Does Cultural History Matter?

A few months ago, I found myself in the oddest of circumstances. 

It was   Easter   Sunday, a celebration of hope and forgiveness that followed the most gruelling of fasting seasons: የዐብይ ፆም. 

At its core, this gathering of friends and family meant an end to 40 days of abstinence and self-restraint. Which was why the food was plentiful, the drinks were flowing, and the atmosphere was festive and full of celebration. 

It was, by all accounts, a joyous ፋሲካ.

But no holiday is complete without a bit of judgment. Which, on this supposed day of forgiveness, was sparked by a seemingly harmless TV commercial. 

The commercial, which featured a young couple, infuriated my loved ones for a number of reasons. 

Some didn't like how the young woman was dressed. Others didn't like how the young man carried himself. But most agreed that this young couple embodied what was wrong with this “new generation”.

They weren't Ethiopian enough, they claimed. They appeared to be too foreign, too detached from our way of life. Their mannerisms and actions were unbecoming for someone of their age, their cultural background, and, of course, their gender. 

In short, they were too “ዘመናዊ” for my friends and family. 

And as the day wore on, this fictitious couple was brought up over and over again, each time reduced to yet another cultural stereotype. 

One would call them arrogant. A few insults later, another would call them disrespectful. A short while later, they would be labelled as “ባለጌ”, a result of an upbringing that was presumably so misguided that they would also be given the moniker of “አሳዳጊ የበደለው”. 

This verbal onslaught would end when a young neighbor gauged the reaction of the crowd and, as if delivering the final verdict, branded the young couple as “ትውልድ አሰዳቢዎች”.

But it wasn't the loud indignation or the barrage of insults that interested me. Instead, what truly caught my attention was the quiet response of an older relative.

One that would soon be championed by most of my friends and family. 

An Elder’s Advice

Well into her 80s, and wearing a traditional Ethiopian dress, this relative of mine had a particular way about her. 

She wasn't a loud or a performative person. She neither sought the validation of others nor did she try to outshine those around her. 

No, hers was the type of authority that came from her age, her poise, and her quiet confidence; the type that was gentle yet very self-assured. Which was why her take on that TV commercial was very well-received. 

To her credit, she didn't lash out. She didn't engage in the type of attacks that others so gleefully indulged in. Instead, she took this moment to give us all some elderly advice. 

She began by reflecting on how much this day meant to her.

Whether it was the lavish coffee ceremony, the እጣን that was slowly filling the room with fragrant smoke, the flasks of  ጠጅ  that were laid out on the table in front of her, or the generous amount of ጥሬ ሥጋ making its way around the room, each of these cultural staples reminded her of her childhood.

Which she described as a simpler time, one that was more concerned with honoring old customs than trying to change them. 

So she thanked our hosts for not only respecting our time-honored traditions, but for also preserving them for future generations, just like her elders did.

She then turned her attention to the young couple in the commercial. She admitted that she felt bad for us young people. That she knew we lived in a time of radical social change. 

But it's in such times, she added, that we must resist the temptation to imitate other cultures. She urged us to stay strong and remain true to a tradition that is rich, deeply rooted and has, for the most part, remained unchanged.

And if we can't do it for something greater than ourselves, she advised us to do it for our own sake. For there is a price to pay, one that has long been understood, for turning your back on your culture: 

“ሥሩን የጠላ ፥ ራሱን የጠላ”

Now it's at this point that the tone of her elderly advice began to change, as she would start to ask some very pointed questions. 

For example, she fixed her gaze at one young relative and sharply asked: 

“ለመሆኑ ጠጅ መጣል ትችያለሽ?”

She then pointed to another and coldly inquired:  

“እሺ የጠጁንስ ነገር ተይው ፤ ቡና ማፍላት አላስተማሩሽም?”

She would then gesture to a young man and bluntly pose this question: 

“አንተስ ብትሆን! እንደ ዘመዶችህ ሙክት ማረድ ትችላለህ?”

Underwhelmed by their answers, she stressed how important these cultural staples were. 

She reminded us that ቡና, ጠጅ, and ጥሬ ሥጋ weren't mere indulgences to be consumed without thought or dismissed when inconvenient. Instead, they are beautiful forms of cultural expression that have stood the test of time because they represent something important. 

They represent kinship. They represent community. And they have always represented the link between our collective past and our proud Ethiopian identity. 

For her, casting aside these popular cultural symbols was out of the question. She admitted that they weren't easy skills to learn, but to turn away from them would not just be an affront to our very sense of self.  It would also be an insult to the long line of Ethiopians that came before us. 

Which is why she ended her lesson in cultural fidelity like this:

“ልጆቼ እኛስ መሄዳችን አይቀሬ ነው ፤ ያኔ እኛም መረሳታችን ባህላችንም መረሳቱ ከአሁኑ እርግጥ ነው። የሚያሳዝነው ግን ምን አንደሆነ ታውቃላችሁ?  ይህንን የመሰለ ባህል ፣ ይህንን የመሰለ ውበት የሚያጠፉት የገዛ ልጆቻችን መሆናቸው ነው።” 

A Moment of Reflection

Now I admit that this type of elderly “advice” wasn't new to me. Neither was the sentiment that drove it.

I remember how we were raised. I remember how we were taught, from a very young age, to appreciate the significance of ቡና እና ጠጅ.

Not to mention the fact that these cultural staples were a familiar presence in most of our homes, whether as part of our everyday lives or during special occasions. 

We also saw their importance being reinforced, time and time again, in our public spaces. Whether it's in our culturally themed music videos, our similarly styled ባህላዊ restaurants or our country’s heritage-focused tourism campaigns, ቡና እና ጠጅ are presented as  always  having defined the Ethiopian experience.

Which is why for many traditional Ethiopians, like my older relative, questioning the significance of these cultural staples, or failing to practice them regularly, is tantamount to cultural erosion. 

But what if they’re wrong? 

What if there's more to ቡና እና ጠጅ than what we’ve been told?

And while it's important to listen to our elders, what if there was a better source? 

What if there was another Ethiopian, one that was far older and far more traditional, that had something to say about our relationship with ቡና እና ጠጅ? 

And what if it challenged everything we’ve come to believe about these cultural symbols?

Welcome back, my dear reader, to Bête Noire.

A Father’s Recollection

The year was 1959. 

A book, one that would leave a lasting impact on Ethiopia’s literary scene, would be prepared by a diligent son and be published by the biggest printing press in the country. 

Titled “መጽሐፈ ትዝታ ዘአለቃ ለማ”, this remarkable piece of work is based on the detailed recollections of አለቃ ለማ ኃይሉ ወልደ ታሪክ, a well-educated, well-traveled, and well-respected figure who also happened to be the father of another prominent Ethiopian: መንግሥቱ ለማ.

Based on interviews that lasted over 48  hours  and included more than  1,000  questions, መጽሐፈ ትዝታ gives us a detailed picture of what Ethiopia was like in the 1800s. 

Whether it was አለቃ ለማ’s vivid retelling of those historical events he witnessed personally, his account of important royal decrees or his fond memories of those religious scholars that shaped his worldview, መፅሐፈ ትዝታ offers a rare window into the very eventful history of our country. 

So much so that, to this day, many still characterize this immersive piece of work like this: 

“መንግሥቱ ጥንታዊውንና ዘመናዊውን ትውልድ ለማስተዋወቅ ከሠሯቸው ሥራዎች ውስጥ መጽሐፈ ትዝታ ዘአለቃ ለማ በግንባር ቀደምትነት ይጠቀሳል። ይህን መጽሐፍ ሳነብ እውነተኛ ጥንታዊት ኢትዮጵያን ገጽታዋን  በዐይኔ በብረቱ የማይና በእጄም የምዳስስ ይመስለኛል። ጥንታዊት ኢትዮጵያን ፊት ለፊት በአካል ማየት የሚፈልግ ይህንን መፅሐፍ እንዲያነብ እመክራለሁ።” 

ዶ/ር ሥርግው ገላው

But what gets lost in our mainstream discussions about መፅሐፈ ትዝታ is its examination of Ethiopia's cultural history.  

Take our coffee culture as an example. 

አለቃ ለማ doesn't talk about ቡና the way we do. Unlike my older relative, he doesn’t attach any type of reverence to it. Nor is there any sense of cultural nostalgia in his ትዝታ. 

Instead, he begins by telling us about the first time he saw a coffee ceremony. 

As fate would have it, he had traveled to another part of the country. Sent on an errand from ዲማ to ዘጌ, he would find himself disoriented in a foreign place, with nowhere to sleep and in need of assistance.

Lucky for him, he found refuge in a nearby church, one that happened to be celebrating a very important holiday. 

Seeing this as an opportunity to receive some Christian charity, he would enter the church grounds empty handed and hungry. 

But just as he was about to be given something to eat, he would turn around and run. All because of something he saw: 

“ያን እንጀራ አጠፈችና ይዛው መጣች። እቀበላለሁ ብዬ እንዲህ ጎንበስ ስል ከሽማግሎቹ ፊት ስኒ ተደርድሯል። “ኸረግ! ከምን ጉድ ቤት መጣሁ?!” አልኩና ጥዬ…! “ኸረ ምነው ደብተራ?” “ኸረ ምነው ደብተራ” ብትለኝ እርግ! - አመለጥኩ።”

When Coffee was Condemned

You see, from where he came from, coffee wasn’t an important cultural staple. 

They didn’t think of it the way me, you, or my older relative think of it today. It was neither a symbol of their Ethiopian identity nor a reflection of their cultural heritage. 

If anything, it was considered to be so incompatible with their Christian way of life that foreign travelers would often be surprised by the stigma towards ቡና.  

Some travelers, for example, recorded how coffee grew naturally throughout many parts of the country, only to be deliberately uprooted by the local Christian population.

Others observed that drinking ቡና was so stigmatized by many Christians it resulted in the “offender” being excluded from their church.  

Some foreign travellers even recounted how their Christian hosts refused to lend them the utensils needed to make their favorite drink, believing that it would defile both their utensils and their homes.

Which is why, for አለቃ ለማ, drinking coffee so ceremoniously and so out in the open, by Christians no less, wasn't just shocking. It was unthinkable. For it went directly against his upbringing: 

“ኸዚያ አስቀድሞ የስላምና የባለ ዛር ነበር እንጂ ክርስቲያን አይጠጣውም። አባቶቻችን አያቶቻችን አይጠጡም። እኔ እዚያ ባገሬ ሳለሁ እናት አባቴ አልጠጡም።”

However, things would begin to change. Albeit slowly. 

And whilst the rest of the country had already embraced coffee, our Christian forefathers would slowly start to change their attitude towards it. 

Some would start to drink ቡና secretly, in fear of being judged by their community. 

Others would start to drink it openly, but only among trusted company. 

Though many continued to harbor what Richard Pankrust called a “popular prejudice” towards our favorite national drink. 

So when did this popular prejudice turn to popular reverence? I’ll let አለቃ ለማ explain: 

“በሸዋም አይጠጣ ፤ ባባቶቻችን አልነበረማ። ኋላ አዲስ አበባ ተቆረቆረ። አለቃ ተጠምቆ ኸዚህ ታዘዙና መጡ ፤ እኔም መጣሁ። ልክ በሁለተኛው ዓመት አገር ሁሉ ጠጣ ቡና ፤ እንዲያው አገር ሁሉ።” 

But like any major cultural reform, a little resentment inevitably followed. Especially among cultural conservatives.

Which is why አለቃ ለማ ends his reflections on ቡና by telling us about a conversation he witnessed between 2 Ethiopians. One older and conservative, and the other a habitual coffee drinker. 

Now what struck me most about this conversation wasn't what was being said, but how it was being said. 

For its tone was unmistakable. It was the same disapproving and condescending tone that I heard during ፋሲካ; the same moral outrage that has since become the hallmark of our culturally conservative elders: 

አለቃ ወልደ ያሬድ: “ወለተ ሓና መጣፍኮ ቡን አይከለክልም” አሏቸው።

እሜት ወለተ ሐና: “አያ ወልደ ያሬድ ፤ ሰው ይታዘበኛል አትል። ያንግዜ ትልልቁን መጣፍ እየተሸከምክ ኻለቃ ገብረ ክርስቶስ ኻለቃ ምላት ስትመላለስ መጣፍ ቡን አያዝም ነበረ። አሁን ትምርቱ ቀረና ፤ መምሮቹ ሞቱና ፤ እንደገና ዛሬ አዘዘ ቡና ?” አሉ።

At this point, I’m sure you've noticed the striking similarities between my older relative and እሜት ወለተ ሐና. 

Notice, for example, the similarity in their rhetoric. 

Notice how they both invoke the memory of our forefathers to reinforce their culturally conservative positions. 

Notice the cultural nostalgia that is deeply woven into their elderly “advice”, how they label any form of change as a sure sign that our culture is in decline; that it's straying further and further from its roots. 

Yet, despite their similarities in tone and rhetoric, I’m sure you’ve also noticed the glaring difference between the two. 

For whilst my older relative was troubled by how young people are abandoning our coffee culture, her even older counterpart was troubled by how they embraced it in the first place.

Banned by Tradition, Blessed by the Throne

Another revealing instance of cultural reform can also be found in መፅሐፈ ትዝታ.

But this time, it's about  ጠጅ. 

Always the masterful storyteller, አለቃ ለማ begins this recollection by telling us about a vivid childhood memory.

At the center of his memory was a mysterious house, one that was tucked away on his father’s land. It was big, it was fenced high and wide and it had fascinated our narrator since he was a boy. 

Though what fuelled his curiosity wasn't the fact that the house was off limits to him. It was also the loud, incessant buzzing sounds that came from it.

Curiously enough, it was only after he grew up that he realized what was making all that noise. As his father went to great lengths to hide his bees, his honey, and his ጠጅ in that big, mysterious house. 

Why, you ask? Well, I’ll let አለቃ ለማ explain:

 “እኛ ጠጅ መሆኑን አናውቅም ፤ ክልክል አደለም? ጠጅ የተገኘበት ይወረሳል። ሲያያዝ የመጣ ነው ኸላይ ጀምሮ ፤ የቆየ የኢትዮጵያ ሥርዓት ነው። እንዴ! ወደ ኋላ የተነሣበትን አላውቅም። በሸዋማ የተወረሰው ብዙ አይደለም?” 

In fact, the consequences of breaking this old custom were so severe that አለቃ ለማ would illustrate this by telling us about a man named ጌታሁን ግሤ. 

You see, just like አለቃ ለማ’s father, ጌታሁን was in the habit of secretly drinking ጠጅ. But he was also in the habit of hosting those that came to serve his local church. 

Taking place once a year, these travelling priests would make use of ጌታሁን’s generosity; enjoying his illicit honey wine in secret and away from the prying eyes of the authorities.

Sure enough, these secret gatherings were so enjoyable that the travelling priests would return home and tell other clergymen about the brave man serving ጠጅ. This would eventually lead to what አለቃ ለማ described as a yearly procession, as priests from different parishes would go to ጌታሁን’s farm to take part in his annual festivities.

So, the secret was out. And the following gatherings became so lively, so grand, and so well-attended that ጠጅ and ጥሬ ሥጋ would be served well into the night.

But it was only a matter of time before the authorities found out and arrested ጌታሁን. And when asked what he was being charged with, his accusers simply said this:

“ “ምንድነው እንግዴ ኃጢአቱ?” ሲባል ጊዜ ፤ “ጠጅ።  ደረቱ ቀሚስ አልሞከረ ፥ ትከሻው (የሹመት) ለምድ አልለበሰ ጠጅ አውርዶ ላም አርዶ እያስጨበጨበ ፥ እያስፈከረ ፥ እልል እያሰኘ (ደገሰ)” አለ ከሳሹ።” 

What followed was a series of deliberations that eventually led to a royal hearing, where ጌታሁን was brought before አጤ ዮሐንስ himself.

Flanked by a council of advisors from different parts of the country, the King would begin the proceedings by allowing those from ወሎ, ሸዋ, and ጎጃም to share their views. 

Unfortunately for ጌታሁን, these advisors not only called for the confiscation of his land, but justified it by sharing the personal costs they themselves had suffered under this old custom. 

As one advisor put it: 

“ትከሻው ለምድ ያላጠለቀ ደረቱ ቀሚስ ፤ ጠጅ ሲያወርድ ጊዜ ሠንጋ ሲያርድ ይቀጣል ፤ ይወረሳል! አያቴ አንድ ዳብሬ ጠጅ ተገኝቶባቸው ፣ በባላጋራ ርስታቸውን ተነቅለው ፤ ይኸው የነገሌ አባት ወስዶ ፥ በነገሌ እጅ ነው አሁን ርስቴ ፤ ተነቅዬ። ይቀጣል!”

Now I imagine this might be shocking to most modern day Ethiopians. Especially since most of us have been conditioned to think about ጠጅ in a certain way.  

Maybe you're like my loved ones; those culturally conservative friends and family members who gathered at that eventful ፋሲካ. 

Maybe you, just like them, were unaware of how our forefathers weaponized class and custom to restrict what people can eat and drink. Or maybe you've heard of this old custom but never expected it to be this rigid or this consequential. 

But for journalists like  መዝገቡ አባተ,  this old custom was even more severe in places like በጌምድር; where the punishment for enjoying ጠጅ, and other activities reserved for elites, was very severe. 

Little wonder, then, that this obsession with status and hierarchy would also have a lasting effect on other aspects of social life, shaping everything from who people were allowed to marry, how they were allowed to dress, and even dictating who was allowed to erect a fence around their house.

A similarly interesting discussion can also be found in  ዶ/ር ሀብተማርያም አሰፋ’s  “የኢትዮጵያ ታሪክ ጥያቄዎችና ባሕሎች”, where the etymological link between the word “ባለጌ”, nobility, and social rank is shown to be very deep-rooted. 

So much so that words that are now viewed as benign insults were once used to justify restrictions on those deemed "በዓል-ዓጋሊ", “በዓለ-ኤገ” or “lower class.” Especially when it came to ጠጅ.

Which is why አጤ ዮሐንስ’s ruling on ጌታሁን’s case wasn’t just surprising. It was a major cultural turning point. 

As አለቃ ለማ would later recall: 

“ “አይስረቅ አይቀማ እንጂ ፤ ከቤቱ ቀፎውን ሰቅሎ ፤ ኸገደል ያለ ማር ቆርጦ ጠጅ ቢጠጣ ፤ ምንድነው ነውሩ? በገዛ ገንዘቡ ምንድን ይከለክለዋል? እኔ ፈቅጃለሁ ፤ ይጠጣ። ጠጅ ይጠጣ” አሉ አጤ ዮሐንስ። ከብት ማረድም የተፈቀደው ያን ለት ነው። ኸዚህ በኋላ እያረዱ መብላት ሆነ። ዱሮ የተሾመ ብቻ ነው። ግምጃ ለምድ የለበሰ ፤ ግምጃ ቀሚስ የለበሰ ያሳርዳል።”

Does Cultural History Matter?

So, what are we to make of this? 

How are we to understand cultural reform in light of አለቃ ለማ’s ትዝታ?

Does cultural history matter?

Should we take the time to consider our cultural history before we judge the actions of others? 

Or should we, like my conservative relatives, label any type of cultural change as an insult to the long line of Ethiopians that came before us? 

Well, for cultural theorists like Jan  Assmann and John Czaplicka, the answers to these questions aren't as straightforward as you might think. 

In their seminal paper “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity”, these two academics went to great lengths to explain how many societies, including our own, think about their culture.

They would introduce the concept of “cultural memory”, a collection of past knowledge and experiences that we, as a society, collectively pull from. For these academics, we do this not just to honour our past, but to try to get a better sense of who we are and who we are not. 

It is how we, in other words, make sense of our Ethiopian identity. 

As they put it:

“The objective manifestations of cultural memory are defined through a kind of identificatory determination in a positive ("We are this") or in a negative ("That's our opposite") sense, [thereby] creating a sharp distinction between those who belong and those who do not.”

Sounds a lot like my older relative, doesn't it? 

But however meaningful and important our cultural memory is, it isn't perfect. It can be easily influenced by how we, almost instinctively, select, reinterpret, and omit certain aspects of our past.

In this respect, whether you are reading the likes of Noa  Gedi, Duncan S. A. Bell, Mihai Stelian or Jean-François  Orianne, each of these academics have shown how this type of identity building can cause issues.

Some, for example, have argued that our cultural memory is fundamentally unreliable because it's always shaped by the present. 

You see, in trying to get a better sense of who we are, we inevitably become curators of our own history. We become selective, preserving what is symbolically useful to us while filtering out what we think isn't relevant for our present needs. 

What type of needs, you ask? 

Well, for my friends and family at that eventful ፋሲካ, it was the need to project an Ethiopian identity that is  old, pure, and resistant   to change. 

So the actual history of ቡና እና ጠጅ doesn't really come to mind. 

What does come to mind are more familiar images of Ethiopian life: a childhood memory of holidays past, the familiar sight of a traditional home serving its guests, an idealized portrayal of traditional Ethiopian life on TV or at a ባህላዊ restaurant or a cultural exhibit. 

We might even remember a tale or two from an old relative about the good, old, traditional days.

History is thus filtered through our familiar, cherished, and inherited memories. 

Ultimately, the result of this kind of cultural filtering is a patchwork of “usable pasts” that is less a reflection of our cultural history and more a reflection of our need to create a strong sense of self.

In other words:  

Our Cultural Memory ≠ Our Cultural History 

Other academics have tried to build on this point by analyzing how we talk about our culture. 

As I’m sure you've guessed, my dear reader, a cultural memory of “patchwork pasts” doesn't really inspire confidence. 

Which is why we, just like my loved ones, have a tendency to clean it up a little. We tighten our narratives about history, we gloss over any breaks in our traditions, and we give our cultural past a sense of continuity.

In doing so, our cultural history starts to sound less like a series of continuities and disruptions and more like a single, flowing story. The interruptions, contradictions, and pesky reforms of the olden days get   pushed   out of sight. 

Leaving us a version of the past that feels so old and so self-evident that it can be confidently invoked during, lets say, a very eventful ፋሲካ. 

And if there are aspects of our cultural history that complicate this tidy, sanitized retelling of Ethiopian culture? 

Well, we simply do this: 

“When history contradicts the claims of collective memory, the latter being usually suffused with a strong ideological tint, either the historians are discredited or the history itself is deemed irrelevant.” 

Lessons from the Past

So, have we discredited አለቃ ለማ? 

No, not really. He is too valuable of a source and too respected of a cultural figure to be discredited by any serious person. 

Though I would argue that we, as a society, have done something much worse. We have deemed his ትዝታs irrelevant. 

Especially when it comes to our cultural history. 

No matter how many times his book has been reprinted, no matter how many times his ትዝታs are read on the radio, no matter how many times his observations are corroborated by academics, historians, and early travelers alike, we simply don't care.

Why? 

Because we only care about our cultural history if it confirms what we already believe. 

But if we were to honestly engage with አለቃ ለማ, if we were to look beyond our cultural myths and selective memories, we would learn many things about our country.

We would learn that ቡና እና ጠጅ became national fixtures not because of cultural conservatism, but because of cultural reform.

We would learn that if it weren't for such reforms, my family members would have been breaking longstanding customs that prohibited their most cherished traditions. 

And we would learn that these old customs were not mere conventions, but were very serious and very much ingrained in the  religious and class consciousness of my ancestors. 

So much so that the very people my older relative idolized would have been horrified by what was being said and done at that eventful ፋሲካ.

They would have called her, and the rest of my conservative family members, “ባለጌ”, “አሳዳጊ የበደለው”, and “ትውልድ አሰዳቢዎች”

They would have expelled them from their churches, shunned them from their communities, and stripped them of their property. 

All because they dared to drink some ቡና እና ጠጅ. 

The irony of it all was simply too difficult to ignore. 

So, instead of arguing with my loved ones about the nuances of our cultural history and the gaps in their cultural memory, I decided to do something better with my time. 

I decided to leave early and start writing this piece.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realised just how much we are indebted to the reformists of the  past. 

Those brave men and women from በጌምድር, ጎጃም, ወሎ, and ሸዋ who, despite knowing the brutal, life-changing consequences that awaited them, still defied tradition. 

Is there a lesson in this for today's cultural reformists? 

I think so.

I think it's important for us to remember that our culture has always been susceptible to change. It might not appear so at first. It might seem like an impossible task, especially given how cultural reformists are ridiculed and dismissed in our country. 

But a close reading of our cultural history shows us that reform is neither new nor alien to us. It has  always  been part of our story, despite what our conservatives would have us believe.

The lesson, then, is clear: we must embrace the example that was set by those who came before us. We should be more like our reformist ancestors and actively shape our culture for the better.

We shouldn't be discouraged by how difficult cultural reform can be. Instead, we should be as determined and as courageous as those who truly had more to lose. 

For even they, with all the odds stacked against them, still prevailed.

And if you ever feel demoralized or overwhelmed by the sheer amount of hostility that comes your way, you should take a second, regroup, and draw strength from አለቃ ለማ’s most important ትዝታ: 

Cultural reform is as Ethiopian as ቡና እና ጠጅ.

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