I was suffering? Where was their humanity? What had happened to their compassion? How could a human being inflict such heinous pain upon his fellow man? An endless question for me.
The good thing about prison was that I made a lot of friends. I met Humnecha, an energetic Oromo nationalist. I met many ardent supporters of the revolution. Beyond that, my father came to Addis Ababa for the first time. My father seldom visited towns. Because of his position, it was not wise to leave the area where he lived. The Oromo cultural law requires that a priest must not leave the land he knows. But I was his son. And I was in prison. Even though it was difficult for him, he managed to visit me.
My father had a 600-mile journey. He had to cross a land he didn’t know. When he arrived in Addis Ababa, he was amused. He was also confused. He thought everyone in the city was crazy, and when he shared his feelings I grew very sad. I regretted my education; I was his curse. Because of me, he had breached his station. But I’d had no choice.
After being held in prison for a month, I was formally accused of insulting the king and organizing a protest, but fortunately I was released on bail. Many of my friends were also let go. As soon as we were released, we called a general strike in Addis Ababa.
The day of the strike came and people stepped out of their fear and demonstrated in Meskel Square, demanding everything from wage increases to regime change. Everything was done in secret and at last we felt successful.
Then I started to read about the history of different parties and social movements, investigating and analyzing my people’s problems. I also consulted with influential Oromo figures like Brigadier General Tadesse Birru and political activist Baro Tumsa.
With the help of these great men, we secretly founded a political party that struggled for the freedom of my people. My idea was to struggle peacefully. I said to them, “Look, we are all Oromo. In Oromo philosophy, things go wrong when there is an imbalance between different people or relationships. For example, if the relationship between a husband and wife is bad, then a problem arises for the whole family. Hence, corruption and social malaise are the result of an imbalanced relationship between humanity, nature, and God. At the most basic level we are tied together with ayyana, human spirit; we are all brothers, thus not meant to kill each other, nor oppress or exploit each other.”
Humnecha paused before replying. “I believe in the necessity of war, but I don’t think anybody deserves to die. I believe it is important to die for a just cause. The only thing we have to do is make sure the cause we want to die for is worthy enough to die for.”
The debate continued like that. For me, as a son of Qallu, I am supposed to oppose war. But as the sons of Gada members, who give greater value to military and economic achievement, they deduced that war is justified when peaceful means are impossible. Ultimately, we agreed that at all times we should uphold and aspire toward peaceful means.
A week later, Humnecha introduced me to a student named Muze and invited us both to a meal. At dinner, Humnecha gestured to Muze and said, “Our people have a common problem and need a common solution. Ethiopia needs to be restructured so that it fulfills the needs of its people. Nations have to be free to rule over their own affairs. I hope this makes sense to you, so we can work together to hasten the fall of this old regime.”
“I agree, but under one condition: that we don’t oppress each other after the regime falls,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” said Muze. “I promise, there will not be oppression after the fall of the oppressor. Comrades never exploit and oppress each other. That is why Karl Marx says: Workers of the world, unite! Oppressed people should be allies in their essence.”
“I promise,” Humnecha said.
“I promise,” Muze repeated.
We toasted our glasses of wine so that the world might cheer up with us, as if we were signing a treaty. We could have been warriors or, at another time, peacemakers. Maybe destroyers, maybe developers. Since we were young revolutionaries, no one knew what type of leaders we could become when we had a chance to lead.
Muze and I grew close. We met regularly and discussed everything together. In a short period of time he became my best friend next to Humnecha. We ate together, laughed together, and dreamed about revolution together.
Muze was from the northern part of Ethiopia and his family eked out a living as farmers. He was the son of a priest like me, but in a very different way. He said his people were oppressed because of their language.
That summer, some of my friends gave up hope and took up arms against colonialism, which Muze and I were unhappy about.
While we were busy organizing people toward this goal, the army secretly staged a coup and deposed the king, snatching the revolution and its fruit from us. The soldiers were the ones who were beating and imprisoning us; in a nutshell, they were the right hand of the emperor. Yet, overnight they became “revolutionary” and took our mantle.
We were surprised to hear it when they formed the transitional military council called the Derg. Soon it became apparent that the military junta was simply another phase of oppression. But within three months they responded positively to our first demand — “land for tillers” — and many of us thought this was a great victory.
The military also promised to tackle the problem of recognizing our nationalities, and I was hopeful even though many of my friends were still saying it was simply a pipe dream. Many former revolutionaries lost hope and soon labeled both me and the new government as enemies, embarking on armed struggles against some of my friends and the new government officials.
The military government responded by killing people indiscriminately. Whoever was suspected of being their opponents were killed. Even Muze and I were accused of supporting and giving cover to antirevolutionaries, and we were arrested.
However, one of my relatives in the revolutionary army bribed the right politicians, so we escaped the harsh punishment others were facing. The day after we were released, I heard troubling news on the radio. It had been almost three years since Humnecha headed into the forest to prepare for armed struggle, and he had now become a rebel leader in the area west of Oromia where he was from.
The military government decided to take serious measures against the rebels. After sending a special task force to western Oromia, they poisoned the meals of the rebel leaders. Everyone died except for Humnecha, who hadn’t eaten much. Still, he fell quite ill and was taken to a hospital, and once his health improved he was imprisoned in Finfinne. After I heard this news, I feared it was my turn to be thrown in jail, given their knowledge that Humnecha was my close friend. Muze likewise grew fearful as his friends in the north intensified their struggle.