http://lelatensae.wordpress.com/

I am finally joining the 21st century and have decided to move to the location above.  Please update your
favorite links and tell your friends too.

I apologize for the inconvenience. 

PART I

What you are about to read shortly is a true story. Only the names of the subjects have been changed for obvious reasons.

The story will most likely generate strong reactions from readers, such as anger, sadness, shame and perhaps even denial. Whatever the knee jerk reaction it may cause, I hope, in the least, it will help people realize that this issue is more prevalent than many of us think in our culture and that this story will serve as an example on how to approach the topic and how to help the victims.

My name is “Dinkinesh“. The story I am about to share with you is a painful to me as it is to many nameless and faceless Ethiopian women who have been victims of the same atrocity. An atrocity so cruel, so inhumane, in most corners of Ethiopian society it is seen as not believable, as in something that does not occur in our society, to the point where the victim is portrayed as insane, a crackpot and is even shunned from society. But my story is real and for our supposedly ‘innocent’ and ‘pure’ culture, shocking - hard to believe, not only because it is unfamiliar to many, but because it involves close members of family.

I was born and raised, along with two brothers, in a relatively well to do family in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. My father was an educated man with a well paying job, and like most other families in Ethiopia, he was the breadwinner of the family. My father was also known for his binge drinking and his frequenting the local brothel houses – especially on paydays. On those drinking paydays, my mother went door to door in the neighborhood bars looking for her drunken husband to carry him home. The running joke in the neighborhood about my father, I was told, was “wesha kemis betelebsem aymerem” (he would chase after a female dog, if he saw it wearing a skirt). My mom, a loving and caring woman, had a secretarial job at one of the government agencies for a modest salary. Although she had her own job and did not look for a handout from my father for money, she was, like many wives in Ethiopia, still the submissive wife who was subjugated by her husband.

Growing up, I was a quite and at times aloof child to the point where I was seen as strange by my relatives. But I had a secret that I was keeping inside me no one knew about. A secret too heavy to bear for a young girl my age.

The year was 1979, when political climate in the country was at a boiling point. The youth resistance movement was quite strong and the military dictatorship that ruled the country with iron fist indiscriminately jailed and killed young people. The major opposition party, EPRP (the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party) was every parent’s nightmare, because it recruited young members at a very high rate. University and high school students were the foot soldiers of the party frequently clashing with government forces and suffering heavy casualties. Revolt against the military dictatorship by the youth was everywhere. If you were a teenager like I was in those days, you had one of two ways to show your rebellious side. You either made every demand and effort to go to America to escape the turmoil, or you joined the EPRP.

I remember it was the rainy season that same year when one day I received a phone call from my cousin “Aberra”. With that one phone call, the events that would change the course of my life forever started to unfold. Aberra was known as a trouble maker in most of the family circle and was also a member of neighborhood EPRP cell. After Aberra unsuccessfully tried to recruit “Zelalem“, another cousin of ours, to the EPRP, we were given strict orders from our parents to stay away from him. That rainy afternoon, Aberra told me that he had something very important to share with me. He also told me that he had asked Zelalem, to join us. The location for the meeting was our grandmother’s house near Shero Meda. The three of us met like we planned and were treated to a nice bekolo tibs (roasted corn) the seasonal snack. After the snack, the three of us, who were all about the same age group, walked out of the house to discuss this grand secret plan Aberra had. As soon as we walked out of the house, I was asked by both men to swear to secrecy about the plan. After assuring them that I would keep the secret, the whole plan was laid out for me in detail.

The plan was to escape the country by crossing the Sudanese border like many young Ethiopians did in those days as a backdoor exit to America. According to Aberra, his best friend’s uncle would be the one to take us as far as the Gondar province. After that, I was told, that it was a matter of walking to the Sudanese border. When the part about the walking to the border was mentioned, I could see Zelalem was uncomfortable with the idea. He looked worried. Trying to ease his anxiety, and trying to appeal to his manly side, I quipped “minew ferahende? Ene enquan setwa minim alferahum” (what’s the matter, are you scared? Even I the girl am not scared). That did not help alleviate his apprehension. He nervously started asking questions like - what if we get caught? Are you sure this is going to work? He finally admitted that he was not sure if he could handle the long walk to the border. He started blabbering something about an I-20 “Gash Hailu”, our uncle in America, had promised him. And if that did not work, he said he preferred going to one of those socialist country universities legally than risk his life. Upon hearing that, Aberra immediately dismissed him by saying “beka wore atabza keferah” (no need to keep blabbering - you are too scared for this). With that, Aberra and I made the decision to go ahead with the escape plan.

We talked about how we were going to get the travelling money. The plan was to wait until pay day and steal all available cash from my father’s pocket as well as raid our mothers’ jewelry boxes, which would be pawned for cash on our way. After several hours of intense planning and discussion, we walked back to our grandmother’s house. In two weeks time, our escape plan was finalized.

We left Addis for Gondar on a bus (Leonchina). To my surprise, there were two more guys who joined us on the trip. They were both friends of Aberra. I thought it was odd that Aberra did not mention them during our discussion. Our arrival at Gondar was the beginning of the tumultuous episode in my life. After spending a couple of nights in Gondar, we started our foot journey towards the border. As you can imagine, the trip was very difficult and trying for anyone, let alone for a young girl like me who has been sheltered all her life. The physical pain was sometimes unbearable. Walking in that equator sun was pure torture. As if that was not enough, I was soon confronted with another arduous and difficult challenge. One of Aberra’s friends started to make unwanted sexual advances at me. Some of these advances were very obvious and in the open for everyone to see. I resisted as much as I could, wondering why Aberra was not doing anything to stop it. When his friend saw that I was not budging, he went to the next hideous of acts a man can commit. He raped me! Not once, but several times. I felt helpless. I could not turn to anyone for help. To this day, I believe that Aberra was aware of his friend’s action, but he did nothing. He allowed his friend to take advantage of me. Aberra, a close relative, whom I counted on to protect me from everything on this trip, did nothing to stop his friend. I was devastated. I could not believe what was happening to me. The only thing I could ask myself was, if it this was worth leaving my home and my country. Was this the price I had to pay for causing the obvious misery I caused my parents, especially my mother, by just disappearing on them?

For part II of this story, please go to the new home of this blog at

http://lelatensae.wordpress.com/

IT’S BARACK!!!!!

Thank you America.  You have, with this election, restored the small flickering faith I had in the American people.  Even a cynic like me now can start to believe that anything is possible in America.

LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT…

BECAUSE IT DOES.