By Hayyuu Oromia

London, UK – Feature Article

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It was a cold, grey morning in central London when the first voices began to rise. By noon, the streets around the Ethiopian Embassy had become a river of red, green, and red – the colours of the Oromo flag – flowing with a quiet but unshakable resolve. Men, women, and children, many wrapped in traditional scarves against the March chill, stood shoulder to shoulder. Some carried photographs of faces they would never see again. Others held placards that declared, in bold letters, “Stop the Killings in Oromia” and “Justice for the Voiceless.”

The date was 30th March 2026. For the thousands who gathered, it was not just another protest. It was a hiriiraa– a gathering – that they called “Seena Qabeessa Sagalee Dhabeessa Taasifame”: a historic assembly that gives voice to those who have been silenced.

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A Gathering Born of Grief

Every protest has a backstory, but the one that unfolded on the streets of London this past Monday was carved from grief too heavy for silence. The demonstrators, members of the Oromo diaspora from across the United Kingdom, had come to demand that the world finally pay attention to what they describe as a relentless wave of atrocities against the Oromo people in Ethiopia’s Oromia region.

“We are not here because we want to be,” said Firaol T., a 34-year-old software engineer who travelled from Manchester with his two young daughters. “We are here because our families back home are living in fear. My cousin was killed last month – shot at a checkpoint simply because he was Oromo. I cannot sit in comfort here while my people are being buried in mass graves.”

Firaol’s words were echoed by dozens of speakers who addressed the crowd through a portable sound system set up on the pavement. The speeches were delivered in Afaan Oromo, Amharic, and English – a multilingual testimony to a diaspora that spans generations and geographies but remains bound by a shared anguish.

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‘They Want to Erase Us’

Protesters carried banners listing the names of towns and villages in Oromia that have become shorthand for suffering: Wollega, Guji, Shashamane, Walliso. Many held portraits of Hachalu Hundessa, the iconic Oromo singer and activist whose assassination in 2020 ignited the largest protests Ethiopia had seen in decades. Hachalu’s face was everywhere – on placards, on T‑shirts, even painted on a large cloth banner that hung from the embassy gates. For many in the crowd, his death was the beginning of a darker chapter that has yet to close.

“Hachalu sang for our freedom,” said Marta D., a university lecturer from London. “They killed him because they feared the power of our voice. But here we are, five years later, still speaking, still demanding justice. They cannot kill us all.”

The demonstrators accused the Ethiopian federal government, under Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, of orchestrating a systematic campaign of extrajudicial killings, mass displacement, and ethnic cleansing against the Oromo. They pointed to reports from international human rights organisations documenting widespread violence in the Oromia region, including the use of drones and heavy artillery against civilian areas.

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The Unseen Crisis

While the world’s attention has often been drawn to Ethiopia’s internal conflicts in Tigray and Amhara, the Oromo – the country’s largest ethnic group – say their suffering has been rendered invisible. “There is a media blackout on Oromia,” said Bontu B., one of the protest organisers. “When Oromos are killed, it does not make the headlines. That is why we are here – to force the world to see.”

The protesters carried a petition addressed to the UK Foreign Office, demanding an immediate halt to all British military and financial support to the Ethiopian government. They also called for the International Criminal Court to investigate what they term “crimes against humanity” perpetrated by Ethiopian security forces and allied militias.

“The UK government continues to fund a regime that is bombing our villages,” Bontu added. “Every pound that goes to Addis Ababa is a pound that buys bullets aimed at Oromo children. That must stop. Today.”

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A Diaspora Unmuted

What made the 30th March gathering particularly striking was the range of participants. Young British-born Oromos, many of whom have never set foot in Ethiopia, stood alongside elders who fled political persecution in the 1980s and 1990s. There were mothers pushing prams, university students in graduation gowns as a symbol of the future they fear is being stolen, and even a small contingent of non-Oromo Ethiopians who had come in solidarity.

“I am Amhara, and I am here because the suffering in our country is not ethnic – it is political,” said Elias M., a London-based architect holding a sign that read “Ethiopia Needs Peace, Not War.” “The government has turned our nation into a graveyard. We must all say: enough.”

The atmosphere was sombre but disciplined. Police officers stood at a distance, observing the largely peaceful crowd. Only once did tensions rise, when a small group of counter-protesters tried to approach the embassy gates, but they were quickly separated by officers and absorbed back into the flow of London traffic.

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‘A Day That Will Be Remembered’

As afternoon turned to early evening, the crowd began a slow, silent march towards Trafalgar Square. There was no music, no drumming – only the soft thud of footsteps and the occasional whispered prayer. At the square, they formed a circle, and for one full minute, they stood in complete silence. Then, as if on cue, a single voice rose: “Oromoo, dagaagaa!” – “Oromo, rise up!” The chant was taken up by hundreds, then thousands, until the square echoed with a roar that seemed to shake the stone lions at its base.

Organisers later described the gathering as the largest Oromo diaspora protest in London in recent years. “This is a turning point,” said Lammi G., a community elder who has lived in the UK since 1992. “For too long, our people have been told to be quiet, to wait, to hope that things will improve. But 30th March 2026 will be remembered as the day we said: we will wait no longer.”

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The Weight of Absence

Amid the chants and the flags, there were also moments of intimate grief. Near the embassy gates, a small shrine had been set up: a row of framed photographs, each one showing a young Oromo man or woman. Beside each photo was a lit candle and a handwritten name. Gammachiis. Faayyisaa. Roobee. Caalaa. The names spanned the years 2020 to 2026 – a timeline of unending loss.

A young woman knelt in front of one photo, her forehead touching the pavement. When she stood up, her face was wet with tears. “My brother,” she said softly, gesturing to the picture. “He was a student. They killed him in 2023. I promised him I would never stop speaking his name.”

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A Long Road Ahead

As dusk settled over London and the protesters began to disperse, there was a sense that this was not an ending but a beginning. Organisers announced plans for a follow-up rally outside the Houses of Parliament, and for a sustained campaign targeting Ethiopian diplomatic missions across Europe.

“We will not be satisfied with one day of speeches and signs,” said Bontu. “We are building a movement. The voices of the dead demand it.”

Before leaving Trafalgar Square, many of the protesters turned one last time to face the National Gallery – a monument to British history. They raised the Oromo flag high, and someone began to sing an old Oromo freedom song. The melody was haunting, carried on the cold London air, a reminder that even far from the hills of Oromia, the struggle for justice continues.

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In the days that followed, the images from 30th March would circulate across social media, shared under the hashtag #OromiaRising. For the thousands who had gathered, however, the memory was already etched not in pixels, but in the cold ache of their hands from holding signs, the rasp of their throats from chanting, and the quiet, stubborn hope that somewhere, someone was finally listening.

Because on that day, in the heart of London, the voiceless were given a voice – and they made sure it was heard.