December 05, 2024
This letter is a reply to their son in response to the letter titled “ይድረስ በብዙ መከራ ውስጥ ላለሽው እህት ዓለሜ” – ምናባዊ ደብዳቤ, published on The The Habesha page on January 18, 2024.
By Caleb T. (Dr)
As we read your letter, it felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted from our hearts. The silence that had stretched on for months became more bearable, knowing that you are safe and well, even though you are so far away. When we received your letter, titled “ይድረስ በብዙ መከራ ውስጥ ላለሽው እህት ዓለሜ”, we held it in our hands for what seemed like an eternity, unsure of where to begin. Our hearts overflowed with emotions—joy, sorrow, pride, and an aching longing.
Dear Son,
Last year, when we received your letter, titled “ይድረስ በብዙ መከራ ውስጥ ላለሽው እህት ዓለሜ”, we held it in our hands for what seemed like an eternity, unsure of where to begin. Our hearts overflowed with emotions—joy, sorrow, pride, and an aching longing. A letter that gave us a fleeting moment of peace amid the chaos of war. As we read your letter, it felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted from our hearts. The silence that had stretched on for months became more bearable, knowing that you were safe and well, even though you were so far away.
Your letter asked about our well-being, inquiring about how we were surviving in the midst of the atrocities. You had heard rumors, you had seen the news, but nothing could compare to what we were living through here in Amhara. When we read your letter, “ይድረስ በብዙ መከራ ውስጥ ላለሽው እህት ዓለሜ”, your sister, wept. She read your words to us aloud, her voice trembling, and we could hear the echo of your love and concern. It was the first time in many months that we felt a connection to you, even if it was through the ink on a page. Your words gave us strength for a brief moment, Tesfaye, and we felt, just for a while, that you were here with us. But then, as the days passed, the silence between us returned, deeper than ever.
We haven’t heard from you since then, Tesfaye. The days stretch on, and the silence grows heavier with each passing one. The war here continues unabated, growing ever more brutal, and we fear that our words may never reach you. But despite the silence, despite the distance, we still hold on to the hope that you will hear us. That you will understand the gravity of the situation here.
We write to you with both hope and sorrow. We hope this letter finds you well, In our small, modest home at the edge of what was once a lively village, we sat down to write a letter—a letter filled with love and concern, sent to our son who had ventured far from us in search of a future beyond the hills of Ethiopia. Your name, Tesfaye, echoes in our hearts as we think of you, having spent several years in America, trying to build a life in a land where dreams were meant to come true. Yet, we have not heard from you in months, and with each passing day, our hearts have grown heavier with both pride and worry. The news from our homeland has been grim, and our hearts are full of both fear and hope. Now, we send these words across the vast ocean, hoping they will reach you, carrying with them the pain, loss, and the reality we live with every day.
The Shifting Skies: Amhara’s Fight for Survival
In the rolling hills of Amhara, where the earth once held the promise of abundance, the sounds of birds singing and children laughing were now replaced by the heavy roar of machine guns and the ominous hum of drones in the sky. The once peaceful rhythms of life—of farmers working the fields, of families gathering under the shade of ancient trees—had been drowned out by the chaos of war. The once-thriving farmlands, where crops grew tall and rivers ran clear, had been overshadowed by a deeper fear—one that no one could escape. In the hearts of the people, the weight of war had turned every day into a battle for survival.
In the heart of Amhara, the land that once danced in hues of green under the warm Ethiopian sun now lay stilled, burdened by the weight of fear. The region, known for its fertile highlands and deeply rooted agricultural heritage, had witnessed the rise and fall of empires. It was a place where the earth fed the people, and where the lives of farmers were intertwined with the rhythms of the seasons. Yet now, as the war raged on, Amhara’s once thriving farmlands were more akin to a battleground than a place of growth and harvest.
The people of Amhara, who had always lived close to the soil, were finding themselves far from it. The sounds of children laughing as they ran through the fields, the chattering of neighbors in the markets, and the warm hum of daily life were now replaced by the ominous drone of military aircraft, the shrill whistle of rockets, and the relentless pounding of gunfire in the distance. The once-quiet village of Tesfaye’s family was now a place where fear permeated every corner, where survival seemed to be the only goal.
Each day, the sound of military jets overhead became a constant reminder of the danger that loomed over the villages. The drones would circle the skies, a reminder that no place was safe, that no one could escape the violence. Children, who had once run joyfully through the fields, now huddled in corners of their homes, too afraid to play outside. The elders, once revered for their wisdom, were now silent witnesses to the destruction, their strength failing under the weight of their years and the daily trauma.
Dear Son,
As we do not know you have heard the news of what has become of our home. Every day, the world outside our door changes. There is a noise that haunts us, a sound we never knew could come from the sky. The drone strikes. The thunderous sound of bombs. Military weapons that tear the earth apart. This is no longer the land of harvests and dreams, but one of bloodshed and death.
Last year, we received a letter from you. A letter that gave us a fleeting moment of peace amid the chaos of war. You wrote to your sister, Ehetalem, asking about our well-being, inquiring about how we were surviving in the midst of the atrocities. You had heard rumors, you had seen the news, but nothing could compare to what we were living through here in Amhara.
When we read your letter, Ehetalem, your sister, wept. She read your words to us aloud, her voice trembling, and we could hear the echo of your love and concern. It was the first time in many months that we felt a connection to you, even if it was through the ink on a page. Your words gave us strength for a brief moment, Tesfaye, and we felt, just for a while, that you were here with us. But then, as the days passed, the silence between us returned, deeper than ever.
We haven’t heard from you since then, Tesfaye. The days stretch on, and the silence grows heavier with each passing one. The war here continues unabated, growing ever more brutal, and we fear that our words may never reach you. But despite the silence, despite the distance, we still hold on to the hope that you will hear us. That you will understand the gravity of the situation here.
Tesfaye, this is no longer just a war. It is a genocide.
The very air we breathe is thick with fear. The soldiers march through our villages at all hours, not as liberators, but as destroyers. They are not here to protect us, but to eradicate us—our people, our culture, our history. The Amhara have long been a proud people, bound to this land, but now we are fighting for our very existence. The violence we face is not a consequence of rebellion, nor an act of retaliation for some past injustice. It is an attempt to erase us from this earth.
The soldiers come like shadows in the night, sweeping through the villages, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. They do not spare the young or the old, the women or the men. They burn homes, tear down the crops, and turn the fertile land into nothing more than a graveyard. The drones have become our constant companions, circling above us day and night. We cannot even step outside without the risk of being struck down.
The people here are being slaughtered, Tesfaye. Our elderly, once the wise pillars of our community, are dying from starvation, from the lack of medicine, from the brutal treatment they endure at the hands of the soldiers. The children, who should be playing in the fields, have seen the horrors of war. They sleep in fear, not knowing if they will wake to another day of violence. The women carry the burden of grief on their shoulders, but still they fight, still they find a way to survive, to care for those who remain.
We have not seen your youngest sister Marta in months, Tesfaye. She joined FANO to protect this land, to fight for us. She is no longer the little girl you remember, full of laughter and dreams. She is a warrior now, fighting alongside so many others who have been forced to pick up arms in the face of overwhelming odds. When she left to join the resistance, we knew that the path she chose would not be easy. But we also knew that she was fighting for the future—our future, your future.
Ehetalem has told us that your letter from last year was filled with concern for our safety. We held that letter close, reading it over and over again, letting your words be a balm to our wounded hearts. But Tesfaye, since then, we have heard nothing. The silence has become unbearable.
We wonder if you are safe if you are well. But we also wonder if the silence is a result of the same horrors that have befallen us. Has the war reached you in America? Has the world begun to understand the depth of what is happening here? Have the voices of the innocent been heard, or are they lost in the noise of distant politics?
We pray that this letter reaches you. We pray that you will not let the world forget about Amhara, about the people who are being erased from the pages of history. The genocide that is unfolding here cannot go unnoticed. The world must know what is happening in our homeland.
Tesfaye, your sister Ehetalem still holds on to the hope that one day, the war will end. That the people of Amhara will be free once more. But we also know that this will not come without a great cost. Many have already lost everything. We fear that, soon, we may lose each other.
In the darkness of the night, we often sit together, your father and I, and we talk about you. We talk about the life you have built in America, and we wonder if you are safe. We miss you more than words can express, but we also know that you must continue to live the life you’ve made. We pray that the day will come when we are reunited. That day seems far away now, Tesfaye, but we hold on to the memory of you—the child who once ran through these fields, whose laughter filled our home.
And we hold on to hope. Because, even in the darkest of times, hope is all we have left.
Your mother and I, Tesfaye, have seen things that no parent should ever witness. The fields where we once worked together are now empty. The land that nourished us, that gave us hope and life, is now barren. The crops are rotting in the ground, left to decay because we are too afraid to work them. The soldiers have come. The drones fly overhead, searching for the innocent to strike. We have not dared to go out and plant, for fear of being caught in the crossfire. There are no markets to go to anymore. There are no neighbors to greet.
Our people are suffering, my son. The elderly, once the wise caretakers of our village, now lie silent, their bodies weak from hunger and despair. The sounds of the planes above are deafening. The ground shakes when the bombs fall. We do not know how much longer we can survive this. The sky used to be a symbol of freedom, but now it is filled with terror. There is no safety, not even in our homes. We are trapped in a nightmare, and it seems there is no waking up from it.
From Farmers to Fugitives: The Struggle for Survival
Tesfaye, we remember the day you left, full of hope and promise. You spoke of building a future in the United States, a land of opportunity, a place where you could bring back knowledge and prosperity to help us. We were proud, so proud of you. But now, we wonder if you can even imagine the world we are living in.
We used to wake before dawn, together, working side by side. You would take the plow, and I would show you how to plant the seeds that would feed us through the seasons. Your mother would prepare the food, and we would laugh together, sharing the day’s work. The fields stretched out before us, green and full of life, a testament to our labor and our love for this land. But now, our labor has turned to fear. There is no work, no harvest, no joy in the land that once gave us everything.
People are dying, Tesfaye. Not just from bullets, but from hunger, from exhaustion, from the invisible wounds of war. We have lost so many—neighbors, friends, even family members. They are scattered across the hills, lying forgotten in the dirt, their lives taken by a war that makes no sense. And still, the violence continues. The drones do not stop. The sounds of rockets in the distance are constant, a reminder that there is no safe place, no escape from this terror.
The people here are not fighters, Tesfaye. We are farmers. We are builders. We are caretakers of the earth. But now we are forced to run, to hide, to watch as our world falls apart around us. We had no choice in this, no say in what happened. The war came to us, and now it is all we know.
Your cousins, Yared and Mulu, have both been taken by Abiy military. They were young, just boys, but they were caught in the crossfire. We do not know where they are, if they are alive. Your mother cries every night, calling their names, hoping they will return. But we know in our hearts they may never come back.
Fighting for Survival: A War to Preserve Identity
The land, which had long been a cradle of life, now seemed like a battleground, torn apart by the unrelenting conflict that had consumed the region. The fertile soil that had nurtured crops for generations was now stained with blood. Where fields once swayed with golden wheat and bright green barley, there were only barren patches, burnt and scarred by the violence. The laughter of children had been replaced by the chilling sound of explosions, the kind that shook the earth beneath their feet and made the walls of their homes tremble.
Tesfaye’s parents could still hear it all—the sounds that had become their daily reality. The distant rattle of machine guns, the thud of bombs falling somewhere nearby, and the eerie sound of drones circling endlessly above. They had grown used to the terror that followed in the wake of each explosion, but it never dulled the sharp edge of fear. They no longer ventured far from their home, too afraid to leave their small, fragile sanctuary. The once-bustling village was now a ghost town, its roads empty, its markets silent. What remained were the hollowed-out shells of homes and the quiet whispers of survivors, too scared to speak too loudly, lest they attract the attention of the soldiers.
The air, once fresh with the scent of earth and growing crops, now carried the acrid smell of smoke, gunpowder, and death. There were days when the skies would turn black with the smoke from the nearby villages that had been set ablaze, and even the sun seemed to hide behind the dark clouds of destruction.
“How many more will fall?” Tesfaye’s father had asked, his voice hoarse with grief. “How long can we hold on?”
They had seen it all—the destruction of their land, the deaths of their families, friends and neighbors, the helplessness that gripped them as they watched their people being slaughtered. But they could do nothing but survive, cling to what little remained of their lives, and hold on to the hope that their son, Tesfaye, would one day return to help rebuild what had been lost.
But hope had grown thin.
“They cannot take our spirit,” Tesfaye’s mother had said, though even she seemed unsure now. “They can destroy our fields, our homes, but they cannot destroy our hearts.”
And yet, it felt as though the heart of the community was being torn apart. Every day, the news from the frontlines grew worse. The people of Amhara were not just caught in the crossfire of a conflict; they were the targets. The soldiers had come to erase them—to wipe them from the face of the earth. It was a war for survival, but also for dignity. Their people had fought for centuries to defend this land, but now they were fighting not just to protect their way of life, but to ensure that their culture, their very existence, would not be erased from history.
And in the midst of it all, your sister, Mulu, stood as a symbol of resistance. Her decision to join FANO had been one made from a deep love for her people. She fought not for glory, but for survival. The world outside may have turned its back on Amhara, but Mulu and countless others were willing to risk everything to protect what remained of their homeland.
“We are not forgotten, Tesfaye,” his mother had said when she wrote the letter. “Your sister, Mulu, fights for us. FANO fights for us. And we, your father and I, will hold on to the last thread of hope. We will wait for you. We will wait for the day when the sun shines again on our land.”
But even that hope was beginning to feel fragile like a faint whisper carried away by the wind.
As the letter was sealed and sent, to you we your parents could only imagine how the land of Amhara was broken, but it was not yet defeated. We will defeat our enemy! In the hearts of its people, the fire of resistance still burned more and more. And even in the ominous drone of military aircraft, the shrill whistle of rockets, and the relentless pounding of gunfire in the fields, the sound of survival could still be heard—soft, steady, and unwavering.
For as long as there was breath in their bodies, as long as there was love in their hearts, the people of Amhara would not give up. And neither would Tesfaye’s parents.
“We are still here,” they whispered to the wind. “We are still here.”
A Mother’s Plea
Tesfaye, my beloved son,
You must understand that this letter is not just a message of pain—it is a plea, a desperate cry from a mother whose heart is broken by the suffering of her people. I do not ask for your return, for I know that you have built a life in the United States, far away from this horror. I know that your dreams have taken you to a place of hope, of opportunities that we could never have imagined. I know that you have a future there, a life that is not consumed by the war that ravages our land. But even though I understand this, my son, I beg you: do not forget us.
Tell the world what is happening here. Tell them of the innocent lives lost, of the children who no longer know what it feels like to laugh, to run through the fields in the warm embrace of the sun. Their laughter has been replaced by the sounds of bombs, of drones, of the terror that has taken over our once-peaceful land. The children who used to play in the fields, their faces streaked with the dirt of a hard day’s work, are now afraid to leave their homes. They hide beneath tables and in corners, clutching their mothers as if the very air itself is dangerous.
The elders, your grandfather, your grandmother, they have become frail and weakened, Tesfaye. They no longer have the strength to flee when the bombs fall or when the soldiers march into the village. The bombs that rattle the windows of our homes are deafening to us, but they are even more terrifying for them. They are trapped in the homes they built with their own hands, unable to escape the wrath of war. They long for the peace they once knew, a peace that has slipped through their fingers like sand. But there is no escaping this nightmare.
It breaks my heart to see them, your grandmother especially, hunched over, calling your name every night. She waits by the window, hoping for your return. I cannot bear to see her tears, Tesfaye. But she is not the only one who weeps. I do too. Every night I lie awake, hearing the sounds of war outside our door, and I wonder if you are safe. The world around us is crumbling, and there is nothing we can do but wait. We wait for peace, for safety, for something we cannot see, cannot touch. The pain of losing our loved ones—our neighbors, our friends—is a wound that will never heal.
Your cousins, Yared and Mulu, were taken by the soldiers, Tesfaye. They were just boys, full of life, full of dreams. Now they are lost to us. We do not know if they are alive, if they have suffered the same fate as so many others. We try not to think about it, but it is impossible not to. Every day, we hold onto the faint hope that they will come back to us. Your mother cries every night, calling their names, whispering prayers that they are still alive. But in the quiet moments, we both know that the chances of their return grow slimmer with each passing day.
You may not know, Tesfaye, but the soil that once gave us life, that fed our family, is now stained with blood. The fields that stretched out so beautifully, with the bright yellow wheat and the green barley swaying in the wind, are now barren. What was once a land of abundance has become a barren wasteland, a place where fear thrives instead of crops. And yet, we are left with nothing but scraps, nothing but the hope that one day, somehow, things will be rebuilt.
You may never understand the depth of our suffering, Tesfaye. It is not just the violence that wounds us, but the loss of everything we held dear. The land we tended with our hands, the homes we built with love and care, the lives we had dreamed for ourselves—all of it has been destroyed. The war did not just steal our homes; it stole our sense of who we were. It made us into survivors, forced us to live each day not for the future, but simply to make it through the night.
But even in the face of all this, we hold onto hope. We cannot let go. We cannot give in to the despair that threatens to swallow us whole. We dream of a time when the war will end, Tesfaye. We dream of a day when the sun will shine again on our land, and we will hear the laughter of children once more. We dream of peace, of rebuilding what has been broken. But that dream feels distant now, a fading memory that slips further away with each passing day. Still, we hold on to hope. It is all we have left. And we have to hold on, for without hope, we would have nothing.
My son, you must remember us.
You must tell the world what has happened here. You must speak for the mothers who have lost their children, for the fathers who have lost their families, for the sons and daughters who are left to rebuild from the ashes. We are not just statistics, Tesfaye. We are human beings. We are not just victims of war; we are the ones who loved this land, who worked the earth, who nurtured life. Now, we are forced to survive on the barest of scraps, holding on to a dream of peace that feels more like a fantasy with every day that passes.
Do not forget us, my son. Do not let the world forget the people of Amhara.
May God watch over you, my son, wherever you are. May He protect you from the horrors that we now live with every day. We pray that the light of His grace will shield you from the pain that has become our reality. Know that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart we are, we will always love you. We carry you in our hearts, and you will always be a part of us, no matter how far away you are.
And we will keep waiting, Tesfaye. We will keep dreaming. And we will never stop loving you.
he world may not hear our cries, Tesfaye, but we send them to you, hoping you can carry them into the world where you now live.
My son, I know that the life you have in America is far from the horrors that we are facing, and I am not asking you to return. I am asking you to bear witness to our suffering. Tell the world what is happening here in Amhara. Let the voices of the voiceless be heard. We are fighting for survival, for the future of our children, for the soul of our land. The brutality we face is unimaginable, but it is not the end of us. We are still here. Our hearts still beat, even if the world chooses not to listen.
Please, Tesfaye, don’t forget us. Don’t forget the people of Amhara who are living through this nightmare. You have the power to bring our story to the world, to tell of the unspeakable losses, but also of the unwavering spirit of the people. We are still here, and we will continue to survive, because that is what we do. We have always fought for our survival, our dignity, and our history. And we will not stop.
My Son, I am going to leave you with the following Abba Kovner’s message:
Abba Kovner’s message to the Amhara people would likely resonate with the same themes of resilience, resistance, and the preservation of dignity that he emphasized during the Holocaust. As a Jewish resistance leader who fought against Nazi oppression, Kovner’s call to action was clear: it is better to resist, even at great cost, than to submit to the forces seeking to destroy one’s people, culture, and identity.
A message inspired by Kovner’s own words and philosophy might sound like this:
“To the people of Amhara, your courage and resilience echo the defiance of those, like my own people, who faced the darkness of genocide and oppression. In the face of overwhelming forces, we chose to resist, knowing that the cost of freedom is always worth the sacrifice. Better to fall as a free people than to live at the mercy of those who seek to destroy your identity, your history, your culture, your heritage, and your very existence. Stand tall in the face of oppression, for the price of freedom, your identity is worth every sacrifice. Arise, for even in your last breath, your defiance will resonate through history, inspiring generations yet to come. Your struggle for survival is a testament to the strength of the human spirit, and your resistance will be remembered as an act of courage that echoes through the ages.”
“የአማራ ህዝብ ሆይ: የእናንተ ድፍረት እና ፅናት እንደ ወገኖቼ የዘር ማጥፋት እና የጭቆና ጨለማ የተጋፈጡትን ወገኖቻችንን እምቢተኝነት ያስተጋባል። ከአቅም በላይ የሆኑ ሃይሎች ሲገጥሙን የነጻነት ዋጋ እንደሚያስከፍል እያወቅን መቃወምን መርጠናል። ሁሌም የሚከፈለው መስዋዕትነት ማንነትህን፣ ታሪክህን፣ ባህልህን፣ ቅርስህን እና ህልውናህን ለማፍረስ ከሚታገሉ ሰዎች ጋር ከመኖር እንደ ነጻ ህዝብ መውደቅ ይሻላል የነጻነት ዋጋ ማንነታችሁ የሁሉም መስዋዕትነት ዋጋ ነውና ተነሱ በመጨረሻው እስትንፋስህ ውስጥ እንኳን እምቢተኝነታችሁ በታሪክ ያስተጋባል። መቃወምዎ በዘመናት ውስጥ የሚያስተጋባ ለትውልድ የሚተላለፍ አኩሪ የሀልውና ትግል ሆኖ ይታወሳል ።
We wait for you, Tesfaye, and we wait for the day when the sun shines again over our land. It may seem impossible now, but we hold on to that hope with every breath we take.
With all our love and endless prayers,
Your Father and Mother
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