Mezemir Girma
Note: This article was published in the quarterly magazine of DBU's college of Agriculture and Natural Resource.
I am a man of limited mobility who spent his formative
years in Sasit, a small town 90 kilometers north of Debre Birhan.
There, I saw to what extent the area is devoid of trees. If you at least
go to Google maps and notice the condition of this area, you may see
the trees surround the houses there as a bracelet surrounds a girl’s
wrist. As a part of the Shewan plateau, this place has been inhabited
for a long time, exposed to erosion and parts of its 60 degrees plus
steep mountains are ploughed. Degraded, it has been giving food for the
people.
When I was as young as ten, a grade five student, I used to climb eucalyptus trees and fetch home bundles of dry tree branches I broke. There were fresh, red and shocking marks on my chest which the trunks rubbed. I would also collect and take home sacks of leaves of trees. It was as if I accidentally got a thousand birr on the road that I used to feel when I got the whole tree dry; one of the few times I felt happy in my life! I would break such small trees to pieces just using stone wedges. If I used axes, the authorities would be mad at me. So, this made me an expert in using stone tools. Now, this forest area is cleared and half of it is used as the compound of a newly built health center and the rest as a market. The market was changed to this area thirteen years ago after the former market almost vanished. Some Sasites whose houses are found around that market included parts of it into their compounds year by year by extending their fences to the center of the market and that big market dwindled to less than a hectare. People even started buying and selling commodities on the road and they had a threat of a car crash. By the way, I cannot tell you how people killed, quarreled, and sulked each other there just because of an inch of land or a glance one has at them! Fuel wood is a very hard question no one answered for Sasit or other area people. Recently, a woman from this town told me that one morning she ordered her servant to fetch a sack of dung from the fields where it was found in abundance not more than a decade ago. The fields would be cleared of their dung by the cattle owners themselves and the residents of the small town could no more get anything to put in their stoves. If they saw you roam the fields, they would attack you with slings, sticks and/or stones. That woman told me that the girl she sent to fetch the dung said she went more than ten kilometers and could get nothing. “Madam, I tell you for real that there is nothing in the fields,” she exclaimed weeping. Most people already used their fences as fuel wood. Stealing trees from the protected public forest is a must that the people cannot avoid. Now the protected forests are almost empty. What would agriculturalists suggest for this? This is a tangible problem. Isn’t it? Sometimes I wish I were the governor of that district or an NGO chair only to solve such problems.
The place I went to as a reporter for my school’s mini media when I was in grade six was my district’s capital, Sela - Dingay. This Moja and Wedera district’s capital is 72 kilometres north of Debre Birhan. The district was formerly known as Tegulet, whose name is attributed to three legends. First, it is said to be the name of a local chief after which King Zera - Yacob named the district since he urgently fulfilled the latter’s order of building the Debre Mitmak church. Secondly, it is said that the people who migrated from the area to other fertile areas of the country say, “Let me go to my Gult, individual land,- Tegulte (my Gult) -” when they feel sad. Thirdly, they say it is because the people worked hard for the development of the area – in Amharic this means ‘taggullat’. The heart of the district, Sela – Dingay town, is, like Sasit, almost tree - free. Don’t we have hardworking people these days? Why is Moja/Tegulet dry, dusty, stony, and why is the sun always scorching there. There are no sleeping people, but in my view the problem is their energy is unfairly wasted on unfruitful daily chores.
When I was in grade eight, I visited one of the four Debre towns I have been to so far. This town was Debre - Sina. Seen from the Tarmaber Mountain, Debre Sina’s view is really breathtaking. Even if I was thirteen then, I could see how this area was evergreen and full of eucalyptus and tid trees. If these were not there, there would be no Debre - Sina town in our maps as the steep hill would beckon flooding. As you read above, eucalyptus trees and I had dangerous encounters. English professor friend-cum- colleagues of mine here at DBU would laugh at me reading this account of mine in which as usual I talk about and get obsessed with nature. One of them said to me, “While people carry with them girls’ pictures, you carry in your cell phone photos of natural things you shoot.” Anyways, eucalyptus trees have an attachment with me because they are common in my area. If you asked me, till recently what ‘tree’ was in Amharic, I would say ‘bahirzaf’, which is the Amharic term for eucalyptus, while, normally, tree is ‘zaf’. Farmers in my area don’t accept seedlings of any trees other than eucalyptus because of the benefits this tree gives them and their love for it. To mention a damage of eucalyptus, at least it made my grandfather’s spring dry. I think this is the place to share with you about my granny’s friend, Gash Gebre Meskel, who gave me a three – hour interview at his house two years ago. I asked him if there were trees in the area when he was young. He told me that there were no trees. “What was there then? What was the area covered with?” I asked shocked. “It was covered with Tid, Weyra, Bisana, Girar, Kitkita, Kechemo ….” He kept mentioning indigenous trees. “But not with trees,” he responded and we agreed. Look! At least there is a place called Kechemo opposite his house named after an indigenous tree even if there is no trace of that type of tree.
Debre Birhan is where I did my high school. It was when I was in grade 11 that I visited Debre Libanos. There, I met many Sasit people who came on foot to the area making their three day pilgrimage scorched by the sun and having no tree for a shade during breaks. When I spent a week there, I really could picture Ethiopia of the olden days whose forty-three percent land was covered with trees. The air you breathe, the water you drink, the natural way of life you live there brings the real setting of our great grandparents’ days. The secret of all the green scenery there lies in the people’s fear of God’s punishment for cutting the indigenous trees. Indigenous trees, indigenous beliefs, indigenous wearing, speaking, and living styles help you renew your acculturated self. Oh Debre – Libanos! I have understood now why Fitawrary Woldu of Daniachew Worku’s novel, The Thirteenth Sun, pledged to be buried there. A green oasis! If only DBU agriculturalists visited it and modeled it to cultivate our area!
A DBU professor asked me last time to tell him about any a protected natural forest area I know in North Shewa and I said I heard of none except of Wof Washa. That man told me this week that he is conducting his research on Mugeriza, a forest in Ginager. Look! Isn’t it a shame not to be able to have trees? Not a shame of my own, but of the whole society; not of the society alone but of its learnt people; not of the learnt people alone but of the NGOs; not of the NGOs alone, but of the government. I told the aforementioned professor to go to Adabay, not knowing that it almost vanished. The Adabay forest was a shelter for people who travelled to and fro Tegulet. But now the trees in that watershed are cleared and their roots made into charcoal and sold in Debre Birhan markets and Tej is drunk by the money from the charcoal sale. The locals used to sing this about Adabay:
Oh Adabay! Your mighty trees are felled
Unlike my crooked brother, you were my shelter
Unlike my bad friend, you were my shield.
I am a man who saw a motorbike for the first time when I was in grade three, a TV set in grade six, telephone in grade nine, elevator in university and had a cell phone of mine after I became a teacher. If you are born and brought up outside our capital, when did you first visit Addis Ababa? What did you feel then? Who were you with? What did you notice? When I was in grade 10, I was lucky enough to visit the place I knew from books and the media alone. I was able to see the compound walls of Addis Ababa University. Addis is really rich in plantations and it is the second green place I saw after Debre Libnos. From the Entoto forest to the university and other public compounds, and the streets, Addis Ababa is really a green city. I feel how the lack of trees is hard when I go to Mercato, where, unlike Sidist kilo, I pant due to the heat and dust. Sidist Kilo compound is like heaven. But I think at this time city planners have forgotten the fact that our capital needs ample green areas as they almost forgot our English Premier League fan youth need sporting places.
On my way to Langano, the resort where I spent two days with my undergraduate classmates, I saw scattered acacia and other tress which mankind may clear in the future. How can one forget the anthills on one’s way to Langano? Adama/Nazareth is the last town I know. Last year, I spent three weeks in this town which is full of trees. The wind power generating towers are other technological trees that can help us save our trees from vanishing. EEPCO, may your life be filled with joy!
Debre Birhan town is another place where eucalyptus reigned. Seven years after its foundation, Debre Berhan University (DBU) has been able to grow trees a bit taller than a man. I understand that the weather is hard to bear for such trees, but we can do something at least to teach our students who should have something to do with trees. This year is special in the intensity of the chills and the frequency of the frost. DBU is not to blame for that – it is nature to blame. Most of the trees and other plants in the compound are dying albeit the effort even to clothe them. If all this effort had been made six or five years ago, if the compost had been scattered then, if the buildings had been built fast, we would see a university with tall trees for the students to shade themselves from the scorching sun. We are too late, but let us think that we still have time. Whenever drought comes almost every ten years and we are under problems we say ‘the god’s must be crazy.’ But, I think we must be the crazy ones who are making nature not give its fruits to its children. You give nature something, it gives you back; you take something away, you should compensate by some means; you take and don’t put back, you suffer. I understand the pain you have, but let us build our home together! Let me close with how Saleamlak quoted Blair last time during our tête-à-tête at Mulugela saying, “This generation plants trees, and the next generation enjoys the shade”
Note: This article was published in the quarterly magazine of DBU's college of Agriculture and Natural Resource.
When I was as young as ten, a grade five student, I used to climb eucalyptus trees and fetch home bundles of dry tree branches I broke. There were fresh, red and shocking marks on my chest which the trunks rubbed. I would also collect and take home sacks of leaves of trees. It was as if I accidentally got a thousand birr on the road that I used to feel when I got the whole tree dry; one of the few times I felt happy in my life! I would break such small trees to pieces just using stone wedges. If I used axes, the authorities would be mad at me. So, this made me an expert in using stone tools. Now, this forest area is cleared and half of it is used as the compound of a newly built health center and the rest as a market. The market was changed to this area thirteen years ago after the former market almost vanished. Some Sasites whose houses are found around that market included parts of it into their compounds year by year by extending their fences to the center of the market and that big market dwindled to less than a hectare. People even started buying and selling commodities on the road and they had a threat of a car crash. By the way, I cannot tell you how people killed, quarreled, and sulked each other there just because of an inch of land or a glance one has at them! Fuel wood is a very hard question no one answered for Sasit or other area people. Recently, a woman from this town told me that one morning she ordered her servant to fetch a sack of dung from the fields where it was found in abundance not more than a decade ago. The fields would be cleared of their dung by the cattle owners themselves and the residents of the small town could no more get anything to put in their stoves. If they saw you roam the fields, they would attack you with slings, sticks and/or stones. That woman told me that the girl she sent to fetch the dung said she went more than ten kilometers and could get nothing. “Madam, I tell you for real that there is nothing in the fields,” she exclaimed weeping. Most people already used their fences as fuel wood. Stealing trees from the protected public forest is a must that the people cannot avoid. Now the protected forests are almost empty. What would agriculturalists suggest for this? This is a tangible problem. Isn’t it? Sometimes I wish I were the governor of that district or an NGO chair only to solve such problems.
The place I went to as a reporter for my school’s mini media when I was in grade six was my district’s capital, Sela - Dingay. This Moja and Wedera district’s capital is 72 kilometres north of Debre Birhan. The district was formerly known as Tegulet, whose name is attributed to three legends. First, it is said to be the name of a local chief after which King Zera - Yacob named the district since he urgently fulfilled the latter’s order of building the Debre Mitmak church. Secondly, it is said that the people who migrated from the area to other fertile areas of the country say, “Let me go to my Gult, individual land,- Tegulte (my Gult) -” when they feel sad. Thirdly, they say it is because the people worked hard for the development of the area – in Amharic this means ‘taggullat’. The heart of the district, Sela – Dingay town, is, like Sasit, almost tree - free. Don’t we have hardworking people these days? Why is Moja/Tegulet dry, dusty, stony, and why is the sun always scorching there. There are no sleeping people, but in my view the problem is their energy is unfairly wasted on unfruitful daily chores.
When I was in grade eight, I visited one of the four Debre towns I have been to so far. This town was Debre - Sina. Seen from the Tarmaber Mountain, Debre Sina’s view is really breathtaking. Even if I was thirteen then, I could see how this area was evergreen and full of eucalyptus and tid trees. If these were not there, there would be no Debre - Sina town in our maps as the steep hill would beckon flooding. As you read above, eucalyptus trees and I had dangerous encounters. English professor friend-cum- colleagues of mine here at DBU would laugh at me reading this account of mine in which as usual I talk about and get obsessed with nature. One of them said to me, “While people carry with them girls’ pictures, you carry in your cell phone photos of natural things you shoot.” Anyways, eucalyptus trees have an attachment with me because they are common in my area. If you asked me, till recently what ‘tree’ was in Amharic, I would say ‘bahirzaf’, which is the Amharic term for eucalyptus, while, normally, tree is ‘zaf’. Farmers in my area don’t accept seedlings of any trees other than eucalyptus because of the benefits this tree gives them and their love for it. To mention a damage of eucalyptus, at least it made my grandfather’s spring dry. I think this is the place to share with you about my granny’s friend, Gash Gebre Meskel, who gave me a three – hour interview at his house two years ago. I asked him if there were trees in the area when he was young. He told me that there were no trees. “What was there then? What was the area covered with?” I asked shocked. “It was covered with Tid, Weyra, Bisana, Girar, Kitkita, Kechemo ….” He kept mentioning indigenous trees. “But not with trees,” he responded and we agreed. Look! At least there is a place called Kechemo opposite his house named after an indigenous tree even if there is no trace of that type of tree.
Debre Birhan is where I did my high school. It was when I was in grade 11 that I visited Debre Libanos. There, I met many Sasit people who came on foot to the area making their three day pilgrimage scorched by the sun and having no tree for a shade during breaks. When I spent a week there, I really could picture Ethiopia of the olden days whose forty-three percent land was covered with trees. The air you breathe, the water you drink, the natural way of life you live there brings the real setting of our great grandparents’ days. The secret of all the green scenery there lies in the people’s fear of God’s punishment for cutting the indigenous trees. Indigenous trees, indigenous beliefs, indigenous wearing, speaking, and living styles help you renew your acculturated self. Oh Debre – Libanos! I have understood now why Fitawrary Woldu of Daniachew Worku’s novel, The Thirteenth Sun, pledged to be buried there. A green oasis! If only DBU agriculturalists visited it and modeled it to cultivate our area!
A DBU professor asked me last time to tell him about any a protected natural forest area I know in North Shewa and I said I heard of none except of Wof Washa. That man told me this week that he is conducting his research on Mugeriza, a forest in Ginager. Look! Isn’t it a shame not to be able to have trees? Not a shame of my own, but of the whole society; not of the society alone but of its learnt people; not of the learnt people alone but of the NGOs; not of the NGOs alone, but of the government. I told the aforementioned professor to go to Adabay, not knowing that it almost vanished. The Adabay forest was a shelter for people who travelled to and fro Tegulet. But now the trees in that watershed are cleared and their roots made into charcoal and sold in Debre Birhan markets and Tej is drunk by the money from the charcoal sale. The locals used to sing this about Adabay:
Oh Adabay! Your mighty trees are felled
Unlike my crooked brother, you were my shelter
Unlike my bad friend, you were my shield.
I am a man who saw a motorbike for the first time when I was in grade three, a TV set in grade six, telephone in grade nine, elevator in university and had a cell phone of mine after I became a teacher. If you are born and brought up outside our capital, when did you first visit Addis Ababa? What did you feel then? Who were you with? What did you notice? When I was in grade 10, I was lucky enough to visit the place I knew from books and the media alone. I was able to see the compound walls of Addis Ababa University. Addis is really rich in plantations and it is the second green place I saw after Debre Libnos. From the Entoto forest to the university and other public compounds, and the streets, Addis Ababa is really a green city. I feel how the lack of trees is hard when I go to Mercato, where, unlike Sidist kilo, I pant due to the heat and dust. Sidist Kilo compound is like heaven. But I think at this time city planners have forgotten the fact that our capital needs ample green areas as they almost forgot our English Premier League fan youth need sporting places.
On my way to Langano, the resort where I spent two days with my undergraduate classmates, I saw scattered acacia and other tress which mankind may clear in the future. How can one forget the anthills on one’s way to Langano? Adama/Nazareth is the last town I know. Last year, I spent three weeks in this town which is full of trees. The wind power generating towers are other technological trees that can help us save our trees from vanishing. EEPCO, may your life be filled with joy!
Debre Birhan town is another place where eucalyptus reigned. Seven years after its foundation, Debre Berhan University (DBU) has been able to grow trees a bit taller than a man. I understand that the weather is hard to bear for such trees, but we can do something at least to teach our students who should have something to do with trees. This year is special in the intensity of the chills and the frequency of the frost. DBU is not to blame for that – it is nature to blame. Most of the trees and other plants in the compound are dying albeit the effort even to clothe them. If all this effort had been made six or five years ago, if the compost had been scattered then, if the buildings had been built fast, we would see a university with tall trees for the students to shade themselves from the scorching sun. We are too late, but let us think that we still have time. Whenever drought comes almost every ten years and we are under problems we say ‘the god’s must be crazy.’ But, I think we must be the crazy ones who are making nature not give its fruits to its children. You give nature something, it gives you back; you take something away, you should compensate by some means; you take and don’t put back, you suffer. I understand the pain you have, but let us build our home together! Let me close with how Saleamlak quoted Blair last time during our tête-à-tête at Mulugela saying, “This generation plants trees, and the next generation enjoys the shade”
ምንም አስተያየቶች የሉም:
አስተያየት ይለጥፉ