Tighisti Amahazion - Inheritance and Horizon

 

I'm six years old, living my best life in Asmara, Eritrea, which is in East Africa. My Sister Zodi is 11 years old and together we travel to school daily along these streets that are lined with these leafy palm trees and Art Deco architecture. I love school, but I often fall behind just staring at these giant, looming buildings and their strange architectural designs. These buildings that remain to this day a testament to a colonizer's dream of bringing a little Italy to East Africa. On the weekends, my baba, who is my father, takes me to get gelato and then afterwards, we head home, hand in hand, his pace matching that of my little legs and increasingly, I'm starting to see more and more soldiers in the city and I hear the adults speak of this war between Ethiopia and Eritrea.

 

I hear words about liberation and freedom and independence. But in hushed tones, they also speak of an escape, of running away and going to Sudan. But I'm six years old, and I can't make sense of it. I am much more invested in play. And so, I spend my days just playing with the other children in the street before my grandmother calls us in to wash our hands and eat. And then I smell that fresh injera and spicy berbere mixed in with this sweet incense that my mother would burn. But I start to see less and less of my baba. And one day he disappears. And the adults seem to know, but they have no answers.

 

And then one night, my mother bursts into the room that I share with my sister, and she rushes us to get dressed and I'm not sure what's going on. And I'm thinking maybe we're going to go see my baba, but she hasn't packed any bags. She only has my infant brother strapped around her back. And I don't know what's going on, but she has us on each side, and we run to the front gate, and there's a man standing there, and I've never seen him before, and he has a walking stick and a pouch around his shoulders and a donkey. I'm from the city, y' all. I'm not sure what's happening, but I'm wondering what's going on? Is this man going to take me to see my baba?

 

And so, in that moment, the strange man picks me up and simply places me upon the donkey. And right away, I smell this, earthy scent from the donkey, and I feel his warm fur. And so, I lean in [audience laughter] and we begin to walk and walk. And as we pass through the city streets, I see my mother and this man looking around, and they look around fearfully. And I look over at my sister, and she's on the man's back, and she looks uneasy. And the pace is so fast that I begin to get the sense that we're not running to something, we are running away from something. And as time goes on, we get to the outskirts of the city of Asmara, and the sky is beginning to change. And I'm exhausted, but I'm still on the donkey. And we stop, and the strange man finally begins to speak. And he tells my mother of all the dangers that we are going to face and he lets her know that he will be our guide to Sudan.

 

He speaks of bandits and bombs and soldiers on each side with guns. He speaks of wild animals. And he says, “If that doesn't get you, you'll die of thirst.” And we began to walk and walk. And it is a distance of 629 miles from Asmara to Sudan. And as we walk, we know now, based on what the guide tells us, that we need to walk at night to avoid the soldiers, and we rest during the day. And he stops. And he's always speaking of these dangers. And as we walk, he's telling us we have to be careful of the snake or this might come by, but me, I'm not afraid. I find absolute delight in everything around me. And I'm often gone exploring, from the rocks to the dirt to the twigs and the many beetles that glisten in the sunlight.

 

I am in love with nature, and most importantly, I'm in love with the donkey. I'm convinced [chuckle] he has been set for me. That is my friend that came with me on this journey, and because I happen to be smaller than my sister, I get to ride him a little more. So, of course, he's my friend, and I speak to him, and he speaks to me, though no one can see or hear, but he is my friend. And so, when we are resting, I am simply intermingled with the intimacy of his scent, the smell of his hide. And I can even begin to anticipate the little gruffs and grunts that he makes when we are riding. And I find great comfort when we are going on at night or in the daytime, and I'm exhausted, and I can just lean into the comfort of him and his pace and the peace that it brings me.

 

Well, one night, it's raining violently, and it's raining in sheets. It's the rain that feels hot and cold on your skin at the same time and my infant brother begins to cry. And as he begins to cry loudly, we hear soldiers in the distance and the soldiers are saying, “Man new, man neh? Who is it? Who goes there?” And so, we stop for a second and shots ring out, and my donkey runs through a tree, and a thorn slices the skin above my eye. And the shots stop and we stop and we're silent. And my brother stops crying.

 

And then the soldiers go back to their work, and my mother bandages me as she laments the effects of war. And at the same time, she's thanking God for sparing my eye and thankful that I can see. And in that moment, our guide says, “You know what? We got to rest tonight.” So, we start to lay down camp under this large tree, and my donkey friend is tied to another tree not too far from us. And the rain begins to slow down. And as we lay there under the tree, I look over and I see my donkey friend, his eyes looking down, his lashes long. And I feel deeply grounded and peaceful. And then in the distance, I can hear the crackle of the gunshots. I can hear the hyenas laughing, as if they understand the absurdity of war.

 

But I can also hear crickets, and I can smell the cool earth beneath me. And I fall asleep that night feeling deeply grounded and thinking about my baba, thinking about seeing him after the checkpoint and also thinking about introducing him to my friend, the donkey. I wake up to the smell of blood and hide, and I look over to my left, and my donkey friend has been ripped to pieces by hyenas. I have never seen death before. I think I'm sad, but I'm confused. I do not yet understand how it is that I could be talking to a living being and holding a living being and then see him entrenched in pieces of bone and sand and blood and flies. I want so badly to walk over and shoo the flies away and put him back together. But I am paralyzed, and my mother is making sure that we are okay. And she's thanking every saint you can imagine, St. Joseph, Mary, and of course, Jesus, for sparing our lives.

 

No one around me can understand that this was really my friend. When it's time to move again, my limbs are heavy. And our guide picks me up and places me on his back, and we began to walk, and he doesn't speak to me. And we don't bury my friend, but he tells my mother that we could get another donkey when we get to the next rest point. But my friend is irreplaceable to me. We continue to walk for maybe weeks, months. I don't know how long that takes, but it was a long time. Water became less scare-- more scarce, actually. And then we reached a tiny village and there was a small hut, and the man said that we needed to stop into that small hut and exchange our city clothes along with his farmer family.

 

And so, we did that. And I was instructed to say that this man, who was a strange guide this entire time, was my baba. And that was difficult for me. But I was told that if I said that at the checkpoint, we would then pass on and eventually reunite with my baba. And so, we began walking. We got another donkey. I didn't talk to him. [laughter] He didn't talk to me. We were not friends. [audience laughter] But what I did notice is that as we saw the checkpoint, it seemed endless and you could see the soldiers at the checkpoint with their guns. But I didn't know fully to be afraid. It had just started creeping in for me. And it's the first time that I have been instructed to lie by adults.

 

After this tall man finishes interrogating my mother and our guide and he puts the gun to my chest, I proudly declare that “Yes, this is my baba, we're just trying to pass.” And we get through the checkpoint and the landscape begins to change. It moves from a flat heat to trees and lush leaves. I can smell mint leaves and mangoes again. I even feel my mama's mood begin to lift. And we eventually reunite with my baba, who is smiling and we have the biggest drink of water you can imagine. And we immigrate to Canada and I make my way to New York. I still have that scar above my left eye, but it serves not only as a reminder of the impact of war that we see around us on so many families around the world. It serves as a reminder of the joy and resilience and hope that we can see when we look through a child's eyes. Thank you.