I was struggling with my mental health and living amid a global pandemic, so I decided to travel to Tigray. I wanted to go back home to do macholot – a holy water ritual. I was going to spend a year in Tigray, travelling throughout the region, visiting churches and historical sites. I was raised in the West but wanted to experience more of my home.
I arrived in Mekelle at the end of September 2020, initially staying with my aunt. From the start of my stay till the start of November, I was travelling the region.
A couple of days after the war began, so did the aerial bombardments. There were multiple jet strikes in Mekelle. The start of the conflict marked the beginning of a communications blackout, no water or electricity, road closures, food shortages, and limited fuel. I remember an eight-year-old girl was killed in the midst of one of the airstrikes on the outskirts of Mekelle. No one could keep up with the scale of the violence or make any sense of it, especially with the communication blackout. Things were changing, the atmosphere was tense, and people were frightened.
By the second week of the war, my aunt and I decided to leave Mekelle and move to the outskirts of the city to stay at a family member’s house, as many other residents in the capital were doing.
On the morning of November 28, 2020, my family and I went to church, returning home by 8 AM. By the time we returned home, the indiscriminate shelling had begun. It was different from other airstrikes; it was continuous and evidently had no specific target in sight. We stayed in the basement, anxiously waiting for it to stop. I vividly remember the sight of my family weeping, pleading to God to spare us.
The strikes eventually stopped, but we were still fearful of leaving the basement. When I got outside, standing in the garden, I could see a pillar of smoke about 50 meters tall. My neighbours’ door was badly hit by the shelling.
From a distance, I could see a lifeless body outside my neighbour’s house. I later found out it was my 65-year-old neighbour. He had returned from church and was sitting outside in the sun, waiting for his daughters to make him breakfast when the strikes began.
There were multiple airstrikes throughout November. You never knew who was alive or was caught in the attacks. The sound of artillery strikes in the distance was so unnerving. The missiles at night were especially jarring, jolting you out of sleep. You imagine where your body would drop; how you would die, or who of your loved ones would die first. Playing out gory scenarios in your head, imagining that your roof would be the next to cave in.
There are countless nights I remember praying and hearing explosions in the background. It was jet strike, after artillery strike, after shootings and missiles. An ongoing nightmare. At some point, though, something changed in me – I was no longer fearful. I was angry.
The end of November saw what I now know marked the end of the “law-and-order enforcement operation” and the Ethiopian National Defence Force entering Mekelle. Then came the 6PM curfew. We still did not have water and very limited electricity.
Before Ethiopian forces entered Mekelle, the only thing terrorising us were fighter jets. Now the forces orchestrating the violence were in front of us; enforcing curfews, stealing our goods, tormenting us, killing our people.
The gradual disintegration of Mekelle was painful to watch. The nights were filled with terror as heavy looting took place. I remember being woken up by a loud noise and seeing 10 thieves, all with AK 47’s firing into the air. Shortly after, my neighbour was stabbed as Ethiopian forces stole his car and belongings. The casual violence continued; we were completely defenceless. Mekelle was no longer the same city I was living in just a few weeks prior; the city was in a state of lawlessness.
Ethiopian forces were patrolling the city; anytime you were outside you would hear stories of civilians killed for staying out after 6 pm. Then came the stories of Ethiopian forces rounding up young men from the street. I stopped leaving the house other than to get water from a nearby river; I would take a jerrycan with me and fill it with enough water for my family. My family was petrified something would happen to me if I were caught outside.
I was able to leave Mekelle at the end of December, but a couple of weeks before leaving I was able to speak to my mum. I remember the gasp when she heard my voice followed by “is that you – is that really you?” We both sobbed. I couldn’t imagine how she was dealing with this alone. It was a beautiful moment to finally tell her I was ok – a luxury I knew so many of my people were robbed of.
Addis Ababa felt like another country. A staff member at my embassy made a passing comment to me about the behaviour of people in Addis Ababa, that you would never believe you were in the same country. It was ironic that a non-Ethiopian was able to empathise and notice the irony of the situation before my countrymen and women.
It took me two months to leave Ethiopia. Within those two months, I was disgusted; there was an evident lack of empathy amongst people. There was nothing worse than being in the capital city where people were championing the same forces decimating my home. I’m unable to describe the resentment I felt towards everything the city represents.
The image of my family members crying is etched in my mind, and the guilt of leaving them is still with me today. The thought of returning to Tigray crossed my mind constantly. Living with uncertainty in Tigray seemed like a better option than living amongst the morally bankrupt in Addis Ababa.
Since leaving Ethiopia, I feel anxious talking about my experience. I know I have a duty to speak up, but it doesn’t make it any less anxiety-inducing. Since leaving, I tried to journal my thoughts a number of times, but the weight of it sent me further into the depths of depression. Knowing there are so many Tigrayans that weren’t afforded the luxury of leaving or survival is a constant reminder as to why I must share my story.
There is not a moment I hear a plane and am not immediately transported back to Tigray. Prayer helps; I find comfort in prayer and leaning on my faith. I weep for Tigray, I am overcome with rage; I know without God, I would give into anger. Being alone helps. Silence gives me room to grieve.
I don’t know how else I would be able to navigate the terror of living through war to then being transported to my life in Australia.
Being confronted with the fragility of life has changed the trajectory of my life and my outlook forever. There is not much I find solace in beyond thinking about the day I can return home to my country, Tigray.
Rowena – Omna Tigray Contributor, May 2021
