“Yeroo namoota si humneessan, jajjabeessanii fi deeggaraniin marfamtu, akka milkooftu shakkiin hin jiru.”

“When you are surrounded by people who empower you, encourage you, and support you, there is no doubt that you will succeed.”

—

By Dhabessa Wakjira*

The Circle of Success: Why No One Rises Alone

There is a quiet truth that survivors know, that athletes whisper before championships, that artists carry into their studios, and that revolutionaries feel in the dark hours before dawn: success is never a solitary act.

The Oromo people, with their deep wisdom of community, have long understood this. Their proverb rings like a bell across generations: “Yeroo namoota si humneessan, jajjabeessanii fi deeggaraniin marfamtu, akka milkooftu shakkiin hin jiru.”

When you are surrounded by people who empower you, encourage you, and support you, your success is not a matter of hope. It is a matter of certainty.

This feature story explores the anatomy of that circle—what it means to be empowered, what it looks like to be encouraged, and why support is not a luxury but a necessity for any human being daring to achieve something meaningful.

The Three Pillars of the Circle

The proverb names three distinct gifts that others bestow upon us. They are not the same. And each is indispensable.

Humneessan: Those Who Empower You

To empower is not merely to praise. It is to provide the tools, the resources, the access, and the authority that a person needs to act. Empowerment says, “I believe in you—and here is what you need to prove me right.”

Think of the mother who sells her last chicken to buy a notebook for her daughter. Think of the teacher who stays after school to explain a difficult lesson for the third time. Think of the community that pools its meager savings to send one promising student to university. These are acts of empowerment. They are not abstract. They are hands reaching down to lift another up.

Jajjabeessan: Those Who Encourage You

Encouragement is the oxygen of the human spirit. It costs nothing materially, yet it is often the rarest gift of all. The encourager says, “You are not alone. You are not wrong to try. You are not foolish to dream.”

In the long journey of any struggle—whether against political oppression, personal trauma, or professional failure—there are moments when the only thing keeping a person moving forward is a voice saying, “You can do this. I have seen you do hard things before. You will see the other side.”

The Oromo struggle, like all liberation movements, has been sustained not only by weapons and strategies but by songs, by poems, by whispered words of encouragement passed from cell to cell, from village to village, from mother to child.

Deeggaraniin: Those Who Support You

Support is the scaffolding. It is not flashy. It does not seek recognition. But without it, the entire structure collapses. Supporters show up. They cook meals when you are too exhausted to cook. They watch your children when you must attend a meeting. They contribute money when your resources run dry. They defend your name when you are not in the room to defend yourself.

Support is the quiet architecture of every successful life. And it is almost always invisible to the outside world.

The Myth of the Self-Made Person

Western culture, in particular, has elevated the myth of the “self-made” individual—the lone genius, the solitary warrior, the entrepreneur who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. It is a seductive story. It is also a lie.

No one is self-made. Every successful person stands on a foundation laid by others. Every champion was once a beginner who was coached. Every leader was once a follower who was mentored. Every revolutionary was once a child who was fed, protected, and taught to dream.

The Oromo proverb cuts through this myth with the precision of a blade. It does not say “if you are strong, you will succeed.” It does not say “if you work hard enough, you will succeed.” It says: when you are *surrounded*—by empowerers, encouragers, and supporters—success is inevitable.

The focus is not on the individual. The focus is on the circle.

What Happens in the Absence of the Circle

To understand the power of the circle, one must also understand the devastation of its absence.

What happens to a child who is never empowered? They grow into an adult who does not believe they have the right to act, to speak, to claim space.

What happens to a person who is never encouraged? They become paralyzed by self-doubt, convinced that their efforts are worthless, that their dreams are ridiculous, that failure is the only possible outcome.

What happens to a community that receives no support? It fragments. It turns inward. It cannibalizes its own hope.

The absence of the circle is not merely disappointment. It is a form of slow death. It is the death of potential, the death of possibility, the death of the future.

This is why oppression is so effective. Oppressive systems do not merely take away resources. They isolate. They silence. They ensure that the empowered, the encouraged, and the supportive are removed from your side. They leave you alone—because a person alone is a person easily defeated.

The Circle in the Oromo Struggle

The history of the Oromo people is a history of circles. Under successive regimes that sought to divide, conquer, and erase, the Oromo have survived precisely because they have refused to let each other stand alone.

Think of the Gadaa system—an indigenous democracy built not on individual ambition but on collective responsibility. The Gadaa circle rotates power, shares knowledge, and ensures that no leader governs without the counsel of elders, the wisdom of the Qaalluu, and the consent of the assembly.

Think of the Siinqee institution—women gathering under the sacred staff to demand justice, to halt conflicts, to protect the vulnerable. That is a circle of empowerment, encouragement, and support.

Think of the afooshaa (burial societies) and buusaa gonofaa (savings rotations)—grassroots institutions where ordinary people pool their meager resources to ensure that no family faces death or poverty alone.

These are not charities. These are circles of survival. And they have kept the Oromo people alive through conquest, through famine, through imprisonment, and through exile.

The Modern Circle: Rebuilding What Was Broken

In the contemporary world, the forces that break circles have only grown stronger. Urbanization scatters families. Economic pressure forces migration. Social media creates the illusion of connection while eroding the substance of community.

Many Oromo today find themselves far from the villages of their ancestors, far from the elders who carry the oral histories, far from the physical presence of those who speak their language and share their struggles. The circle has been stretched thin.

But the proverb does not despair. It insists on a truth that cannot be broken: when the circle is present, success is certain. The task, then, is to rebuild the circle. To find new forms of empowerment, new voices of encouragement, new structures of support.

This is happening. In diaspora communities across the globe, Oromos are gathering in living rooms, in community centres, in virtual meeting spaces. They are teaching their children the language that was once forbidden. They are creating media, art, and scholarship that centre Oromo experience. They are sending money home, advocating for justice abroad, and refusing to let distance destroy the bonds of mutual care.

What the Circle Asks of You

If the proverb describes the conditions for success, it also implies a responsibility. To be surrounded by empowering, encouraging, supportive people, you must also be willing to be that person for others.

You cannot demand a circle that you are unwilling to join.

The circle asks: Whom have you empowered today? To whom have you spoken words of encouragement? Whose burdens have you lightened through your quiet, unglamorous support?

Success is not a trophy you receive. It is a current that flows through a network of relationships. You are either part of that current—receiving and giving—or you are standing outside, wondering why the water never reaches you.

Stories from the Circle

Consider the young Oromo woman who wanted to become a doctor. Her family had no money. Her village had no clinic. But her mother empowered her by selling the family’s only cow. Her teacher encouraged her by staying late to tutor her in science. Her community supported her by raising funds for her university application. Today, she is a physician. She did not succeed alone. She succeeded because a circle held her.

Consider the political prisoner who spent seven years in a dark cell. He was tortured. He was isolated. But he later said that the reason he survived was the letters—smuggled, infrequent, but relentless—from his wife. She empowered him by reminding him of his worth. She encouraged him by describing the future they would build together. She supported him by keeping the children alive on the outside. His survival was not his alone. It was hers, too.

Consider the artist whose work was ridiculed by critics. She nearly gave up. But a friend—just one friend—said, “This is important. Do not stop.” That friend spent months helping her find galleries, connecting her with other artists, sitting with her through rejection after rejection. Today, that artist’s work hangs in museums. The friend’s name appears nowhere. But the friend was the circle.

The Certainty of Success

The proverb ends with a bold claim: *shakkiin hin jiru* — there is no doubt.

This is not the language of wishful thinking. It is the language of empirical observation. The proverb is not saying “if you have a circle, you might succeed.” It is saying “if you have a circle, you will succeed.”

Why such certainty? Because human beings are not islands. We are not designed to achieve alone. When the conditions of empowerment, encouragement, and support are present, failure becomes nearly impossible. Not because the path is easy—it never is—but because the circle absorbs the blows that would otherwise destroy the individual.

When you stumble, the circle catches you. When you despair, the circle lifts you. When you are attacked, the circle defends you. With such a structure around you, how could you not eventually reach your goal?

Conclusion: Building the Circle, Securing the Future

The Oromo people are engaged in a long struggle for recognition, justice, and self-determination. There will be setbacks. There will be betrayals. There will be moments when the darkness seems absolute.

But the proverb offers a strategy and a promise.

The strategy: surround yourself—and surround each other—with empowerment, encouragement, and support. Build the institutions that sustain the circle. Be the person who empowers, encourages, and supports, even when you are tired, even when you have received nothing in return.

The promise: when that circle is in place, success is not a question of *if*. It is only a question of *when*.

*Yeroo namoota si humneessan, jajjabeessanii fi deeggaraniin marfamtu, akka milkooftu shakkiin hin jiru.*

When you are surrounded by people who empower you, encourage you, and support you, there is no doubt that you will succeed.

Let the circle hold. And let the success come.

—

No one rises alone. But when we rise together, no power on earth can keep us down.

*Dhabessa Wakjira is a journalist, social worker, community worker, and interpreter who writes commentary, features, analysis, and reflections on issues that build and empower the Oromo people and their affairs. Dhabessa Wakjira can be reached at dabessa@socialworker.net

By Dhabessa Wakjira* (based on a reflection by Najat Sakaye Hamza)

“My life is about standing for my dreams even if it means standing alone sometimes.”

—

There is a photograph that Najat Sakaye Hamza keeps on her phone, not as a screensaver but as a secret talisman. In it, she is young—perhaps nineteen—sitting on a worn suitcase in a bus station somewhere between Oromia and the unknown. Her face is tired. Her eyes are not. She is leaving something behind, though she is not yet sure what she is walking toward.

Years later, she would find the words to describe that moment. “My life,” she would write, “is about standing for my dreams even if it means standing alone sometimes.”

Najat Sakaye Hamza is not a politician. She is not a general or a public intellectual in the traditional sense. She is, by her own definition, a woman who decided that the cost of kneeling was higher than the risk of standing. And in that decision, she has become something quietly revolutionary: an example.

This is her story—not of power, but of persistence. Not of armies, but of a single voice that refused to be absorbed into the noise.

—

The Education of a Dreamer

Born into an Oromo family that valued resilience over complaint, Najat learned early that dreams require rent. They do not live in the mind for free. They demand time, sacrifice, and the ability to endure the puzzled looks of those who cannot see what you see.

She was a curious child in a world that often punished curiosity in girls. She asked questions that made elders uncomfortable. She wanted to study when marriage was the expected path. She wanted to speak when silence was the safer option. And so, early on, she learned to stand alone.

“Representing who I am everywhere I am and in any situation,” she would later reflect, “is my quiet protest and my pride.”

That quiet protest took many forms. In classrooms where her language was dismissed, she learned two more. In workplaces where her identity was questioned, she performed her duties with an excellence that left no room for debate. In social settings where Oromo women were expected to be seen and not heard, she spoke—not loudly, but clearly.

The Loneliness of the Standing Woman

There were years when standing alone felt less like courage and more like punishment. Friends drifted away, unable to understand why she could not simply “fit in.” Relatives suggested she was too proud, too political, too difficult. There were nights, she has admitted privately, when she wondered if they were right.

But she kept standing. Not because it was easy, but because the alternative—sitting down, blending in, disappearing—was a kind of death she refused to accept.

She found sustenance in her faith. Alhamdullilah, she would whisper. Thank God for this moment, for this day. Gratitude became her anchor. Not gratitude for the struggle itself—that would be romantic nonsense—but gratitude for the fact that she was still upright, still breathing, still capable of taking the next step.

And then, the steps began to lead somewhere.

A Family That Stands Together

The photograph on her phone now is different. In the newer image, Najat is not alone. She is holding a baby—her daughter, Seran—and beside her stands her husband, Sabsib. There is a softness in this picture that the bus-station photo lacks. The tired eyes have been replaced by something warmer: not rest, but purpose.

“I get to share this moment with my baby, Seran, and my amazing husband Sabsib,” she wrote. The word amazing is not casual. It is the recognition that finding a partner who does not ask you to shrink is a miracle as profound as any in scripture.

Sabsib, by all accounts, is a man who never asked Najat to be smaller. He met her when she was already standing, and he chose to stand beside her rather than in front of her. Together, they have built a home where Seran is being raised to know that her mother’s quiet protests are not embarrassments but inheritances.

The Work Behind the Dream

Najat is careful to demystify her own journey. She has no patience for the myth of the self-made dreamer who simply wished upon a star.

“Dream realization belongs to those who work to achieve it,” she insists.

The work was unglamorous. Early mornings. Late nights. Jobs that had nothing to do with her passions but paid for the rent while she pursued her passions on the side. Rejection letters. Doors that closed. People who said “no” so many times that the word lost its sting.

But she kept working. And eventually, the work began to answer back.

She found platforms to speak about the Oromo experience, about the specific weight that Oromo women carry, about the need for community and also for the courage to stand outside the community when the community is wrong. She wrote. She organized. She showed up to meetings where she was the only Oromo face in the room—and spoke anyway.

Quiet Protest as a Way of Life

There is a phrase in the Oromo language: of-beekuu—to know oneself. Najat Sakaye Hamza has made of-beekuu her compass. To represent who she is, everywhere she is, regardless of the situation, requires a deep and unshakable self-knowledge. It requires knowing what you believe before the test arrives.

That is her quiet protest. Not shouting from a rooftop (though she has done that too, when necessary). But living, daily, as a visible, proud, unapologetic Oromo woman who happens to also be a mother, a wife, a professional, and a believer.

“Pride,” she says, “is not the opposite of humility. Pride is knowing that your existence has value, and refusing to act as if it doesn’t.”

The Moment She Is Living Now

On the day she shared her reflection, Najat was not marking a major public victory. There was no award ceremony, no signed legislation, no standing ovation. She was simply pausing—with her baby in her arms and her husband nearby—to say Alhamdullilah. Thank God for this moment. Thank God for this day.

It is a radical act, in a world that demands constant striving, to stop and give thanks. To acknowledge that the dream is not only in the future but also in the present—in the weight of a child, the steadiness of a partner, the simple fact of still being here, still standing.

The Legacy of the Standing Woman

Najat Sakaye Hamza is not famous. You will not find her name in the headlines of major newspapers, nor her face on the covers of magazines. She is, in the best sense, ordinary—an ordinary woman who decided that ordinary was not the same as invisible.

And that is precisely why her story matters. Because most of us will never be revolutionaries with monuments. Most of us will never speak before the United Nations. Most of us will struggle, in quiet and unglamorous ways, to hold onto our dreams in the face of pressure to let them go.

Najat’s life is a letter to those people. It says: Stand. Even if you stand alone. Even if no one applauds. Even if the only witness to your standing is God and the child sleeping in the next room.

And then, when the moment comes, stop standing long enough to say thank you.

Epilogue: The Unfinished Sentence

At the end of her reflection, Najat does not declare victory. She does not announce the completion of her dreams. She simply shares the moment—a moment that contains her daughter, her husband, her faith, and her own still-standing self.

The sentence is not finished, because her life is not finished. There will be more lonely days. More quiet protests. More mornings when the dream feels distant and the work feels endless.

But there will also be more Alhamdullilahs. More moments of sharing. More proof that standing for your dreams, even alone, eventually brings others to stand with you.

Najat Sakaye Hamza is still standing. Her daughter, Seran, is learning to stand. And somewhere, in a bus station or a boardroom or a quiet living room, someone who reads her words will decide to stand too.

That is not a small thing. That is everything.

—

Alhamdullilah for this moment. For this day. For the women who stand alone and discover they were never truly alone.

*Dhabessa Wakjira is a journalist, social worker, community worker, and interpreter who writes commentary, features, analysis, and reflections on issues that build and empower the Oromo people and their affairs. Dhabessa Wakjira can be reached at dabessa@socialworker.net