By Abiye Solomon
For a long time the question for me has been to go or not to go. But I couldn’t make up my mind. I was afraid and confused. Even worse, I have been completely immobilized by the unknown. Time and fate have conspired against me. Everyday, I lose a little bit of my memory. I feel I must go but…
I have lived in America for longer than I care to admit. I came during the “good old days.” There must have been at least eighty people who came to Bole Airport to bid me farewell. I now remember only a few.
My father was there. Just before boarding he advised me: “Now listen, son. When you go to America (ferenj ager), you will be on your own. I am not going to be there for you. You must be strong. You must always remember why you are there. Work hard and learn. Get your degree and come back to serve your country.” My eyes welled up in tears. I couldn’t cry. “A boy doesn’t cry,” my father always said. Crying was a sign of weakness. I didn’t want him to remember me as a crying weakling.
My mother was also there. She was in tears. She must have felt like I was going to war or something. In desperation she said to me: “I don’t know why you have to go. Please, stay. You have everything you need here. Why must you go to a strange land? You won’t even have anyone there to give you water if you are thirsty. America… you are going to be a stranger in a strangeland!” I told her I’ll be back soon. Not to worry.
My little sister? She just reviewed the list of things I was to send her after I arrived in America. “Don’t forget the dress. It must be red with laces, and the shoes, the handbag… You better not forget. I will write and remind you.”
There stood my high school buddies. Tough guys. They were all at my farewell party. They’d joke: “See you in Washington! Don’t forget to send the I-20. You better write regularly or we’ll get you.”
I sat by the window in the plane. For the very first time in my life I felt I was totally alone. I cried. The stewardess looked at me. She seemed to understand. May be she had seen hundreds like me before. I was gripped by fear. What if I never see my parents again? My relatives… friends? What if I never come back? What if…
As the plane thundered towards the blue Ethiopian sky, I silently bade my last farewell. I felt a sense of emptiness. I was enveloped by self-doubt. I felt nauseous. Then I noticed I was in a jet plane for the first time in my life. I marveled at the magnificent flying machine. A little over an hour later I had left the soil of my birth. I was a stranger.
Twenty years later I think about home. But I am afraid and confused. My father had died from “stress” during the Derg era. My younger brothers and sister were jailed and tortured by the Derg. Luckily, they made it to the U.S. as refugees. I lost many relatives and friends to the government’s indiscriminate violence. My mother also passed away. I think from a broken heart. She was a mother of five. None of us were there to bury her. Ethiopia also died, a slow and painful death. Her children killed her.
Now, I often think of going back. I don’t know why. Nobody knows me there. I have no family or friends there. Few relatives would even remember who I am — better yet whose son I was. I don’t even know anyone there to write a letter.
I am impelled by an irrepressible homesickness. Then I sober myself with a bitter dose of reality. I read of the blind ethnic hatred and fratricidal warfare. I listen to the poisoned words of leaders who seem determined to send this poor nation into the grave of oblivion. I see the silver-tongued intellectuals spin theories of ethnic chauvinism and disunity.
I see my countrymen scheming to rupture the chain of their collective destiny. I hope my father will forgive me. I have to cry!
I think of my father’s advice. I have learned some of the wisdom of the West. I fear not all the wisdom in the West could help Ethiopians discriminate between good and evil. I doubt my little knowledge could begin to mend the broken pieces of Ethiopia.
I also remember the words of my mother. I have everything I need here. I don’t even know anyone there. Nobody will give me water if I am thirsty. Nobody knows my name. Will I be a stranger in a strangeland?
(Originally published in January 1992)