Memoirs of the Motherland (Part VI): The Rainy County

By Jilcha Hamid

I packed a bag, assembled the squad and we hit the road east of Dirre Dhawa. We spent a few days in the town of Malka Raafuu before heading out to villages where other relatives were expecting us. Although the area was usually fertile, there were water shortages due to persistent drought. It hadn’t rained in quite a while. Nonetheless it was a beautiful town, surrounded by green hills and interestingly enough we arrived just as it began raining. Unfortunately I made the mistake of leaving my jacket behind. The ground was damp, and would get rather muddy as the rains continued for several days. Droughts, followed by heavy rains and occasional floods was the cycle. Global warming, climate change, whatever you wanna call it, people were just happy to see the rain again. Until the rains got a little too heavy.

“You brought the rain with you!” joked some relatives as we settled down and family and guests arrived. Over the next few days I was referred to by my new nickname "Roobaa" (a name usually given to a person who is born during the rain). It was cloudy outside so the room was pretty dark. With the sounds of bags being opened and bundles hitting the ground, you knew it was barcha time. Entered a kempt, chubby, light-skinned man with a pistol on his waist. In Africa chubbiness (or even obesity) is a good thing. It was a sign of wealth. Being thin like myself on the other hand, was an undesirable trait.

The man was the county governor. He was polite, well mannered, and seemed to be well liked by locals. People were jumping over one another to take pictures with him and shake his hand. He spoke about government plans, development goals, anniversaries etc….politician stuff.

“We are happy that you were able to be here to commemorate the downfall of the flesh eating naftanya" he said, referring to the former regime "..and we invite you to take part in the ongoing development of our country.”

It was brought to his attention that locals were still lobbying his administration to drill for water particularly in the rural mountainous areas of the county, but the administration said that it would take time. They first needed to fix the roads, in order to bring in the supplies to drill the well. But nothing was being done about the roads. They didn't have the funds.

He asked us to watch TV Oromiya, the television station of the Oromiya regional government, which nobody was really interested in watching. His eyes were the only ones glued to the TV, directing our attention to his colleagues on the screen.

“Hey, look, look at this man! This is the director of Oromiya’s bureau of ‘such and such’, listen to what he’s saying! And this man as well, he is a very important person!” What can I say, the man was really enthusiastic about his party. ‘The Cadre’ (if you remember him) who had tagged along from Dirre Dhawa, took the opportunity to forward his resume and do a bit of networking with the governor and other local officials. He began telling them about his experience  and his connections in the Dirre Dhawa administration. In an effort to impress his counterparts with how well connected he was, he began airing out all the dirty laundry of the Dirre Dhawa administration. It was safe to say that for this reason, he didn’t get the job.

After a few days in town we headed out to the countryside. We traveled north along the bumpy road to a rocky, mountainous area of the county known as Iftoha. The area which had been most affected by drought. As I looked at the mountains stretching across Iftoha district I thought to myself, the forefathers must have been some tough folks to have settled here of all places. This was where my father was born, and his father before him and so on. The district was a collection of small villages spread out in the mountains. During the previous regimes villagization campaign all the locals were forcibly moved and placed in settlements closer together, so that the regime could keep an eye on them and limit their contact with Oromo rebels. But after the downfall of that regime in 1991 the villagers went back to their original homes. Economically it was an agricultural region. In better days locals used to make a good profit from exporting their goods (coffee, khat and other crops) via contraband to neighbouring countries, but this has now stopped.

There was so much history in these hills. It was here that my Grandfather was buried during the Ethio-Somali war. A couple of kilometers over the mountains was my mothers birthplace, Laga Hama which was a beautiful village situated on a river in the valley. The town itself was named after the river. At the foot of Mount Tufu was the family's farmland. Mount Tufu was also where my other grandfather was buried, killed during the Ethio-Somali war. Thousands fled during that war. After the Somali army retreated from the area in ‘78, the Ethiopian army went on a rampage across the countryside laying waste to everything. The locals, they claimed, had supported the Somali army.

When the regime of Mengistu Haile Mariam collapsed, the area fell under the administrative zone of the Oromo Liberation Front which enjoyed popular support. For 11 months there was a sense of freedom and liberty. But that period was short-lived when the OLF left the transitional government. in the summer of '92. When the OLF leadership went into exile and the organization was forced underground again and the EPRDF moved into the area. The OLF regrouped in the mountains from where they would launch attacks on nearby EPRDF bases. During the day the EPRDF would patrol the villages and try to gather information from locals about rebel activity. Meanwhile the rebels would send scouts to monitor the EPRDF patrols and keep note of which villagers were speaking with them. When the evening came the EPRDF would return to their base and the rebels would come down to the villages to get supplies and warn those seen speaking with the EPRDF. By sunrise the rebels went back to their bases and the EPRDF patrol would return to inquire about rebel activities. This situation continued for several years until it reached it’s peak in 1995. Some influential locals turned up brutally executed followed by the killing of an elderly woman by unknown gunmen. The EPRDF saw the opportunity to move in and guarantee influential people protection in exchange for their support. Local leaders in an effort to avenge those who had been killed put the blame on the rebels, and rallied locals to form a militia of their own to dislodge the rebels. Which is eventually what happened. Although many years passed, the bloodshed and loss of loved ones was fresh in many people’s memories.

“Both sides claimed that they were fighting for us. Whether they claimed to be fighting for our freedom or protecting us from militias, but if we asked either of them to leave they'd never listen. They were all in it for their own gain” said one of the villagers. But not everybody shared this opinion.

When asked about his uncle - slain former rebel leader in the county - one of my cousins put on a stern face and replied "He was a hero".

"The OLF were freedom fighters."

Political views were quite polarized, especially in the countryside where civilians felt the brunt of the war. There wasn't that often romanticized view of the holy liberation fighters that existed in the diaspora. In a remote area far from the world's eye view, armed groups - whether from the regime or rebels - were generally disliked because they all used intimidation and violence to keep the locals on their side. Since the end of the war they enjoy peace and stability. But it was clear to see that they longed for something better.

From Malka Rafu to Iftoha and Laga Hama, I was greeted by emotional family members. To my fathers family members I was the young man who left over 30  years ago. Similarly, to my mothers family and clan, I WAS the teenage girl who ran away 33 years ago. Upon my arrival I was greeted by the village, clapping and embracing me. Women and young girls dancing and singing songs in my name. It was an emotionally overwhelming feeling. We celebrated and feasted for 3 days. Guests came from other villages and towns just to greet their long lost son. The clan gave me the name "Araarso" (the reconciliator) my arrival brought everybody together. During the day we toured the village, and chewed khat freshly picked from the farm. At night we chewed more khat and sang menzuma (traditional religious songs). One of my uncles was a talented artist with a gifted voice. He could probably sell a million menzuma albums if he went into a recording studio.

On Friday we went to the main mosque which was filled with worshipers. As I entered the mosque I kept the Dire Dhawa custom of bagging my sandals and taking them into the mosque with me. My uncle stopped me. "That's not necessary. There are no thieves here." One of the advantages of village-life. As I stepped into the mosque I looked around and saw all familiar faces. It was like a family prayer.

After a week in Kombolcha county we headed back to Dire Dhawa. To catch the minibus to Dire Dhawa we had to hike for 4 hours or so to a village in the Dire Dhawa administrative region. Although I wanted to stay longer, my crew was spent desperate to get back to the city. We left at dawn. As I reached a peak on the dirt road outside of the village I looked back at the sun rising over Laga Hama. So beautiful and serene. I wondered if I'd ever be back. InshaAllah.