The auditorium was filled with Ethiopian families representing several generations from infants to invalids. Journalists were swarming and cameras were recording. Interfaith clergy were present with their robes as a reputed sign of success and with their gold jewelry as decoration. The sign on the door said, “Welcome to Ethiopia’s first ever Amharic National Spelling Bee.”
This historic contest wed modern speech with an ancient language. A pre-show interview involved a Jewish rabbi who said, “In this competition, action is everything, and we are not divided by our various beliefs.”
The rebbetzin by his side refuted his argument, “Actually, I believe you can spell words like Chanukah at least seven different ways.”
“Remind me why I keep you around,” the rabbi retorted.
His wife struck his head with her purse.
“I dropped the subject of the sentence. I meant you remind me why I keep you around,” the rabbi was floundering.
The mayor was next up for an interview. The journalist asked an existential question, “Why are we here tonight?”
The mayor responded, “To not only speak, but to read the same language.”
The journalist greeted further guests who all chimed in with the purpose of the gathering, “The point is to correctly spell each carefully selected Amharic word the judges have chosen for this epic battle.”
The lights dimmed. And the show began. The spotlight focused on the evening’s host, a tall dark-skinned man with a gleaming smile.
“I’m your host Tiqur Tsehai. On this dark night, the black sky is filled with stars. Our stars this evening are Ethiopia’s very precious youth. First, I’d like to introduce you to our judges: Yared, Alem, and Gabriel.”
Yared, a professor and a luminary judge, spoke into his microphone, “Precious youth is sufficient. You don’t need to emphasize your point with the word very. I’m very happy to be here tonight.”
Tiqur, feeling antagonistic, said, “I could say the same.” This backhanded compliment served as a tussle over an adverb.
Alem, a beautiful female judge who sat next to Yared, spoke next. “I’m as happy as can be tonight.” She began to tear up. “I lost my son in a car accident a little less than a year ago. He would have been the same age as the contestants. I’m here to honor his memory.” She wiped away her tears with Yared’s handkerchief and blew her nose into it alleviating him of the task of requesting to reunite with said piece of cloth.
The third and final judge, Gabriel, a librarian, opened up, “This is the night I’ve been waiting for my whole life. I enjoy reading very much. If more Ethiopians could read, we would have much richer dialogue, debate, and discussion.”
“Very true!” Tiqur announced in agreement.
“If I hear the word “very” one more time, I’ll explode,” Yared said. He was sensitive to sound.
The students were given words to spell out loud and to write on a white board. From selam (ሰላም), meaning peace or hello, to amessegenalehu (አመሰግናለሁ) or thank you, these words were in everyone’s vocabulary. The beauty of the Amharic language is that words are spelled phonetically.
After correctly spelling lion (anbessa or አንበሳ), Jemal became a finalist in the contest. Jemal and Jannah stood tall as the remaining two finalists in the contest. When the final word was announced, Jemal rubbed his sweaty palms and placed them on his face, squeezing his cheeks. He misspelled the word freedom or netsanet (ነፃነት), but Jannah had the correct pronunciation with the explosive form of “ts” (ፃ). She spelled the word properly and when she was chosen as the winner, she put her arms up in a “V”. It was as if she had wings.
Not everyone thought an Amharic Spelling Bee would be a success, but the students pulled it off. They smiled because they did their best. The audience launched into a standing ovation.
Jannah received applause, a bouquet of flowers, and a ribbon. She gave Jemal a flower and said, “See you next year, God-willing.”
He echoed, “God willing.”
Yerusalem Work
