Ethiopian odyssey: A lucky girl with two moms

It took a village to raise this child.

Everyone cared for me: aunties, uncles, neighbors, my immediate family – and a woman called Birikti, “my second mother.”

In Ethiopia, where I was born and raised, families sometimes have a live-in house help. Undoubtedly, this will create a picture of opulent families with generational wealth if one looks at it from a Western perspective. After all, in the West, generally only upper-middle class families can afford house help.

But the house-help industry functions within a different context in Ethiopia. Yes, sometimes we hire help and pay them a salary, but other times the help is a relative who needs shelter and food – and offers housekeeping services in return, like cooking and cleaning.

My mom was in her seventh month of pregnancy with me when she reached out for help. A friend of ours, Tedros, was the matchmaker who suggested Birikti could live with us and lighten mom’s load after I was born.

From birth, I was the lucky girl with two moms. They both fed me, looked after me and played with me.

But they also differed in the role they played shaping my worldview.

My mother taught me the importance of doing well in academia.

Birikti taught me the importance of discipline and how it ties into our culture as a virtue. To this day, when I think of my culture’s foundations, I think of Birikti.

When I was 5 years old, we moved from Mekelle, a city in the Tigray region, to Addis Ababa, the capital city of Ethiopia situated in the Amhara region – and Birikti came with us.

Birikti lived and worked in our house for 18 years, meaning I have known her for more than half my life. Occasionally, Birikti would visit her family who still reside in Tigray but she spent most of those 18 years with us.

Birikti was born in Adigrat, Tigray. She attended school until fifth grade. Soon after, she got married, as is custom for young girls in Ethiopia and gave birth to a daughter, Luchia.

But she didn’t remain with her husband for long. Due to her his volatile and abusive nature, she soon moved out and began the daunting task of raising her daughter alone.

The opportunity to work as househelp was a blessing to Birikti.

Most daughters have one loving mom. I was blessed with two – and Birikti’s values and principles, quite conservative, shaped my identity.

Birikti represents a connection to the traditional Tigrayan society and culture that we left behind when we moved further into central Ethiopia.

Not long after I had turned 18, internal conflicts that had been building within Ethiopia for years finally erupted into a full-scale war.

Everything changed then.

Being from Tigray quickly put us in danger as the public’s anger turned towards Tigrayans.

Life was no longer safe for my family nor for Birikti and her family. A civil war had begun, the result of years of disagreement between the reigning political party, Tigray People’s Liberation Front, and the newly elected prime minister, Abiy Ahmed.

The disagreement was exacerbated by previous ethnic conflicts that had plagued Ethiopia. Within the matter of a few years, peace was totally destroyed in Ethiopia.

My country exploded. Road blockades, armed conflict and mass killings intensified within Tigray. Birikti, worried about the safety of her own family, moved back to her family home.

She couldn’t be sure that she’d ever be able to see her family again if she didn’t go immediately. And though my family and I were concerned for her safety, we understood why she needed to leave.

During this war, the government frequently implemented network blackouts that cut off communication to Tigray. Neither landlines nor the internet worked as a means of communication between Tigray and the rest of the country.

My family and I were often isolated. For months on end, we did not know if our uncles, aunts and cousins were even alive.

Once Birikti left, we also had no idea of knowing whether she was safe or not.

I often remember how sad I was on the day she told us she was leaving. It was one of the few instances where we hugged.

Birikti had never been one for physical affection.

But I had to let her know how much she meant to me. I told her I loved her, another first. And then I went into my room and cried until my eyes swelled up.

Seeing Birikti leave and knowing I may not be able to hear from her again was yet another reminder that life as I had known it and taken for granted was changing faster than I could grasp.

The war and hate campaigns dragged on for two agonizing years.

As death tolls kept rising, the only thing my family could do was lay low to avoid the widespread targeted imprisonment of Tigrayans and hope that the war would end soon.

On occasion, when the network flickered back to life, we could check on our family and friends.

Fear was with us all day, every day. At any moment, random imprisonment and house raids could arrive on our doorstep.

Tigrayan people were not safe anywhere.

We were able to hear from Birikti only a few times for those two years until the official ceasefire in November 2022. The first time my mother called me over to tell me she had managed to contact Birikti, I was in my room.

My heart jumped into my throat as I rushed into the living room. Finally, I could hear her voice.

She was alive and safe.

I treasured each phone call with her because I could never be sure whether it would be the last.

Meanwhile, my education kept getting interrupted, first by COVID, then by the war. I had studied at Addis Ababa University for a total of three semesters before I withdrew because my parents had decided it would be best for us to move to Kenya temporarily.

Our neighbors’ houses had already been raided. One of our neighbors was arrested, simply for being Tigrayan.

We knew that we would be next.

We eventually came back to Tigray in April 2022. The war had ended. Cellular network was more or less back in effect across the country.

Before I could start trying to get back into Addis Ababa University, I learned about the refugee scholarship Carroll College was offering.

My mother’s colleague, Conor Molloy, was born and raised in Helena, Montana, and had heard of the scholarship program through a fellow Ethiopian student already enrolled in the program, Bersie Zellele.

One thing led to another and in Dec. 2022, I came to Helena to enroll in Carroll College.

In January 2023, my mother was sent to Tigray through her work as a project manager at an aid organization.

Tigray had been devastated from the war, lootings and land burnings; food was scarce. The people were in dire need of aid, and of help of any kind.

My mother was able to meet Birikti during her stay in Tigray.

Mom tells me that Birikti and her family were visibly affected by the war. They seemed subdued, and the dark circles under their eyes were prominent.

But on the bright side, my mother and Birikti were finally able to face each other and talk about everything that had happened.

My mom tells me that Birikti was really happy to hear I had left to study in America. She thanked God that I had been given such an opportunity.

Mom also told me that although she was happy for me.

“I regret that I couldn’t give her any gifts before she left,” Birikti told my mom.

And it broke my heart when my mother told me this.

Up until that point, I had tried to avoid dwelling on the sheer violence and destruction that had taken place within the span of two years.

But when my mother told me what Birikti had said, it left a mark in me that I will never be able to undo – nor do I want to.

Kindness can exist even in war ravaged places.

Kindness can come from people who have little to survive on, let alone to share.

*******

As I flew off to safety in America, I thought back to my second mom, Birikti.

I remembered how Birikti learned to make noodles, even though she was only comfortable making traditional Ethiopian food, because she knew I liked it.

I recalled how Birikti would have food ready for me when I returned home from school.

Birikti would serve me a hot bowl of noodles to show me that she cared.

That was the first time I allowed myself to feel just how much I had missed her.

I wished I was a kid again, trudging off to where Birikti slept so I could burrow under the covers and doze off whenever I was finding it hard to sleep.

A new chapter in my life was beginning, one full of hope, but also full of worries.

The war had stopped but Tigray’s economy had been ruined.

I don’t know how easily Birikti can find food and shelter.

I don’t know if Birikti and her daughter have everything they need.

I fear that she may not reach out to us for help because she might feel she would be bothering us.

Amidst all this uncertainty, I hold on to what she taught me about kindness.

I go forward knowing that, in spite of the terrors of war, kind people like Birikti live on.

As should I.