Ethiopia was once a colorful rose garden. Roses, placed on the graves of burgeoning cemeteries, are now in high demand. We buried our peacemakers, everyday people. We are bloody from thorns pricking our palms. We once held our neighbors closely in our arms and in our hearts. Ethiopia is where we once belonged. Today, it is a mass graveyard. How will history record this series of unspeakable tragedies?
The sound of a man sharpening his sword pierces the afternoon silence, beckoning death. The sound of a wailing mother, who lost a child due to preventable violence, ricochets across the sky. The sound of a soldier committing war crimes penetrates the depths of a soul in agony with lips pressed together tightly, bound as the spine of a hardcover book. Who will chronicle the atrocities?
Death is both objective and subjective. It is a fact and a personal experience. Collective hope leads us to life after the grave. Those who die before their physical death may cry real tears from perceived loss and painful regret. Many ghosts haunt Ethiopia - the leaders, the tyrants. Yet, we have forgotten our youth. How dare we leave divisive conflict as our legacy! How fruitless to inherit trauma… Unless that trauma is healed, we will not win the wider war against our citizens.
The capital of Ethiopia is Addis Ababa, the new flower. Flowers once decorated our homes, lasted through weddings, and were presented as a gift of congratulations after performances. Today, the ground swallows up the rose petals faster than we can dig the plot. Ethiopians are made of stone inscribed with names and dates in the semblance of life. We remember who hurt us and who survived. The battle we face is within our borders. We no longer see our reflection. We see a gaping hole. Who will speak, if not a warrior? Who will carry us home? Our war was once with words. Now the earth threatens to empty the land. Until our appetite for justice is stronger than our indifference to suffering, we will not see truth and reconciliation. We have weathered outside pressure, but can we look in the mirror to find love – to see our neighbors as ourselves? Are we the future we’ve been dreaming of?
May Ethiopia live long with clear purpose and the power of prosperity, as a beacon of hope, as a light of human singularity. Though we are many, one. Though we are one, we represent countless, precious ones. Becoming the answer to our ancestors’ undying prayers, we can refuse to meddle in division. No longer slaves to sin, but the repentant – we are sacred, set apart. May Ethiopia rise from the ash and live the length of her years adorned with beauty, on a straight path. The path that leads to love’s homecoming with humility where we walk to God and He comes running.
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