Remembering the Ebli 15 Martyrs of the Shinnigga Pit

(SHINNIGGA, Ethiopia) – In the chronicles of a people’s struggle for freedom, certain dates become etched not in ink, but in bone. For the Oromo people, one such date is **Ebli 15, 1980** (roughly late April in the Gregorian calendar). On that single, terrible day, the soil of Shinnigga drank a blood cocktail of revolutionary courage, religious tolerance, and unbreakable unity.

This is not merely a story of death. It is a story of how ten men—commanders and fighters of the Oromo liberation struggle—faced a common grave and refused to let their faith divide them.

They were the sons of *Oromiyaa hadhaa dhiigaa fi lafee isaaniin ijaaran*—Oromia built by their blood and bones. They were warriors of the *Adda Bilisummaa Oromoo* (Oromo Liberation Front), leaders who had carried the weight of the struggle during its darkest hours. Among them were legendary figures like Hayyuu-Duree Jaal Magarsaa Barii (Barisoo Waabee) and his deputy, Itti Aanaa Jaal Gadaa Gammadaa (Damisee Tacaanee).

But when the end came, they were not just commanders. They were brothers.

The Trap at Shinnigga

By 1980, the Oromo liberation army had become a thorn in the side of the Derg regime. The fighters, seasoned by the harsh terrains of Waabe and the strategic depth of the *Dirree Qabsoo Hidhannoo*, were pushing toward a new phase of the armed struggle. But war is also a game of betrayal.

While on a critical mission, a group of ten key figures—including the intellectual giants and tactical minds of the movement—were ambushed. Somali *Shifta* militia, operating as proxies for the regime, surrounded them near the rugged lowlands of Shinnigga. Outnumbered and cut off from reinforcements, the Oromo fighters fought to their last bullet.

They were not killed in the heat of battle.

They were captured alive.

The Pit

The militia dug a single, wide pit. It was not a grave for an individual. It was a mass tomb designed to swallow an ideology. The ten prisoners were forced to kneel at its edge. Their hands were bound. Their clothes were torn and stained with the dust of a long march.

According to survivors’ accounts passed down through the Oromo oral tradition, the *Shifta* executioners tried one final trick. They separated the prisoners by their names—some Muslim, some Christian, some following the *Waaqeffannaa* tradition of their ancestors.

“You see,” a commander allegedly said to the prisoners in a low, mocking voice. “You fought together. But you will die apart. Let each man pray to his own god before we throw him in.”

The executioners expected fear. They expected a scramble for last rites—a final, petty division to prove that the Oromo cause was a fragile lie.

They were wrong.

‘We Are One Name’

Jaal Magarsaa Barii, the senior commander, looked at his men. There was Jaal Abbaa Xiiqii (Abboomaa Mitikku), the strategist. Jaal Doorii Barii (Yiggazuu Bantii), the fearless cavalry leader. Jaal Faafam Dooyyoo, whose voice had rallied thousands. Falmataa (Umar/Caccabsaa), whose faith was as steadfast as his rifle. Jaal Irra’anaa Qacalee (Dhinsaa), Jaal Dhaddachoo Boruu, Jaal Dhaddachoo Mul’ataa, and the youngest, Jaal Marii Galaan.

Ten men. Ten names. One nation.

Without a word, they stood up. Jaal Magarsaa did not ask for a Christian priest. Jaal Gadaa did not ask for a *sheikh*. Falmataa did not turn his back on the others. Instead, they linked their arms—bound as they were—and stepped forward together.

“*Maqaa amantaan gargar hin baanu*,” Jaal Magarsaa declared. “We do not divide names by religion. Dig the pit wider or throw us in together. We are Oromo first.”

According to legend, Jaal Gadaa Gammadaa, the deputy, turned to the executioner and smiled. “You want to see us pray? Watch this.”

And together, the ten men—Muslim, Christian, and Waaqeffataa—intoned a single prayer. Not to Mecca. Not to the Cross. But to *Waaqa Oromoo*, the God of their land, who had seen their mothers’ tears and their fathers’ bones scattered across the highlands.

The executioners, unnerved, shoved them into the pit.

They fell as one. They died as one.

The Legacy of Ebli 15

Forty-six years have passed. The Shinnigga pit has long since been covered, but no grass grows there without a story attached. In Oromia today, the names of those ten men are whispered in schools, sung in protest songs, and invoked in political meetings.

They are called the *Ebli 15 Wareegamtoota*—the martyrs of Ebli 15.

They did not die for a flag or a single faith. They died for an idea: that an Oromo is an Oromo, whether they pray in a church, a mosque, under a tree, or in silence.

Jaal Marii Galaan, the youngest of the ten, was just 19 years old. Before he was pushed into the pit, he reportedly looked at the sky—the wide, unforgiving sky of Shinnigga—and shouted:

“*Oromiyaan hin duutu!* Oromia will not die!”

It hasn’t. And every Ebli 15, when the Oromo people gather to remember, they do not mourn ten separate men. They mourn one collective heart that beat for freedom until the dirt filled their mouths.

And in that final, defiant act of unity, they won a victory the pit could never bury.