Consider all the roads you’ve traveled so far. Had you known what you know now, would you have chosen that journey? Would you have chosen a different route? Or would you have been like the proverbial ostrich and buried your head in the sand? I suspect everybody, except for the lucky few whose paths have been flawless, would choose to make adjustments along the way to make the journey smoother, their works a little more efficient, and life a bit easier. But looking at the course of our struggle, I see neither a determination for a new start, nor an attempt to adjust, but a gallant push forward to the familiar past, a circular path of which every segment has been examined. We are sure the destination is somewhere outside the orbit. We also know that leaving the orbit is leaving the familiar behind and being vulnerable to new risks. The discomfort we are feeling now is the dizzying effect of this circular motion. Read on and see if you agree with me.

We were revolutionaries, back then as now. We called for freedom. We were full of energy. We were committed. We wrote. We spoke. We protested. We Demonstrated. Free Oromia! Free Oromia! Free Oromia! We shouted. We demanded. We felt the force of our conviction. We heard the footsteps of justice nearing. We smelled victory.

We met day and night and studied. We studied the writings of Lenin, and of Mao Tsetung. We studied the writings of Marx and Hagel. We memorized Franz Fannon and Cheguvera. We debated heatedly about what is to be done and who is to lead us. Day and night we did this, day and night over again. For weeks and months we did this.

We saw changes come and our hopes dashed time and again. Powers crumbled and new powers emerged. We stumbled, stepped back and submerged. We huddled, gathered forces, and picked up our voices again. Opposing, revolting, shouting. Oromia shall be free! Oromia shall be free! We spoke. We demonstrated. We wrote. We quoted our heroes. We denounced our foes. Still full of energy. Still committed.

Changes came, not because of what we did, at least not entirely, but because they must. Our hopes were dashed again. We rode the tides of change euphorically, perhaps hysterically; I’m not sure which. We responded to these events, we did not cause them. We were overcome and submerged again. We were not any nearer to free Oromia than we were way at the beginning. We debated about this too. There were those of us who wanted to take some credit for some of what had happened, for not all that had happened was bad. But we definitely were nowhere near being the deciding factor. We stepped back again. We regrouped. We came out again. Opposing. Revolting. Shouting free Oromia!

It is getting to be easier. It has become a habit. The meetings, the discussions, the slogans, and all have become our second nature. Our behavior has become predictable. Denounce the enemy. Do that for sure. Quote the heroes. Separate friends and foes. Pick a leader and adore him with super human abilities. Protect him against any and all faults. Label all those who question the course of the struggle anti-Oromo. Give them different names. At every occasion sing praises of your leaders and denounce those traitors. Today’s heroes become tomorrow’s traitors and the songs and dances continue predictably. It was when we were in this cult like habit of mindless celebrations that I found myself on the steps out of step.

What was I doing? Why was I there? How did I get there? Was I still dancing and celebrating? Was I an observer? Was I a traitor? Was I a sympathizer? The answers eluded me. They still do. Perhaps I was all that and more. Perhaps it was just a dream like everything else. However it happened, here I was, watching this euphoric dance from the sideline.

As I stood cheering, or jeering, for that is all you could do from the sidelines, my mind started analyzing the situation. We have been at this for a long time. We did this way back before the first change came about. We continued through the second change and we are approaching the third change fast. I am talking about big changes, and there have been numerous little changes too. I looked at the energy and the commitment. I felt the loss of energy and resources, both human and material, without any meaningful gains. I could tell my conclusions could be argued from the outset. I felt sad nonetheless. Tears filled my eyes. And I was clapping at an irregular pace when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a man; I thought it was, so I would call him a wise man. I could swear he was my grandfather if I was not sure my grandfather passed away more than three decades ago.

"Don’t worry son, everything will be alright." He whispered in my ear.

"All this work," I whimpered, "all these years, and no end in sight."

"Might as well," he retorted with a smile.

I was alarmed by his remarks even though I was sure he was with us. "What do you mean," I asked, "how much longer can the Oromo languish in bondage?"

"You have been calling for free Oromia," he started, "but you are using instruments that will put Oromia in a different type of bondage, you would have been disappointed just the same."

"With all due respect," I responded, "Oromia is either free, in the hands of the Oromo, or in bondage, in the hands of the colonizer."

He put his hand on my head and shook me lovingly. He stared at me for a while and said, " Well said son, well said." "But," he continued, "you are loosing sight of what the Oromo need to be in charge of their own affairs."

"I don’t understand," I said with puzzlement in my eye. "We are calling for freedom, we are following the leads of all those who freed their people."

"It is one thing," he said "to follow their leads, and quite another to copy them." "Oromia is different, facing a different situation at a different time. It has its own history and culture to call on, its own roots to draw strength from. Feed it from its own roots, not from the branches and leaves of others. I mean no disrespect for those others, son, but believe me, your own roots will sustain you better."

"Didn’t we resurrect the Gada System?" I asked piously. "Didn’t we bring back Oromo history? Didn’t we write songs and plays in praise of Oromo culture? If this isn’t feeding off of your roots then what is?"

He stood there facing me. His piercing eyes intensely focused right on my inquiring eyes. At first I thought he was looking right through me. Then it felt like he was turning the pages and studying what’s inside of me, what’s on my mind. There must have not been that much there to read because he soon started to speak. He spoke in a calm and caring way as if he had pity on me.

"It was not all for nothing son," he said, "you did what you had to do and these things must be done. You have to learn about the Gada System. You have to reconstruct your history and have occasions for cultural celebrations as well. But you must understand that you could do these things under a less threatened and more benevolent colonizer without gaining an ounce of freedom. You have to live your culture. Gada system must inform not only your intellect but also your daily practice. Your history must be a reminder of what had happened in the past as well as an informant of what could and must happen in the future. Your enemy will not allow this. The instrument you use to free yourselves must be consistent with one you would use to manage free Oromia. Otherwise you’ll end up with an illusion of free Oromia while in fact you remain a willing colonial subject. I thought I’d tell you this much."

I looked down to formulate a smart response to this and ask for some more clarification. Then I looked up and confronted him with this ready-made excuse. A fall back of sorts. One I have seen often used and used effectively.

"Our leaders," I said, "they’ve been short sighted. They lacked qualities. Their strategies are not correct. The enemy influences them. They are corrupt. They don’t practice what they preach. When the right leader comes along we will have all that you said."

"You are it, kid," he said with a grin in his eyes, "you are the leader."

"But how can I lead? Who will listen to me, you know how these people are? And besides, what do I know?" I pleaded.

"You," he said, "you lead you. You listen to you. You follow you. Reason, not person, must guide you. You see yourself with, not in front of, or behind your compatriots. There are no packaged leaders any more than there are packaged freedoms. Leaders emerge out of the heat of struggle. They shape the course of the struggle even as they are continuously formed and shaped by the very struggle they aspire to lead. And you cannot wait for such leaders. You will see them when the time comes."

That was a head full. I was not ready for that. I scratched my head. I bit my lips. I tapped my foot. I shook my shoulders. Inside my head, flickers of light went on and off in a random rapid fire. In short, I was confused. I wasn’t sure how long I was in this daze of unconscious confusion before I became aware that the wise man, the cause of my current torment, has mercifully disappeared.

I felt a little dizzy. I started to sweat. My heart started to thump at a faster pace. I was angry, hungry, and tired. I lied down to sleep. The pounding of my heart kept me up. My struggle to catch some sleep kept my heart working harder. And my head started a conversation, the kind of conversation I often have with myself. What was all that about? Did he say that it’s a good thing we don’t have our freedom yet? We are not ready yet; we must learn to feed from the roots of our culture? What was all that about?

Then I started thinking about our neighbors - the independent countries of Africa who were once colonies. How are they doing now? Independent once and twice dependent. They have independently incompetent and inefficient leaders with economies in shambles, rampant health problems, brutal repressions of civil and political rights, savage civil wars, and sham elections that produce presidents for life. These are the fruits of liberation that we see, or may be, the price still being paid. They’ve thrown off the physical body of the colonizer, but are subdued by the colonial system they inherited. How different will Oromia be when it becomes free? That is perhaps what he meant when he said "You could do these things under a less threatened and more tolerant colonizer without gaining an ounce of freedom." I know for sure I don’t want free Oromia to be that kind. But how are we to proceed? What is an appropriate strategy to avoid repeating their mistakes? What else did he say? Serious questions, and a serious debate went on in my head. I was feeling hot.

Lightening flashes crisscrossed in front of me. Thunders roared from near and far. I felt the earth shake from under my feet. The war is on. It’s an emergency. The debate is over. This is the Armageddon - the last battle that decides all things. It matters not now where you were born and what religion you prescribe to. One is all and all is one. You save yourself and you save your children. You save your children and you save your neighbors. You save your neighbors and you save your people. You save your people and you rescue freedom. I armed myself fully and proceeded to do my very best and nothing less.

Oceans boiled as mountains and rocks turned into a fiery stew. As fires raged over the forests and meadows I saw flames shoot up to catch the heavens as if to force them join this dance of purity – or may be it was hands reaching up pleading for mercy in the form of a drop rain. The earth looked like a giant ball of red-hot ash that changed its shape as the multidirectional gush of winds came and sheered it forming and moving dunes in random succession. These happenings were fast and furious. It was so dreadful I was calm.

A flaming image emerged out of nowhere and started coming toward me. As it got closer I could tell it was a person. When the figure stopped it was still too far for me to tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. The person stood there with both arms raised. In one hand was a golden book, a book of wisdom. In the other a golden rod, a rod of justice. It was a magnificent sight.

"This is what we fought for." said a clear voice, "This is what we fought for, for so long. This is what we have won. In this book you’ll find all the knowledge and wisdom to sustain you. In this rod you’ll find all the justice you deserve. You and your children and all your descendants to come shall cherish the book and the rod. Out of these ashes shall rise a prosperous Oromia and you shall be its faithful stewards. Go forth therefore, and find your region. You’ll find it free of its previous afflictions, jealousy and arrogance. Find your religion too. You’ll find it free of its habitual ills, hatred and vacuous piety."

This, my friends, is not a dream, for I am not known for my dreams. It is not a vision either, for my vision is far from perfect. This is what I saw looking in through that obscure window of willful submission to all that is possible.