Words

Above green hills, a 5am sky brings the air to a crisp. A 9 year old shepherd calls his sheep to their first meal. Smoke rises from the entrance of the shepherd’s home. His grandmother is brewing coffee. 

“I remember when my grandmother used to make irgo, says Tesfaye Leka, remembering his days starting with a bowl of yogurt (eaten how – with cows, with other shepherds with g’ma?)on the lush fields of the Gurage region in central Ethiopia. In Tesfaye’s case, his early beginnings in taking care of his sheep would remain in various ways throughout his life. 

As the first born, he was raised by his grandmother in the countryside. He met his father for the first time at 9 years old. “He wanted me to be educated and my grandmother wanted to keep me as a shepherd for the rest of my life”. And in some ways he would be.

On the day his father took Tesfaye away from..., he and his father boarded a bus for a four hour ride to the capital city of Addis Ababa. “I’ve never been in a car before until then…the first thing my father did was take me to a bar, I think he wanted to introduce me to the city. He had a beer and I got the sparkling water.” 
His new childhood home, sat in the middle of Africa’s largest open-air market, Mercato.  United with his brothers and sisters for the first time, and Tesfaye being the oldest, his father placed on him the burdens of being an example to them.“I would get beat up for everything...he did the best he could, he just didn’t do it in the best way”.

In the darkness of the morning, St. Raguel Orthodox Church sends a call out for prayer and my father’s neighborhood slowly trickles into the pews. He, his brother, and cousin are required to attend with their father, but discreetly slip out in the middle of service to squeeze in a game of soccer.

Being one of the top students in his class throughout grade school, what was once Tesfaye’s days of tending wool carried his hands to skin. His path towards medicine opened up at Black Lion Hospital at Addis Ababa University as a young medical student. He moved out of his home and began living in a dormitory, “I was a part of the first class of students” Tesfaye recalls “We had a bus take us from our dorms to the hospital where we would train”. In the midst of his budding career, Ethiopia’s 3,000 year monarchy under Haile Selassie was encountering mounting unrest—famine spreading across rural provinces, rising food prices in the cities, and growing protests from students, workers, and soldiers who believed the government had failed to protect its people. It was a recipe that would ensue one of the most traumatic periods of Ethiopia’s political and social history. A history that would lead to the rebuilding of Tesfaye’s, life.

LIVING TRACES

There’s a kind of emotional double-home in being an immigrant, both feeling tied to Ethiopia while trying so hard to build a life in America. For this project, I have been able to speak to those that have known my father's story, but who also carry their own in their journey through Ethiopia’s turmoil and rebuilding in the United States. The common thread they hold in their memories describes living two emotional timelines at once: the story of where they came from, and the separate story of where they’re trying to go. And that creates a complicated identity—pride, resilience, guilt, melancholy, and hope, all sitting together.

Many Ethiopian families carried and unnamed grief for siblings killed, parents left behind, entire communities scattered across continents. Even in joyful moments such as, there’s often a shadow present.  Parents keep the pain and upheaval of the past to themselves but it shows up in smaller ways. Sometimes the past is a positive presence such as pride of survival. But as often as not the past manifest through short tempers or the reticence to confront painful memories. My father is not alone in his story of carrying the trauma and rebuilding. Thousands of Ethiopians it also answered the call of their inner voice and left to build a better society and seek a better life. (rough, I know) 

The inner burdens of Ethiopian immigrants isn’t just about loss—it’s also about endurance . It’s about rebuilding from collective wounds while still holding onto culture, memory, and language. My father planted new roots strong enough to carry a legacy, but deep enough for me to have to dig for the stories that formed them. I don’t simply live in the shadows of what my father walks with, but.  I am also a witness to how his past manifests in the present and hocw those distant stories exist so close in my present life. 

ETHIOPIA’S TURMOIL

For nearly 3,000 years Emperors in Ethiopia were esteemed as anointed, divine vessels chosen for the responsibility of leading the nation. Emperor Haile Selaisse (1892-1975) reigned from 1930-1974, a period of famines and economic stagnation that left the country bereft. His failure to address corruption (?) and governmental negligence exacerbated poverty nationally over four decades. By the early 1970s unrest simmered. Workers and young university students began protesting and demanding a path to dignity, fairness and food. In 1974, a simultaneous anger from a generation losing hope was building up, and from the belly of crowds demanding answers for a starving Ethiopia, a voice of a nation arose. Mengistu Hailemariam, a major in the Ethiopian Imperial army of Haile Selaisse spoke out on a vision of a country based on equality for all and a life free of scrapping for the next meal and endless days of labor. Loose ideas of Marxism and Communism grew in appeal. Ethiopians began to hope 

On month, day, 1974 Emperor Haile Selassie’s was overthrown.  Under Mengistu Hailemariam, the Derg regime took control of the country. The Derg enacted its vision through mass imprisonment of rival courtiers and noble bloodlines. By November 1974 sixty former officials including ministers, governors, and generals had been execute. Industries were nationalized and real estate placed under control of the state The Derg claimed to be acting for justice, but students understood it as a warning; a first sign of shifting tides. It meant that their power would remain permanently and a reason for growing suspicions of Ethiopia’s youth, but there seemed to be a silver lining in the distance.

The Derg promised reform through “Land to the Tiller”, an initiative to transfer land ownership from large landlords to the farmers who actually toiled the soil. The redistribution of land distribution initially seemed to be an answer to decades of protest and calls for reform. Since the 1950s the people of Ethiopia had questioned the occurrence of eight famines and why land was owned by so few. Why had Emperor Salaisse and rulers before him remained quiet in the midst of it all. The Derg’s initiative felt like a response to a generation’s cry for human rights. Many believed land redistribution would finally bring dignity to farmers who had worked the soil for generations without owning it. But bureaucracy slowed the process. Drought deepened the crisis. Plots of land, about 3.7 acres, and 20-30% quotas of food produced meant that many couldn’t live the life they thought they would live–barely having enough to feed themselves, expanding starvation, and an expanding dictatorship army. 

There was a noticeable scent of betrayal following the promises of civil freedom, and the young students of Ethiopia smelled a future of terror approaching. 

As mistrust of the Derg expanded, the regime launched "Development Through Cooperation,” a major mobilization of students. The Amharic word “Zemecha” means “campaign” signifying the regime's initiative to develop the nation beyond Addis Ababa. Over 60,000 university and high school students and teachers were forcibly sent out from the city to rural lands under the auspices of promoting literacy, land reform, and the Derg’s ideologies. My father was one of those students.

“We were supposed to go and educate the peasants,” Tesfaye recalls “Really though, he just wanted to get rid of the students because we were starting to get upset with the regime…it became something we thought it wasn’t.” He wasn’t the only one to think this way. Students saw their presence in rural areas meant their absence in universities. The regime had removed the voice of the critics. The students recognized the new development reform as an act of silencing anyone against them. 

Tesfaye was sent to the northern province of Wollo as part of a group assigned to educate farmers on the new ideologies and social restructuring in Addis Ababa. Alongside teaching, whispers of a revolution were passed around among the teaching students. Secret meetings on Marxist ideologies and an Ethiopia with civilians who led themselves. Tesfaye found himself becoming a student of something else: “You could say that’s where I was baptized.” 

Under the power-hungry regime, fliers and messengers called for underground meetings. A new political party began to form. The Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP) emerged as a Marxist-Leninist student-led movement. They believed in a vision for Ethiopia centered around a democratic civilian led nation. Tesfaye found himself in one of those meetings and the ideas he was being exposed to intrigued him. His attendance and interest quietly followed him back into campus after the Derg’s campaign was over. He returned home to an Addis Ababa gripped by the Derg’s relentless pursuit of anyone against them. The regime began targeting student organizers, labeling them as enemies of the state.

Tamrat, one of Tesfaye’s medical school classmates, remembers Tesfaye confided in him about joining the EPRP. “He told me about the EPRP and I could tell he was more passionate about politics than I was.” Against a crumbling nation, Tesfaye’s thoughts were slowly building towards a possible future for himself and his people. He believed in the underground civilian led movement that was being offered to him.

The EPRP became a target. Young activists began disappearing and students were openly killed in streets in front of churches, schools, and homes. The Derg prohibited burials of those killed in the streets. refused for people to be buried, The bloodied bodies were left out for display, instilling a constant fear within civilians daily. Their 17 year leadership that seemed like an escape from death became an introduction to a new kind of death. The constant showcasing of bodies sprawled in the streets coined this era of Ethiopian history “Qey Shibir”, or “The Red Terror”.

Up to 200,000 individuals were killed for several days from late April to mid-May during this massacre, mostly young students and those who were believed to be connected to them in some way. It was tragic. The life Ethiopia believed she was slowly gaining quickly escaped her fingers through fear and blood. It was a time that stagnated perceived progress, as well as movement in different directions.

Desalegn Worku was a family friend of Tesfaye at the time. Their fathers were closer than brothers, and he grew up with Tesfaye in the home like a brother. Early morning church attendances and soccer scrimmages shared in secret sealed a bond. Desalegn’s trustworthiness made him a brother and a critical confidant for Tesfaye.

Desalegn recalls a bustling Mercato during Ethiopia’s tense era, “I remember he came to the family shop in the middle of the day…” By this time Tesfaye was back in Addis Ababa University after a two years in Wollo and has put a decent dent into his years as a med student. “He was dressed in unfavorable clothing, like a farmer, so that he wouldn’t be noticed by anyone. He told me that he would be leaving that night.” Desalegn’s still feels/remembers the sadness of that moment,“he just told me he needed to leave and to not tell anyone. I cried a lot.” At the time not only were activists arrested and tortured, but also anyone who had knowledge about someone that was. “He didn’t tell me much and why he was leaving. At that time, he wanted to protect me”. Under a gleaming night, Desalegn’s tears dragged as he walked Tesfaye to the Mercato train station. Tesfaye didn’t say much in the moment. He told no one else of his plans. Desalegn kept this secret for years 

His absence was noticed, and no one knew why. Dr, Tamrat Retta, an old medical school classmate of Tesfaye recalls  “He just disappeared. No one knew what to think about where he was because he never mentioned leaving to anyone. Tesfaye’s old college roommate, Dr. Fikade Deneke, recounts the same sentiment, “I just began to notice that he wasn’t there anymore. We were very worried for him, but there was nothing I could do.”

“I thought about my decision, and I knew at that point I couldn’t go back.” My father remembers his own ponderings on the bus that took him away from Addis Ababa “I even think to myself now, why did I leave like that? How could I leave my family, my education like that? I think deep down I was tired of being beat up by my father, and I wanted a reason to run away.”

Thousands of students decided to disappear into the night and set off to train as guerilla fighters and members of the EPRP and fight the Derg. A bus took them to the countryside. They were received by student leaders and began  a three-month journey on foot crossing what Tesfaye calls “the jungle.”. “We couldn’t see anything” Tesfaye says “the moon was our mercy”. They were healthy men, running on minimal rations to eat and bags of sugar from local stores. Sudden wakes in the night when opposition was sensed contributed to their long days and sleepless nights. They reached Ras Dashen, the highest mountain in Ethiopia, located in North Gondar of the Amhara region, where the EPRP stationed a base in the mountain’s valley where volunteer students would train.

They would train for weeks, and still inexperienced, would go out to fight soldiers of the regime. My father fought in a different way,  “I was a medic on the field…they gave me a gun, but I never needed to use it.” Tesfaye was one of a very few medical students that joined the fighters, and because of it, he was well known by insurgents involved. Tesfaye Asmemaw, who currently lives in DC as an accountant, was also a part of the EPRP and never met Tesfaye at the time, but Asmemaw and many others knew him by another name: “People called him Maheteme. I never met him but I knew him because people would talk about how he was helping so many people. It wasn’t just wounded soldiers that would journey to find him, but also people that lived in surrounding villages”. The battles were gruesome and brief. The “rebels” understood they were not equipped to fight experienced militia. People within the movement had their own ideas of what was right for the country and what was wrong. Internal divides created destabilization amongst members and leaders.. The EPRP was crumbling within itself. “You know it wasn’t a very civilized group. There was no organized government amongst us, so it was a terrible situation,” Tesfaye says. The expanding civil war birthed new rebel groups across the country many of which were tied to ethnic mobilizations. The EPRP was sidelined. Its rural campaigns were no match for the other armed groups that were forming. Members began to leave. Tesfaye noticed the disorganization and incoherence of the movement and sensed the end of the organization creeping in. Once again he left in the middle of the night with like-minded members to seek refuge in Sudan.

During these years, communities in border regions of the country abandoned the area.They fled, emptied themselves out of Ethiopia’s borders, and the violence of the Derg and famine compelled people to flee the country all together. An estimated 2.5 million Ethiopians migrated to neighboring countries such as Sudan, Somalia, Kenya and Djibouti. Firm numbers do not exist, especially from  a time of night crossings documentation. The scale was significant. By the 1980s, hundreds of thousands had gone into Sudan, slipping past border posts and soldiers to survive. 

Tesfaye and the group of men that fled the EPRP trekked on foot and eventually split up at the border to disperse themselves so they could travel less noticeably into the country. Tesfaye was with two other men when an Ethiopian truck driver noticed them. The driver had a hunch that they were worth helping and let them stay the night with him in his home. The next day, he took the three men to the nearest refugee camp where the United Nations (UN) and Swedish NGOs were stationed. “I just remember he looked at us and said, ‘You guys look like you will be somebody someday’…He was like an angel” Tesfaye recalls. Soon after his relocation, a Swedish NGO took him in to work at their clinic. They were praying to God for a replacement after one of their refugee workers was about to immigrate to London. “They thought I was sent from God”

After two years in the camp, Tesfaye was sponsored by Dr. Pilkington, a passionate philanthropist from the United Kingdom. Pilkington his inheritance from his late parents, to help East African refugees immigrate to the Western world and finish their education. The UN interviewed Tesfaye. He did not share all the details of his journey for fear of being turned away or even a danger to the refuge. He was certain he wanted to finish his education in the United States. His work in the refugee camp and his academic standing in Ethiopia demonstrated his drive and dedication. Under the bright light of the day, Tesfaye boarded his first plane flight not in secret, but in bold pursuit of the opportunity awaiting him in San Diego, California.

THE DIASPORA

In the decades that followed, tens of thousands of Ethiopians entered the United States through refugee and asylum programs. Studies estimate that nearly 50,000 Ethiopians were admitted this way between 1980 and 2013. Many others immigrated through family reunification, diversity visas, or education pathways, to join relatives who had fled in earlier waves of trauma. What began as a small community grew into a recognizable diaspora, reshaping neighborhoods in Washington, D.C., California, Minneapolis, and Atlanta.

The Ethiopian diaspora in the United States didn’t simply drift into assimilation. They recreated home in unfamiliar soil. As of 2026 there are an estimated 178,000 first-generation Ethiopians immigrants in the United States, one of the largest diaspora populations in the world. Combined with their U.S.-born children the broader Ethiopian-origin community reaches over 350,000. Each of a half-million individuals connects to a story like that of my father. They left home because Ethiopia stopped being a place where life felt possible. But they did not stop loving Ethiopia. The Derg uprooted millions across the country, but its legacy didn’t end at the borders. The legacy of the Derg lives in the families and futures built thousands of miles away, in a country that became home by necessity. 

The recent language surrounding immigration feels unsettlingly familiar. Throughout the Trump administration, immigrants have been frequently described as threats: criminals, invaders, burdens on the nation. These terms echo the same logic used by regimes my father had fled: that fear could be manufactured, and belonging could be revoked. As Tesfaye’s daughter, watching this unfold, I realize survival does not end at the border, it changes form. The violence is not the same, but the suspicion is. For many immigrants, the promise of refuge remains conditional, fragile, and easily politicized.

As of 2025, there are roughly 616 to 620 Ethiopian restaurants across the U.S.  Washington, D.C. metropolitan area is the largest center of Ethiopian culture outside Africa and often referred to as Little Ethiopia.  

But it isn’t only about restaurants. Across the nation, Ethiopian immigrants have founded Orthodox and Protestant churches, community centers, grocery stores stocked with teff and berbere, and cultural associations. These institutions preserve language, religious traditions, cultural cuisine practices, and social networks. They are lifelines for newcomers and anchors for younger generations born in America. In cities like Minneapolis–Saint Paul, Seattle, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and the D.C.–metro region, entire neighborhoods pulse with Ethiopian rhythms: coffee ceremonies in the evening, Amharic or Oromo spoken in grocery aisles, families gathering for holidays far from Addis.

As for my father, Tesfaye, the horrors of the past and lessons learned are something to be named, not to hide.

My father has gentle hands that remember the roughness of life well. Kind eyes with an anxious river locked up behind them. His voice rises slowly from a deep well and still waters. People love him because he’s a good listener and holds peace when he enters a room.

A rumbling storm lives at the pit of his stomach, in constant control. His stiff and tall stature holds it all together.  He goes on walks in our neighborhood and hikes with his friends amongst nature, reminiscent of those Gurage fields of green from childhood.

THE NEXT GENERATION

Me and my generation grew up in homes where our parents carried stories too heavy to place on their children’s shoulders, but inherited them in fragments. Brief mentions at dinner tables and community gatherings, or revealed years later when time made the past safer to hold. We are the children of people who rebuilt their lives from scratch. Children of refugees, students, farmers, fighters and dreamers who arrived in America with only a dream and perhaps an extra thirty dollars in their pocket. 

The memories they brought carried along their tradition, and culture, a burden that my generation bears and is also actively navigating. The past has not simply disappeared, but lives in the language we speak at home, in the coffee ceremonies that gather us around a shared table, in the way we feel both American and Ethiopian at once. We are not only beneficiaries of our parents’ courage—we are the storytellers of it. We carry forward the memory of a country that shaped them and a country that received them. We stand at the intersection of both.

My father’s life is not just a story of escape from violence. It is a story of endurance, of rebuilding, and of choosing hope in the face of uncertainty. Because he survived, I am here to tell what happened. Because he planted new roots, I am able to grow.

And now it is our turn to tend the soil.