W. F., the boy who alerted his family to the dangers of armed individuals in the woods
I am W. F., a native of Menz Kebele, Dano Wereda, Ambo Zone, Western Shewa, Oromia Regional State, Ethiopia. I am 13 years old. When we lived in Oromia, our country, we lived with happiness, love and care for one another. We had a large farmland with a grazing field for our cattle. We also had workers to help us. In total, we had 8 cattle and some drought animals. We kept four cattle with us and gave the others to Mrs Birke’s family, who lived nearby, on a livestock sharing agreement.
I helped my parents with various farm tasks and chores. In the mornings, I would release the cattle from their sheds and take them to the field below our house. At noon, I would leave them there and go home for lunch. In the evenings, I would return to bring them back home.
In addition to our cattle, we also had a vegetable and fruit irrigation garden, as well as beehives. We were able to produce our own food and even sell some at the market. While looking after the cattle, I enjoyed playing with the kids in the area and this always made me happy. I especially loved playing football.
I have cherished memories of home, particularly during holidays. My favorite holiday is Easter. I recall the excitement of preparing for Easter, from the solemn observances of Good Friday to the festive gatherings on Saturday night. On Easter Sunday, we enjoyed a feast of delicious chicken, milk, butter, and eggs. In the mornings, we decorated the house with freshly cut grass. My mother would dress in traditional white attire, brew coffee, and gather the family together, sometimes inviting neighbors to join us. We would also visit my parents’ god-children as part of our Easter tradition.
One day, a group of people were helping our family with weeding. Around noon, one of the boys saw a snake and we all screamed when he showed it to us. My mother heard the commotion from the house and asked us to come back home for lunch. When she learned the reason for our screams, she taught us to return home at noon to avoid snakes. I also killed a snake one day while I was tending to the cattle.
Another day, I forgot to bring an umbrella with me. While I was tending to the cattle, a heavy rain suddenly started pouring down. I quickly began running towards home, but the strong winds and rain made it difficult to continue. Seeking shelter, I ran to the shade of a large tree. Meanwhile, my dad was out looking for me, carrying an umbrella. After searching for a long time, he finally found me under the tree. I explained what happened and he warned about the dangers of forgetting my umbrella and standing under a tree during a thunderstorm. Afterwards, we set out to find our cattle, fearing they may have strayed and eaten other people’s crops. I made the sound of cows and one of them responded with a loud moo. We located them and began heading back home, where we found my mother waiting by the main gate.
Once, I took our cattle with my brother to the river. They drank water and entered the forest. While we were playing, a stranger started approaching us with a dagger. An armed militia member from our village saw him and asked him in the Oromo language what he intended to do with us. The man stopped in his tracks. I believe he wouldn’t have stopped if the militia member hadn’t spoken to him in his own language. When we told our father about the incident upon returning home, he was shocked and even thought we were joking.
We also protect our crops from monkeys by using slings. Additionally, we roast corn over a fire and eat it in the field. When we are alone our fights with the monkeys can be challenging. The monkeys may hit us with sticks or even try to bite us, but we used dogs to help chase them away.
I started school when I was 7 years old. Our school is situated near the administrative center, which is kilometers away from our house. I walk to school every day, starting at daybreak and usually arriving at 8:00 AM. The journey is quite challenging due to the rough road. While I am at school my mom takes care of the cattle. By the time I reached grade two, I had mastered the alphabet of the Oromo language and could read and write in it. I grade three, I began learning how to read and write in English.
There is an Orthodox church and an Evangelical church in our area, but there is no mosque because there are Christians, not Muslims, there. The Oromos live a little away from us. We meet them when they are tending to their cattle. We also meet at school. There are 80 kids in a class. The Oromos outnumber the Amharas, although there is a significant number of Amharas. There is one Amharic subject taught mostly by Amharas. We also have a subject called Gada, but its content is not being covered because we are allowed to play in the field during that time. During recess, the teachers play Oromo music with loudspeakers, which often focuses on the theme of struggle, known as ‘qabso’ in Oromo. There was no discrimination at school. At the end of the year, the parents of the students who rank first to third are awarded gabi, a traditional cloth worn over the shoulders and upper body. My parents were not awarded a gabi because I was not a bright student. I can read and understand Oromo, but find English the most difficult subject. Even in grade 5, students in our school only learn the alphabet in Amharic, without going beyond that.
Invaders came to our area by forming a line. One day, as I heard their footsteps, my family and I went outside to see what was happening. The invaders scolded us, telling us to go back inside and not to watch them. I obeyed and watched from a hidden spot as they headed towards Chefe Senbo, which was further from our village. Everyone who saw them was frustrated. They reassured the people that they wouldn’t harm them as they needed the locals to provide them with food and not flee the area. Once they settled in, they began to forcefully take milk, butter, oxen, and other resources. This occurred before the problems in our area worsened.
After two months of doing this, they began slaughtering people by entering their homes, seizing their guns if they had, and killing those who were legally armed. Additionally, they started kidnapping family members for ransom. The family and relatives would then gather and beg for money to free their loved one, paying the terrorist group. However, after receiving the money, they would kill the kidnapped individual and their family. They also stole money that people had hidden under the beds, etc. The people didn’t have the knowledge of saving in banks due to illiteracy.
The Amhara communities who understood the secret migrated to Kebeles or administrative centers, leaving their areas. Those who didn’t comprehend the secret and stayed behind died miserably. When the communities migrated, they left their property and golden country behind, wearing only what they had on them. Some individuals dug and hid their property. Even the local workers the people employed started to cause trouble. Upon witnessing this, we went to the administrative center, cleaned the house we had built and rented for two years, then moved in.
When we decided to leave our country house and land, we sold our grass, cattle and farm produce. We chose to take the three cattle, some grain, and goods to the town, also known as Menz Kebele. With a cart and a horse, we transported our belongings. I took the cattle by a short-cut across a river. We instructed the tenants to vacate the premises and moved in. Since there was no grazing area, my dad purchased grass for the cows. Life in town was not as comfortable as in the country.
My father decided to buy oxen and farming materials and we resumed farming, thinking it would be peaceful. The community assisted us with farm work. As the corn we planted was almost ready for harvesting, invaders began residing in the forest near our country house, which was an hour’s walk away.
After living in the town for eight months, one day while I was looking after the cattle, I saw two men carrying guns. I immediately run back to where my father was. He stopped tilling and asked me, shocked, what was wrong. I replied, “Dad, dad, I run because I saw men man with guns.” “Oh, my son, did they take the cattle?” he asked in shock. After calming down, he enquired about my wellbeing. Panting, with tears falling, I assured him I was okay.
As we were about to unyoke the oxen, we heard gunshots and immediately started running without unyoking them. When we arrived home, my mother was preparing to pour coffee into cups and was shocked to see us. My father comforted her and explained the situation. Upon learning that we had left the oxen unyoked at the farm due to the gunfire, she dropped the clay coffee pot, breaking it. After calming her down, my father suggested we tell this to Mrs Birke and her family who lived below the forest near our house. As I left to inform them, I heard more gunshots and saw dead bodies along the way. I quickly returned and told my parents what I had witnessed. “There are dead people on the way,” I said. My parents were disturbed, so we hid behind our house for the night. We were shocked and scared thinking that we were about to die.
Since the following day was Tuesday, a market day, we discussed with our relatives and decided to sell our cattle. The Oromos offered us less than a third of the usual price, but we still decided to sell them. We entrusted the rest of the cattle to the Oromos to keep for us. The following day, we began our exodus. We flagged down a car on the road. My mom spread her netela, a cloth worn over the shoulders and upper body, on the road and asked the driver to stop, as is done in our culture for emergencies. He did. As we entered the car, we saw my aunts and other people of our area inside. We agreed to act like people going to a funeral out of fear of potential attacks on the way. We continued our journey, switching cars along the way. On the second day, we spent the evening at our aunt’s house in Ambo town. Then we headed to Addis Ababa. When we arrived in Debre Birhan town, located in the Amhara Regional State, and exited the car, the driver refused to accept any money from us. We were without any money as we had left our belongings at home and had spent all we had during the journey.
After a few days, we were registered at the camp for internally displaced people and began receiving help. Donors are providing us with lifesaving assistance, but it can never compare to being home. We are anxiously waiting to return home once the situation returns to normal. My parents have told me that when I was a child I was taken to the Black Lion Hospital in Addis Ababa for treatment after falling from bed and getting hurt. I have no memory of this event. Besides that incident, I have never left my home place, my world. I miss our cattle and the simple country life. When I grow up I aspire to be a painter.
When I left home, I was in fourth grade and 10 years old. Due to the change in the medium of instruction from Afaan Oromo to Amharic, I had to go back to second grade here. I learned how to read and write in Amharic here. I also wrote an Amharic poem about patriots who defend our country from invaders, sacrificing their lives.
I thank God for the challenges I have faced, knowing that children like me have suffered, been slaughtered, and killed. My late maternal uncle was also a victim of terrorism. Despite all the hardships, I persevered and excelled in my studies, ranking first in my class. I currently live with my family in a small rented house in the Addis Genet neighborhood, Kebele 07, in Debre Birhan, attending Regreg School. I am the youngest in my family, and after moving to Debre Birhan my 26-year-old brother passed away from a stomach illness. My 26-year-old sister married, my 24-year-old brother works in a factory, and my 21-year-old brother is a daily laborer. My 17-year-old sister stays at home, while my immediate elder brother is shining shoes for a living. My father has mentioned that our ancestors went to Western Shewa from Seladingay in North Shewa, Amhara Region, but I feel a stronger connection to Western Shewa than to Northern Shewa where we currently reside as displaced individuals.
The end
This diary was written in Amharic in July 2024 in Debre Birhan and it has been translated by Mezemir Girma.
