Author Archives: advocacy4oromia
When Home Doesn’t Feel Like Home: The Quiet Struggle of Multicultural Seniors
For many older Australians from multicultural backgrounds, the decision to seek aged care isn’t about pride—it’s about feeling understood.
Elena* came to Australia from Greece in the 1960s. Now in her eighties, she lives alone in the Melbourne suburb where she raised her children. Her daughter Maria visits weekly, bringing groceries and checking that her mother has taken her medication. Lately, Maria has noticed changes—a forgotten appointment, a bruise from a fall that Elena dismisses as nothing.
When Maria suggested aged care support, Elena’s response was immediate: “I don’t need strangers coming into my home.”
It’s a familiar story. Many older Australians from multicultural backgrounds don’t access aged care support—not because it isn’t available, but because it doesn’t feel made for them. The system can seem foreign, the forms overwhelming, and the idea of a stranger providing personal care feels deeply uncomfortable when culture dictates that family should be the ones to help.
A Gradual Shift Families Struggle to Name
Families supporting older loved ones often describe the same experience: a gradual shift they weren’t sure how to name. A parent becoming more forgetful. A decline in mobility that makes stairs dangerous. A growing isolation as friends move away or pass on.
“For a long time, we just thought Mum was getting older,” says Maria. “It was only when the doctor pointed out the signs that we realised she needed more help than we could give her.”
But even then, the question remained: where to start?
The Support at Home Program: Meeting People Before Things Become Urgent
The Australian Government’s Support at Home program is designed to meet people at that moment—before things become urgent. Launched on 1 November 2025 as part of the new Aged Care Act 2024, the program replaces the former Home Care Package program with a simplified system that makes it easier for older Australians to get help to live safely and independently at home .
Support can include:
- Personal care such as showering, dressing, and grooming
- Domestic assistance including cleaning, laundry, and gardening
- Transport to shopping, banking, and medical appointments
- Allied health services like physiotherapy and podiatry
- Assistive technology and home modifications for safer living
- Social support to reduce isolation and maintain community connections
But for multicultural communities, accessing these services often means navigating more than just paperwork—it means finding someone who speaks their language and respects their culture.
The AMCS Difference: Care That Feels Like Home
This is where the Australian Multicultural Community Services (AMCS) steps in. For over 40 years, AMCS has been providing culturally appropriate care to seniors from diverse backgrounds across Melbourne and Geelong .
Founded in 1983 as the Australian Polish Community Services by visionary leaders who saw an urgent need for support services, the organisation has evolved significantly . It changed its name to Australian Multicultural Community Services in 2009, extending its reach to all multicultural communities .
Today, AMCS employs staff from more than 50 countries of origin who speak over 45 languages . This linguistic and cultural diversity is not incidental—it’s fundamental to how they deliver care.
“As a multicultural organisation, we understand that culture is more than just the language we speak,” says Maryanne Tadic, CEO of AMCS. “It’s in our rituals, our gestures, our celebrations, our food and shared experiences” .
Finding the Words: Breaking Down Language Barriers
For many families, the first barrier is language. Government resources like My Aged Care are available, but navigating the system can be daunting, especially when English isn’t your first language .
AMCS helps bridge this gap. Their staff guide families through the process from start to finish—identifying needs, understanding assessments, and making referrals . As one client shared:
“Amazing support for my mother and myself as a carer. With the help of the program, we were able to access the support we required, and we were not even aware that it was available. It really made a difference to us.”
More Than Just Services: Building Community
Beyond practical support, AMCS also addresses a less visible but equally important need: social connection.
Through group social support programs, community outings, and cultural celebrations, seniors have the opportunity to connect with others who share their background . For many, this is as valuable as the practical care they receive.
The organisation’s new Millenium House Community Centre, a $7 million renovation of a former Polish community centre in Melbourne’s west, will serve as a multicultural hub and events venue, continuing the legacy of community connection .
For those living with dementia, AMCS also provides free Multicultural Dementia Care and Support Centres in Melbourne and Geelong, offering culturally targeted activities, peer support, and wellbeing checks .
Starting the Conversation
If you’re working with families navigating these challenges, or if you know someone who could benefit, the first step is often the hardest. But it can be as simple as a phone call.
AMCS welcomes conversations with families and community members. Their team can help identify needs, explain the Support at Home program, and connect people with services that respect their language, culture, and personal preferences.
Call (03) 9689 9170 or visit http://www.amcservices.org.au
It’s never too early to start the conversation. Because for the Elena’s of our community, home should always feel like home.
*Name changed for privacy.
This story is published in partnership with the Australian Multicultural Community Services, a not-for-profit organisation dedicated to supporting older Australians from multicultural backgrounds to live independently at home.
Maaramee Harqaa: The Voice of Resistance, The Soul of Oromia
By Zelalem Tadesse Duressa
Senior Broadcast Journalist, Nairobi, BBC Afaan Oromoo
“Fo’ii loli… goonni haa baruudu…”
(“Fight, fight… let the cowards learn…”)
When Maaramee Harqaa sang these words, she wasn’t just performing—she was summoning a people to awakening. Her voice, sharp as a blade yet tender as a mother’s embrace, cut through the silence of oppression and gave language to a generation’s longing for freedom.
The Songstress Who Became a Symbol
To the Oromo people, Maaramee Harqaa Kaasaa is not merely a singer or a teacher. She is memory incarnate—a woman whose life became inextricably woven into the fabric of Oromo resistance. Those who knew her speak of her with a reverence reserved for ancestors: “Bilisummaan tola hin dhufu” (Freedom does not come for free)—one of her most famous refrains—remains etched in the collective consciousness of a people who have long known the weight of subjugation.
But who was Maaramee Harqaa, truly?
Roots in Wallagga
Born in the late 1950s in Qeejjoo, a village in Gobbuu Sayyoo district, eastern Wallagga, Maaramee entered the world as the daughter of Harqaa Kaasaa and Geexee Baloo. She was the only daughter among five brothers—a position that might have made her soft, but instead forged in her an unyielding spirit.
From childhood, those around her recognized something extraordinary. According to Baqqalaa Warquu, author of “The History of Oromo Women Fighters,” Maaramee was “a truth-teller who could not tolerate injustice, who could not be silent in the face of wrongdoing.” She was, in every sense, faaya Oromoo—the pride and ornament of her people.
Her education began at the first-grade level in Baakkoo, continued in Amboo, and culminated at Dabra Birhaan Teachers’ Training Institute (TTI). Upon completing her training, she returned to Amboo and the surrounding Awwaaro area, where she devoted herself to teaching.
The Teacher Who Became a Revolutionary
But Maaramee was never merely a teacher. Even as she stood before her students, she was organizing, mobilizing, and awakening. During the Derg regime, she became a member of the ABO (Adeemsa Bilisummaa Oromoo—the Oromo Liberation Front’s predecessor organization). Her classroom became a site of consciousness-raising; her lessons extended beyond textbooks into the realm of political awakening.
“She was particularly active in the struggle to teach the Oromo alphabet (qubee),” writes Baqqalaa. “She called countless young women into the field of education, transforming them from passive subjects into active agents of change.”
Alongside other iconic Oromo women fighters like Ilfinash Qannoo and Angaatuu Baalchaa, Maaramee immersed herself in the cultural and political resistance of her people. Through poetry, song, and unwavering activism, she became a pillar of the movement.
Exile and Resilience
When the Oromo Liberation Front withdrew from the transitional government in 1984, pressure mounted on Maaramee. The authorities intensified their surveillance, and she was forced to flee to Finfinne (Addis Ababa). Even there, however, she found no peace—the regime continued its pursuit.
Eventually, she left formal teaching and joined the Oromo Relief Association (ORA), a humanitarian organization that allowed her to continue serving her people while navigating the treacherous political landscape.
Love and Loss
It was during her years of struggle that Maaramee met Jifaara Qarneessaa—a man described as strong, historically conscious, and deeply moved by her passion and courage. Their union produced two children: Leellisee Jifaaraa and Gammachuu Jifaaraa.
But the revolution demanded its sacrifices. After her husband’s death, Maaramee was urged by a prominent woman from a fighting family to continue the struggle—to not retreat into private grief but to channel her sorrow into the collective cause. She listened.
When asked why her people suffered—“Maaf lafasaa dhaba? Maaf namasaa dhaba? Maaf gootasaa dhaba?” (Why do they have no land? Why do they have no dignity? Why do they have no strength?)—she found her answer in the faces of her children, her students, and her people. She rose, hardened, and fought with renewed vigor.
The Poet of Resistance
Maaramee’s literary legacy is profound. She became one of the first Oromo women to write extensively in the Oromo language (qubee), composing songs not only for herself but for other artists as well. Her songwriting bore the fingerprints of a scholar, a patriot, and a mother all at once.
Among her most famous lyrical moments is this haunting stanza:
Biyyoo biyya lafaa eenyut sirratti hafaa?
Du’a biyya lafaa eenyu irraa hafaa?
(Oh earth, who will remain upon you?
Who will remain after death upon this land?)
She sang these words for her deceased husband but they echoed far beyond personal grief. They became an anthem for a dispossessed nation.
Another powerful line from her recordings reveals her defiance in the face of mortality:
“Jabaatanii dhukkubaa fi du’arraa wal hin hanbifannu,
Dabareen kiyya na gahee hanga sibira gahuttii, nagaatti…”
(Let us not abandon one another to illness and death,
My beloved, stand by me until the end, in peace…)
Gundoo Booree: A Cultural Monument
Perhaps no contribution captures Maaramee’s genius better than her work on Gundoo Booree. This traditional Oromo song, deeply embedded in the culture of the Maccaa Oromo, particularly among the sons of Jaawwii, is performed during weddings and celebrations.
The song’s lyrics—playfully provocative, filled with mock rivalry and affection—became a vehicle for Maaramee to document and preserve Oromo cultural identity:
“Fuutuu… eenyu isheen dhuftee fuutu…”
(Come… who comes to take you?)
Young women, holding enamel cups, would sing this to challenge their male counterparts, their voices dripping with both pride and mockery. The playful confrontation masked deeper cultural commentary—about dignity, about possession, about who holds power in the dance of life.
When a young man fails to properly present the traditional cup, the women sing:
“Gundoo Booree… Dhiistee galta mooree?
Gundoo dhiigaa… Gurroo dhiiraa dhiistee galta mooree?”
(Gundoo Booree… Did you leave and come back?
Gundoo of blood… Did you leave the man’s son and return?)
Maaramee elevated this cultural treasure into written form, preserving it for posterity in her book, where it stood alongside histories, political commentaries, and explorations of Oromo ethics and customs.
Discography: The Voice in Four Albums
Maaramee Harqaa released four albums during her lifetime, each a testament to her range as an artist and her depth as a thinker.
Her first album, released in 1997 E.C. (2005 G.C.) under Zeddi Music Studio, contained ten tracks, including:
- Boonaa warraa
- Fandishee Alaa’ee
- Asham Baabee
- Ishoo loli yaa durbee
- Hin booyin golloo
- Qarree durbaa baali hin haadu
- Bilisummaan tola hin dhufu (Freedom does not come free)
- Harcumme yaa looyye
- Si hin waamne yaa seesaa
- Yaa Sharrittii koo
Her second album, released in 2000 E.C. (2008 G.C.) under Kiilolee Music Studio, also featured ten tracks:
- Finfinnee
- Kuufama kee yaa garaa
- Geerarsa
- Faaruu Oromiyaa
- Ongololi
- Falmadhu addooyyee
- Yoona malee yoomiree
These songs remain alive in the hearts of Oromos across the diaspora, in refugee camps, in cities, and in the rural highlands where her voice still echoes.
The Price of Freedom
Maaramee’s life was not one of comfort. She was arrested, tortured, and forced to witness the suffering of her people firsthand. Yet she never wavered.
In 1995, after years of tireless struggle, illness finally claimed her. Surrounded by her memories and the songs she had composed, she departed this world—but not before securing her place in the eternal choir of Oromo resistance.
A Legacy Honored
In 2022, the Oromia Writers’ Association posthumously awarded Maaramee Harqaa the prestigious Gaaddisaa literary award. Though she was no longer physically present, the honor acknowledged what her people had always known:
Maaramee Harqaa was more than a singer. She was more than a teacher. She was a revolutionary, a cultural ambassador, and a mother to a nation.
The Land Remembers
Today, when Oromos gather at weddings and sing Gundoo Booree, when they murmur the lyrics of Bilisummaan tola hin dhufu, when they remember the price their ancestors paid, they are also remembering Maaramee.
Her voice—sharp with defiance, tender with love, and eternal in its call for justice—remains a compass for a people still navigating the storm toward freedom.
“Biyyoo biyya lafaa eenyut sirratti hafaa?”
Maaramee, the land remembers. The people remember. And as long as Oromo lips sing and Oromo hearts hope, your name will never fade.
Zelalem Tadesse Duressa is a Senior Broadcast Journalist based in Nairobi, BBC Afaan Oromoo, covering the Horn of Africa region.
The Lioness Queen of Africa: Reclaiming the Legacy of Aayyo Guddittii
She was called the “Lioness Queen of Africa” by the world, a figure of such power that she reshaped the political landscape of the Horn of Africa. To the Oromo people, she is known as Aayyo Guddittii Gaadi’aa—Grandmother of Wisdom, the Great Queen. To the dominant Ethiopian historical narrative, she is Yodit Gudit—a destroyer of churches and a rebellious woman. But who was she, and why is her story so contested?
A Figure Shrouded in Mystery
The personage known by multiple names—Gudit, Yodit, Isato, Aayyo Guddittii, Akoo Manooyee—is one of the most fascinating and controversial figures in Ethiopian history. If she is the same as Māsobā Wārq, the daughter of the last Aksumite king Dil Na’ad, she ruled in the 10th century and is said to have been responsible for laying waste to the Kingdom of Aksum and its countryside .
According to Oromo oral tradition, Aayyo Guddittii was not a destroyer but a liberator. She was born into the Bareentu branch of the Oromo, in the area of Asaboot (Ashaboo) in Hararge . The name “Asaboot” itself comes from the Arabic Aṣ-ṣaḥābah (“The Companions”), referring to companions of the Prophet Muhammad, and the town still exists today in the West Hararghe Zone of the Oromia Region . Her people were from the Azabo (Asabo) clan, a Cushitic Oromo group, known for their resistance and warrior traditions.
The Habesha (Amhara and Tigrayan) chronicles tell a different story. They describe Gudit as a rebellious woman—even a prostitute—who raised an army, invaded Aksum, and burned its palace and churches . She is portrayed as a monstrous figure, a “female gud or monster” . Her deeds are still cursed in the northern Ethiopian countryside. To this day, when stories are told of her violent misdeeds, they are recounted among peasants in the northern Ethiopian countryside .
But is this portrayal history—or propaganda?
The Rise of the Queen
In the 9th century, she mobilized an army, destroyed the ancient Kingdom of Aksum, and took power. She ruled for 40 years over a vast territory that included northern Ethiopia, ruling over both Oromo and Habesha subjects . This was a time when Aksum, once one of the four great civilizations of the world alongside Rome, Persia, India, and China, was in decline .
The reasons for her rise are disputed. One legend says she was stripped of her title as princess and became a prostitute to survive. After a priest stole a sacred artifact on her behalf, she was blamed and exiled. She married Prince Zenobis and together they invaded Aksum, where she destroyed the palace and churches . Another legend claims she was the granddaughter of Aksumite Emperor Wuden Asferé and that her motherland was Hahaylé in Tigré .
But Oromo tradition offers a different interpretation: she was a unifier, a leader who rose to challenge an oppressive empire and liberated her people. As one Oromo source puts it, “Oromo calls her the father of imperialism. Habesha said Yodit Gudi Abba Ire Wareertu and still cursing her” .
The Zagwe Dynasty: An Oromo Legacy
After her death, power passed to a dynasty that Oromo tradition calls Hidda-Zagwe—the Zagwe Dynasty. This dynasty ruled for 333 years, with 11 kings, and is recognized for building the famous rock-hewn churches of Lalibela .
The name “Zagwe” itself is contested. In Oromo, it is connected to Haagahu—a name derived from an Oromo tribe from the Gojjam region. The Habesha narrative has transformed this into “Agaw” or “Z-Agaw,” obscuring the Oromo origins of these rulers . The dynasty’s capital was Roha, later renamed Eddeessaa, and eventually Lalibela—a name that in Oromo means “Laali balaa” or “look at danger/see the threat,” referring to the defensive architecture of the churches .
The most famous of the Zagwe kings was Laalibala (Lalibela), who commissioned the eleven magnificent rock-hewn churches. According to both tradition and archaeological evidence, these churches were carved in the 12th and 13th centuries, in the mountainous region of Lasta in northern Ethiopia . The Zagwe dynasty is credited with preserving and spreading Orthodox Christianity, particularly into the southern regions of Gojjam and Shewa .
The 11 churches, including the iconic Church of Saint George (Biete Giorgis), were carved from a single block of stone. According to the Acts of Lalibela, the king built them in the likeness of what he had seen in a vision, with the help of both men and angels . The site became a major pilgrimage destination—a “New Jerusalem” for Ethiopian Christians .
The Erasure of Oromo History
The Zagwe dynasty’s rule ended in 1270 when the so-called “Solomonic Dynasty” was restored, claiming descent from King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. The new rulers launched a campaign of propaganda warfare against the Zagwe, labeling them as “alien and impious groups of adventurers” . The Kebrā Nāgäst (Glory of Kings) was used as a political gospel to delegitimize the Zagwe and justify Solomonic rule .
This anti-Zagwe propaganda deliberately obscured what is perhaps the richest and most artistic period of Ethiopian civilization since the conversion of Ezana . The Zagwe kings, who were of Agaw/Oromo heritage, had “preserved their linguistic identity and used Agaw outside the church,” making them linguistically different from the Amhara and Tigray elites—and thus easy to dismiss as “foreign” .
The obscurity of this period has been “further aggravated by both subjective and objective factors”—including “deliberate and concerted intrigue of the Solomonic elite and the clergy” .
Reclaiming the Legacy
Today, Oromo scholars and advocates are working to restore the true history of Aayyo Guddittii and the Zagwe dynasty. They argue that the deliberate distortion of this history has served to:
- Erase Oromo contributions to Ethiopian civilization, including the construction of the Lalibela churches and the spread of Christianity .
- Suppress Oromo identity by claiming that Oromo history begins only in the 16th century—a claim that is thoroughly debunked by linguistics and archaeology .
- Justify the dominance of Amhara and Tigrayan political elites over Oromo and other Cushitic peoples .
The Zagwe period, as one scholar notes, “laid the foundation for a multi-national unitary state.” They preserved “incalculable material and spiritual wealth from devastation” and initiated commercial and cultural links with other countries . Their “contribution to the survival and consolidation of Christianity is hardly acknowledged” .
The Story That Will Not Be Silenced
Aayyo Guddittii—whether called Gudit, Yodit, or the Lioness Queen of Africa—represents a powerful symbol of Oromo resistance. She challenges the dominant narrative that has portrayed Oromo people as latecomers to Ethiopian history, as “invaders” from the south.
The sources cited in this account, including the book “Eenyummaan Dhokate” (Hidden Identity) and “Bultoo Hubachiisaa” (The Informer) by Bulto Hubechi, argue that the Oromo people have been in the Horn of Africa for millennia, that they are central to the Christian heritage of Ethiopia, and that their history has been systematically stolen and distorted .
May the story of Aayyo Guddittii, the Lioness Queen, continue to inspire generations of Oromo people to reclaim their heritage, their history, and their identity. The truth, once buried, will always find a way to the surface.
“Bariisaa Newspaper is the Heart of the Oromo Struggle” – Father of Bariisaa
In the annals of Oromo media history, few names shine as brightly as that of Dr. Mahadii Hamid Mudee—known to millions simply as “Abbaa Bariisaa” (Father of Bariisaa). He is the founder of Bariisaa newspaper, a publication that became the heartbeat of Oromo cultural and political awakening.
For decades, Bariisaa has played an extraordinary role in elevating Oromo culture, language, and history. It has championed the rights of the Oromo people, defended their dignity, and brought their struggles into the light. Dr. Mahadii Hamid Mudee stands as a towering figure in this legacy—a scholar, activist, and journalist who dedicated his life to the Oromo cause without seeking personal gain.
The following is an exclusive interview with the man himself.
Bariisaa: Dr., let’s get acquainted. When and where were you born?
Abbaa Bariisaa: My birth name is Mahadii Hamid Mudee. Later, I became known as “Abbaa Bariisaa.” Some also call me “Abbaa Dikshinarii” (Father of the Dictionary). You may call me Dr. Mahadii or Abbaa Bariisaa.
I was born in 1942 in Eastern Oromia, West Hararge Zone, in the town of Chiro. My father is Obbo Hamid Mudee, and my mother is Aadde Hamiida Ahmad.
Bariisaa: Where did you complete your primary, secondary, and higher education?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Before joining modern schools, I studied at an Islamic religious school. I then entered the formal education system starting from Grade 3. I completed my primary and secondary education at “Dajjaazmaach Waldagabir” School in Chiro town.
At that time, students could skip grades based on performance—from first to third, then to the next level. I completed both primary and secondary school in just six years. For my higher education, I studied at Addis Ababa University for three years.
During my third year studying Physics at the university, I was assigned for practical training to North Gojjam Zone in Amhara Region, at “Negus Taklahaymanot” Secondary School in Dabra Maarkos.
The school refused to rent me a room because of my religion—I am Muslim. I spent three months living in a hotel while teaching. Because of this, I decided to leave the position. But they transferred my Physics colleague to Bahir Dar and sent me there instead.
At Bahir Dar, there were many students, and I taught double sessions—morning and afternoon. In the evenings, with no other work, I began preparing textbooks in Afaan Oromoo for the children. I taught there for two and a half years until the revolution of 1966 (Ethiopian calendar) erupted.
Bariisaa: How did you start preparing Bariisaa newspaper?
Abbaa Bariisaa: At that time, there were many newspapers in various languages—but none in Afaan Oromoo. The question “Why isn’t there a newspaper in Oromo?” constantly occupied my mind. From this reflection came the desire to start an Oromo-language newspaper.
Initially, I thought preparing and publishing a newspaper in Oromo would be simple. But when I got down to work, I realized it was extremely difficult. In 1964, I approached Dr. Tasefaye Gabre’igzii, then Minister of Information, and asked for permission to publish a newspaper in Oromo. He responded with anger: “How dare you come to my office asking to publish a newspaper in Oromo? Get out!” He kicked me out of his office. I left, burning with anger.
In 1966, Ahaduu Saaburee became Minister of Information. I approached him again. He didn’t refuse me as harshly as Dr. Tasefaye, but he also didn’t give me permission.
Then, in September 1966 (Ethiopian calendar), Haile Selassie was overthrown and the Derg came to power.
In 1967, Kumalaa Girmaay Yilmaa became Minister of Information. I went to him and requested permission to publish an Oromo newspaper. Unlike those who had insulted me, Kumalaa Girmaay listened. He said to me: “You have asked for two impossible things. First, a private individual cannot publish a newspaper. Second, publishing a newspaper in Oromo is not allowed. If you had asked to publish in another language, I would have given you permission today. I cannot authorize an Oromo newspaper, but you can try asking other officials.”
Bariisaa: How did you finally get permission?
Abbaa Bariisaa: At that time, I knew people like Luba Gudina Tumsa, his brother Baaroo Tumsa, and Obbo Leencoo Lataa. We discussed the matter and decided to approach someone who supported the Oromo cause—Colonel Takkaa Tulluu, an Oromo official in the Derg government.
Together with Baaroo Tumsa and Leencoo Lataa, we went to Colonel Takkaa. He asked what we wanted. We said, “We have come to request permission to publish a newspaper in Oromo.” He asked, “Why didn’t you ask the Minister of Information?” We explained that we had asked but were refused. Colonel Takkaa said, “I will ask on your behalf.” We replied, “If you can’t get full authorization, at least ask for permission for just one day.”
Because it was the first anniversary of the Derg’s coming to power—September 2, 1968—they granted us permission to publish Bariisaa in Oromo for just one day. But we decided to seize the opportunity: “We will publish if we live; if we die, we die.” We declared that Bariisaa would be published every two weeks, and if it was stopped, we would challenge the government. And so, the first issue of Bariisaa was published in Oromo.
Bariisaa: How did you distribute the first issue?
Abbaa Bariisaa: For the first issue, we printed 20,000 copies. We donated 1,000 to the Kibur Zabanya (Imperial Guard), 1,000 to the Fourth Army Division in Finfinne near Laga Harre, 1,000 to the police, 1,000 to the Air Force in Bishooftu, and 1,000 to the Navy and Oromo farmers. The remaining copies were sold at 10 cents each.
Bariisaa: What happened after that?
Abbaa Bariisaa: When we went to the Ministry of Information to ask for permission for the second issue, they arrested us. They said, “We only authorized one issue, but you told the public it would be published every two weeks—you are inciting the people against the government.” They threw us in the “Maakelaawi” prison. But I was released soon after.
Bariisaa: How long was Bariisaa suspended, and how did it resume?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Bariisaa was suspended for five months. Then, an opportunity arose. Colonel Asraat Dastaa was the Deputy Minister of Information responsible for Public Relations. When he went abroad for training, a man named Irreessaa Fissahaa Gadaa was acting in his position.
We approached him and asked for permission to publish Bariisaa. He said, “I can’t authorize what the colonel refused. When he returns, I don’t know what will happen—you could be arrested again. But I have an idea. Go to someone more powerful than me, someone Colonel Asraat fears, and get authorization from him.” He suggested Mangistuu Hayilamaariyam (the former president of Ethiopia). We went to him, and he gave us permission.
With the authorization of Colonel Mangistu, Bariisaa resumed publication every week. When Colonel Asraat returned from abroad and heard that Bariisaa had been authorized, he said, “What kind of world is this? I leave the country for a few days, and this happens!”
Bariisaa: What were the challenges under the Derg?
Abbaa Bariisaa: They constantly looked for ways to destroy us. Bariisaa was building Oromo unity, promoting Oromo language, culture, and history, and defending Oromo rights—so it was hated by the regime.
In 1969, we organized an Oromo Cultural Exhibition in Finfinne at the “Biheraawwii Tiyaatir” Hall. The goal was to raise funds for Bariisaa. People came from all over Oromia in the tens of thousands. But the authorities said, “Everything you do must be under the name of the Ministry of Culture.” In December 1969, the government shut down Bariisaa. The closure was even announced on the radio.
Bariisaa: What was the difference between Bariisaa under private ownership and after it was taken over by the government?
Abbaa Bariisaa: In the private era, everyone worked without pay. Lammeessaa Boruu, a father of a family, earned 100 birr per month; Immiruu Angoosee earned 70 birr. Ibraahiim Hajii Alii worked for two years without any salary. I also worked without pay. We worked because of our deep commitment to the Oromo cause.
The Oromo people themselves were our reporters and sources of information. We focused on what the people wanted to hear, learn, and benefit from.
After the government took over, the content shifted. Most of what was published reflected the government’s message to the people, rather than the people’s message to the government. Our sources of information shifted from the people to the regime. Reporting Oromo issues to the government became secondary to conveying government wishes to the people.
The government allocated 500,000 birr per year and a vehicle to the newspaper. Reporters like Caalchisaa Ciibsaa, Waaqgaarii Gunjoo, Mahaammad Hasan, Bulloo Siibaa, Ibiraahiim Hajii, and Kuwee Kumsaafaa were hired with salaries. Two proofreaders and a “free-lancer” were also paid. I was paid 800 birr as chief editor.
Bariisaa: When did you stop working on the newspaper?
Abbaa Bariisaa: After the government took over, I realized I could no longer work with the freedom I needed. The political situation was difficult, so I decided to step away. I trained my successors over three months, rotating them weekly until they could manage the newspaper independently.
Bariisaa: What contribution did Bariisaa make to the Oromo people?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Bariisaa is the heart of the Oromo struggle. It strengthened Oromo unity and promoted Oromo language, culture, history, and identity. It focused on Oromo rights and benefits—which is why it was hated and called “ABO newspaper” (referring to the Oromo Liberation Front). Bariisaa was never separate from Oromo politics. The newspaper’s workers were deeply committed to the Oromo cause; many were imprisoned and some were killed.
Bariisaa: How did you get the name “Abbaa Bariisaa”?
Abbaa Bariisaa: From the founding of the newspaper until I stepped down, I was the chief editor. Because of this, the name “Abbaa Bariisaa” and “Abbaa Dikshinarii” was given to me, both at home and abroad.
Bariisaa: What did you do after leaving Bariisaa?
Abbaa Bariisaa: I was working with the “Guddinni Gamtaa” (Joint Committee) at the time. The government sent me to Harar to stabilize the political situation in Eastern Ethiopia. I was assigned to coordinate Radio Harar, the Ethiopian News Service, and military training. But when I went to Harar, I found Oromo children imprisoned for political reasons. I managed to have them released, and then I went to Saudi Arabia.
As a member of the OLF, I worked to organize the Oromo community in Saudi Arabia and raise funds for the cause. I told them that Oromos should not live as slaves in their own land. I built relationships with foreign governments to raise awareness about the Oromo issue. I stayed in Saudi Arabia for four and a half years, then moved to America.
Bariisaa: Did you face personal difficulties while working on Bariisaa?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Yes, I faced many pressures. But I never stepped back from speaking the truth or doing my work. I wasn’t afraid of being killed or losing my job. However, I did face a time when I could no longer return to my home. I left my house and stayed with relatives, friends, or wherever I could find shelter.
After I left the country, my mother was taken to a police station at 6:00 PM and interrogated. They beat her and demanded to know where I was. The harm my mother suffered because of me was terrible. She was forced to leave her home, and she never knew where I was. My colleagues also suffered greatly.
Bariisaa: What did you feel when you saw Bariisaa 42 years later upon your return from America?
Abbaa Bariisaa: I felt both joy and sorrow. I was overjoyed to see that the newspaper had not died or disappeared. But it saddened me that the circulation had dropped from 20,000 to 10,000. For a population of 50 million Oromos, printing only 10,000 copies is not enough. This requires serious thought and action.
Bariisaa: What would you like to see for Bariisaa’s future?
Abbaa Bariisaa: I want to see the circulation exceed one million, published daily. I want Facebook followers to number in the millions. I want distribution to reach all corners of Ethiopia and beyond. I want the newspaper to reach every school in Oromia, and I want it available in public libraries so everyone can read it.
Bariisaa: What kind of content would make Bariisaa more beloved among the Oromo people?
Abbaa Bariisaa: What determines whether Bariisaa is loved or not is its content. You must work within your limits. Don’t rely on lies or flattering the government to gain popularity—earn it through truth.
If the newspaper presents what is right, true, and just, it will be beloved. Speaking truth and justice won’t even cause problems with the government. Content that highlights Oromo culture, language, history, and development—that protects Oromo rights, promotes their interests, and brings solutions to Oromo problems based on verified truth—that is what will make Bariisaa truly beloved.
Bariisaa: What did you do about the Oromo cause while in America?
Abbaa Bariisaa: People do two things: one is what they do for a living, and the other is what their conscience tells them. Working for the Oromo cause is what my conscience demands. I worked without pay before, and I continue to do so. What I have earned is not measured in dollars, but in service to the Oromo people.
In America, I wrote and published ten books. I prepared a dictionary (known as “Dikshinarii Hamiid Mudee”). I also worked for 21 years to make Oromo a technological language, preparing software and manual guides.
Bariisaa: How do you view the changes happening in Ethiopia today?
Abbaa Bariisaa: If I speak truthfully, the changes are very encouraging. The country has made great strides and is emerging from darkness. The respect for human rights fills me with great joy.
However, I also have great concern. I am deeply grateful to those who sacrificed to make these changes possible. The reason I can return to my country is because of these changes. I pray that the progress continues.
Bariisaa: How do you see today’s media in Ethiopia?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Some private media, driven by hate politics, are working not to build the country but to destroy it. This concerns me greatly. Both government and private media should work based on truth and justice, with a unified voice. Their information should be based on verified facts and reality. Repeating lies to corrupt people’s minds must stop. Media that works for truth should stand firm against false media and publish what is real and just.
It would be good to have a Media Council to oversee and regulate all media. Such a council should expose, control, and correct media that spread lies—independent of government influence. The government should support the establishment of such a council.
If media outlets spread unverified information—whether true or false—they can cause division and destruction. They should be careful. Media that refutes falsehoods with truth should be encouraged. Journalism that pits one group against another with misinformation must end.
Bariisaa: How do you want to support Bariisaa in the future?
Abbaa Bariisaa: Until the Oromo issue finds a solution, I will not rest. Oromo nationalism still lives within me. I will never step back from working for Bariisaa and for the Oromo people. I will work to make the newspaper known internationally. I also want to use my knowledge and resources to help in Ethiopia.
Interview conducted by Natsaannat Taaddasaa
Bariisaa Newspaper, June 20, 2011
The History of Oromo Writing and the Role of Dr. Sheikh Mohammed Rashaad
Language is a tool of communication and a symbol of identity. But for the Oromo people, their language remained largely oral for centuries—confined to the spoken word while the world around them moved forward in ink. The story of how Afaan Oromoo finally found its written form is a story of struggle, sacrifice, and one man’s relentless vision.
A Language Without Letters
The Oromo language, spoken by tens of millions across the Horn of Africa, was for a long time a language of the spoken word alone. Unlike many of its neighbors, Afaan Oromoo lacked an indigenous writing system that could accurately capture its unique sounds and grammatical structure.
Efforts to write Oromo began in the 19th century. The first known written Oromo texts were religious manuscripts from the Rayya area, produced during the time of the sheikhs of Anniyya and Danniya. These were handwritten poetry collections, hymns to God and His Prophet, penned with a reed pen using the Arabic script.
But the Arabic script was never a perfect fit for Oromo. Arabic has only a limited set of vowels and consonant distinctions. Oromo, by contrast, has ten vowels and a richer set of consonants. Six Oromo phonemes—c, ch, dh, g, ny, and ph—had no direct equivalents in Arabic writing. Scholars had to adapt, improvise, and sometimes simply make do with imperfect approximations.
Three Scripts, Three Attempts
The Ethiopian Script (Ge’ez/Amharic)
In 1886, an Oromo man named Onisimos Nasiib (Abbaa Gammachiis) translated the Bible into Oromo and had it published in Asmara, Eritrea. He used the Ge’ez script—the same writing system used for Amharic and Tigrinya. This script, however, was designed for languages with seven vowels, not ten. It could not adequately represent Oromo sounds, and the translation, while groundbreaking, was limited by the tools at hand.
The Italian Contribution
After the Italian occupation of Ethiopia in 1935, the Italian linguist Martino Mario Moreno conducted systematic research on the Oromo language. In 1939, he published Grammatica teorico-pratica della lingua galla (Theoretical-Practical Grammar of the Galla Language) in Milan, using a Latin-based alphabet. His work was the first to accurately describe the phonology, morphology, and syntax of Oromo in a scientific way.
“The period of Moreno can be called the ‘Moreno Era’—a time when the science of linguistics began to properly understand the language”.
Moreno’s alphabet represented a significant step forward:
‘ A B C Č D Ḑ0 E F G H I J K L M N Ñ O H Q R S Ṧ T Ṭ U W Y Z
The Sheikh Bakri Script
Meanwhile, within Oromo society, a different approach was emerging. Sheikh Bakri Sapalo (born Abubakar Garad Usman, 1895-1980), an Oromo scholar and religious teacher, invented an entirely new writing system for Oromo in 1956. His script was designed from the ground up to capture Oromo sounds accurately.
Sheikh Bakri had studied under several distinguished Islamic teachers and became renowned for his poetry. Under Haile Selassie’s regime, however, Oromo language was banned in education, conversation, and administrative matters. Sheikh Bakri’s script was developed in secrecy, perhaps to avoid detection by authorities who would have opposed Oromo writing in any form.
His most important work was Shalda, a twenty-page pamphlet that purported to be religious instruction but was actually a veiled account of Oromo suffering under Haile Selassie. It became the first and last major work in his alphabet. In 1965, Sheikh Bakri was placed under house arrest. In 1978, he fled to a refugee camp in Somalia, where he died without ever seeing his script widely adopted.
Dr. Sheikh Mohammed Rashaad: The Man Who Completed the Mission
A Journey Begins on Foot
Born in 1934 in Eastern Oromia, in a village called Laga Arba, Sheikh Mohammed Rashaad Abdullee grew up under the harsh realities of colonial settler rule. As a young man, he was severely chastised by one of the settlers. With no one to defend him, his young mind resolved on a radical course: he would go overseas to acquire skills and weapons for his people’s emancipation.
At the age of 15, in 1949, he left Ethiopia on foot. He traveled through Djibouti, Yemen, and Saudi Arabia, performing Hajj in 1950. From there, he continued to Syria, where he spent five years at the Fatul Islam school in Damascus, eventually earning the title of Mufti.
In 1956, he entered Al-Azhar University in Cairo, a center of learning and liberation movements across Africa. There, surrounded by students from across the continent, his Oromo consciousness deepened.
“When he entered Al-Azhar University in 1956, all nations began to showcase their languages, cultures, and identities. He saw histories of different countries beautifully written and thought, ‘We also have a history to tell, a language to speak, a script to write with'”.
The Mogadishu Years: Radio and Rebellion
After graduating with top honors in 1962, receiving an award from Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser, Sheikh Rashaad was sent by Al-Azhar to Somalia. There, he was hired by the Somali government as a linguistic expert. This gave him a new opportunity to study Oromo language using available Somali sources.
In Mogadishu, he joined forces with other Oromo refugees and intellectuals, including the journalist Ayub Abubakar. Together, they started the first Oromo-language radio broadcast from Mogadishu in 1965. The program began at 15 minutes, grew to 30, and eventually to a full hour.
“The broadcast shook the Haile Selassie regime in Ethiopia, which dispatched agents to assassinate and put a stop to their work. Haile Selassie’s agents eventually assassinated Ayub but were apprehended in Mogadisho before they could similarly murder Sheikh Rashad”.
The Birth of Qubee
It was during this period that Sheikh Rashaad discovered the suitability of the Latin script for writing Oromo. His comparative studies of Oromo and Somali led him to develop the modern Oromo alphabet.
In 1969, he prepared a manuscript titled “Fura Afaan Oromoo” (The Key to Oromo), which was handwritten and circulated among Oromo communities. Two years later, in 1971, it was published—the first complete Oromo-language reader in the modern Latin alphabet.
The book faced immediate challenges. In Somalia, the regime tried to impose the label “Somali-Abbo” on Oromos and recalled his book to redo the cover. But in haste, they left the inside page intact, which still read “Fura Afaan Oromoo”—exposing the plot. In Ethiopia, his writings were strictly forbidden; anyone found with them would face severe punishment.
Exile and Lifelong Work
Under pressure from both sides, Sheikh Rashaad relocated to Saudi Arabia, where he continued his scholarly work. Over the following decades, he produced an extraordinary body of work:
- The first Quran translation in Afaan Oromoo
- Translation of over 40 Hadith books from Arabic to Oromo
- The first Somali-Oromo dictionary
- The first Arabic-Oromo dictionary
- Numerous articles on Islam with particular emphasis on Eastern Africa
- Hajj and Umra guidance for Oromo pilgrims
- Collections of Oromo traditional songs (miriysaa, dhiichisa, geerarsa)
- Children’s stories in Oromo
- History of the Prophet Muhammad in Oromo
- History of Islam in Oromo
“He spent over 15 years conducting research on the Oromo and Somali languages, which later became the focus of his thesis for a PhD in linguistic studies, which he received from the UK”.
Recognition and Final Years
In recognition of his lifelong contribution, the Oromo Studies Association bestowed on him its Lifetime Achievement Award in 2009. In 2010, the Oromiyaa Radio and Television (ORTO) recognized him for his contribution to the development of the Oromo alphabet.
In 2009, he returned to his homeland, settling in Adama, central Oromia. But his final years were not peaceful. When the Ethiopian regime tried to impose a particular interpretation of Islam on the faithful, Sheikh Rashaad objected. For his conviction, he was evicted from his home and forced to relocate to Dire Dawa.
Fiercely independent and unquestionably loyal to his people, Dr. Sheikh Mohammed Rashaad passed away with dignity on May 25, 2013, at the age of 79.
The Legacy
Sheikh Rashaad was not alone. He worked alongside others who contributed to the development of Oromo writing. Haylee Fidaa and Abdullaahi Yuusuf, Oromo students in Europe, adopted the Moreno alphabet with modifications and published two important books in 1973-74: Hirmaata Dubbii Afaan Oromoo (an Oromo grammar) and Bara Birraan Barihe (a drama about the suffering under the Neftenya system).
But it was Sheikh Rashaad who provided the definitive, scientifically-based alphabet that would eventually be adopted for all Oromo writing—from educational materials to official government communications to the translations that would bring the world’s knowledge into the Oromo language.
“His contribution in informing and educating the masses and in strengthening Oromo nationalism, despite serious threats and challenges, is immense. His works will live with the Oromo people forever and continue to inspire millions”.
Today, when millions of Oromo children learn to read and write in their own language, when Oromo scholars publish research in international journals, when the Bible and the Quran are read in Oromo by millions, the foundation they are building on—the alphabet they are using—is the one that Sheikh Mohammed Rashaad developed, refined, and fought to protect.
He ranks among the patriotic Oromo religious scholars from both Muslim and Christian traditions who, despite persecution from successive regimes, paid heavy sacrifices for their people. Among them are the Reverend Gudina Tumsa, who gave his life for the cause; Sheikh Bakri Saphalo, who died in a refugee camp; and the great Abbaa Gammachis, who endured humiliation and subjugation. They remain giant role models who will continue to inspire future generations—shining forever like lighthouses in a free Oromia.
May the angels welcome this man who made written Oromo language accessible to millions—a renewer of his time, a truly great man.
A Concise History of Oromo Media: From Colonial Radio to Digital Revolution
From the hills of Jimma to the screens of the diaspora, the journey of Oromo media is a story of resilience, sacrifice, and an unyielding quest for voice. It is a tale that begins not with ink on paper, but with electromagnetic waves cutting through the Ethiopian highlands during a time of war.
Part One: The Electronic Beginning
In the history of world media, print came first. Newspapers and magazines preceded radio and television. But in the story of Oromo media, the opposite is true. The first medium to speak the language of the Oromo people was not a newspaper—it was a radio station.
The Italian Experiment (1935-1941)
It was during the Italian occupation of Ethiopia that the first Oromo-language radio broadcast came to life. When Emperor Haile Selassie fled the country following Italy’s invasion, the fascist regime of Victor Emmanuel III sought to consolidate its control over the diverse peoples of the empire.
The Italians understood something the previous regime had ignored: that the Oromo people, who had been subjugated under the Neftenya (Amhara settler) system, harbored deep resentment toward the imperial order. To win their loyalty—or at least their compliance—the colonial administration needed to speak to them in their own language.
In a move that would forever change Oromo history, the Italians built a radio station near the city of Jimma. They called it “Centro Radio” in Italian, but the local Oromo people gave it a name that has stuck to this day—Shanta-Raadiyoonii (Radio Station). The hill where it was built, approximately 10 kilometers northwest of Jimma, still bears this name. To this day, visitors to Jimma can look toward the northwest and see the spot where the first Oromo voice entered the airwaves.
This radio station, however, served a calculated purpose. It was designed to persuade Oromos to embrace Italian fascism over Ethiopian imperialism—trading one master for another. The Italians dismantled the Neftenya system and replaced it with a form of ethnic-based administration, drawing borders along ethnic lines for the first time. But their propaganda was not liberation; it was another form of subjugation.
When Haile Selassie returned to power with British support in 1941, he quickly shut down the Italian-built station. Its equipment—studios, transmitters, and antennas—was dismantled and moved to Addis Ababa (Finfinne). The emperor tried to erase the memory of the station, even attempting to suppress the name “Shanta-Raadiyoonii.” But the people would not forget. For years after, Oromos remembered the brief time they had heard their language on the radio.
The Cairo Experiment (1960s)
The emperor had made a fatal miscalculation. He feared that acknowledging Oromo language on national radio would strengthen ethnic solidarity against his rule. And so, for decades, Oromo voices remained silent on Ethiopian airwaves.
But in the 1960s, a new voice emerged—from Egypt.
Oromo students studying at Al-Azhar University in Cairo, including the pioneering scholar Sheik Muhammad Rashaad Abdullee, established an Oromo-language radio broadcast from Cairo. This was different from the Italian station. The Cairo broadcast was not propaganda for any foreign power; it was a genuine Oromo voice advocating for Oromo rights, educating the people about their history, and mobilizing resistance against the Neftenya system.
The emperor’s government was alarmed. In his eyes, a broadcast of Oromo from Cairo was not a weapon to be used against him—and he could not allow it to continue. Through diplomatic pressure, Haile Selassie’s government persuaded the Egyptian regime to shut down the station.
The Mogadishu Martyrs (1967)
As soon as the Cairo station went silent, a new one emerged—this time from Mogadishu, Somalia. Oromo scholars and intellectuals who had studied in Egypt, including the likes of Sheik Muhammad Rashaad and others, moved to Somalia and established another Oromo-language radio station. Among those who joined this effort was a young Oromo journalist named Ayub Abubakar.
This station had a profound impact, particularly in the eastern Oromo regions of Hararge. The broadcasts ignited resistance and brought Oromo national consciousness to a new level. The emperor’s regime, already nervous, could not tolerate this. They struck a deal with the government of Siad Barre in Somalia to silence the station. When diplomatic pressure failed to achieve full compliance, the emperor’s agents reached into Mogadishu itself.
On a Friday afternoon in 1967, near a place called Liizo on the shores of the Indian Ocean, 25-year-old Ayub Abubakar was washing clothes. Agents of the imperial regime seized him and killed him. His body was found two days later and buried in Mogadishu. His crime? He had dared to give his people a voice.
Other journalists from that station managed to escape. Abubakar Muussaa, who would later bring his artistry to Radio Harar; Shantam Shubbisaa (the last living survivor today); Abdii Huseen; and Hindiyaa Ahmed (Shantam Shubbisaa’s wife) were among those who continued the struggle. They are the founding fathers and mothers of Oromo media, and their sacrifices paved the way for everything that followed.
Part Two: Radio Harar—A Calculated Gamble
By the early 1970s, the emperor had reached a desperate conclusion. The Mogadishu station had become too powerful to ignore. Fearful that the Oromo people of Hararge would align with Somalia against the Ethiopian state, Haile Selassie’s government made a strategic decision.
They would open their own Oromo-language radio station.
The Birth of Radio Harar (1973)
In 1973, Radio Harar was launched. But it was never intended as a genuine celebration of Oromo culture. According to veterans of the station, “Radio Harar was not originally intended for the Oromo when it was launched. Prior to that, a radio station broadcasting in Oromo was established in Mogadishu.”
The emperor’s government feared that if they opened an Oromo station in Addis Ababa (Finfinne), the Oromo people would unite around it. If they did nothing, the eastern Oromo would align with Mogadishu. Their solution was to create a limited, controlled Oromo-language program called “Qophii Afaan Oromoo”—a station they could monitor and manipulate.
The Price of Voice
But even under imperial control, Radio Harar became something more than its creators intended. The station’s Oromo staff—journalists, artists, and technicians—turned it into a genuine voice for their people.
The station faced immense pressure. Its journalists were imprisoned, persecuted, and killed. The bandleader Abubakar Muussaa survived persecution under Haile Selassie and later faced mortal danger from the Derg regime. The singer Abdi Qophee (Mohammed) wrote lyrics that became anthems of Oromo resistance.
For Jaafar Ali, who grew up listening to Radio Harar and later worked there as a producer of dramas and educational programs, the station was more than a workplace—it was family. “Our programming wasn’t just for entertainment,” he recalls. “We also produced programs for the struggle, about the persecution, imprisonment, and oppression that was being perpetrated against Oromos.”
Part Three: The Derg Era—From Suppression to Instrumentalization
In 1974, the Derg military regime overthrew Haile Selassie. At first, it seemed the new regime might be more amenable to Oromo aspirations. For the first time, Oromo language was allowed on Ethiopian national radio and television. Newspapers like Bariisaa began publication in Afaan Oromoo.
The Derg’s Instrumentalization
But the Derg’s motives were strategic, not benevolent. The regime used Oromo language to achieve three goals:
- Divide and co-opt: The Derg sought to bring educated Oromo elites into its fold, painting them as integral parts of a “revolutionary” Ethiopia while pitting them against the old Neftenya establishment.
- Create the illusion of change: By embracing Oromo language, the regime hoped to win the loyalty of the Oromo people and distinguish itself from the previous imperial order.
- Broadcast socialist ideology: Using Oromo language allowed the regime to disseminate its ideology to a wider audience, framing socialism as the true path to Oromo liberation.
Despite these political motivations, the Derg era brought significant development to Oromo media. Radio broadcasts in Oromo expanded. Oromo music flourished. Artists like Dr. Ali Birra and Wasannuu Didoo emerged, singing songs that, while occasionally paying lip service to the regime, secretly educated and mobilized the Oromo people.
Listen to the words of Dr. Ali Birra’s songs from that era:
“What did they say, what did they tell us?
When minds are tortured,
When life is spent in lies!
Those who lost land and had livestock stolen,
Those who fled from fear to the hills—
Why should they accept a bridle?!
Those who drove the enemy into foreign woods,
Those whose freedom was bought with blood…”
Songs like these resonated with the Oromo people across the country, reminding them of their shared suffering and inspiring a generation of resistance fighters. Even a radio station not built for Oromo liberation could, in the hands of Oromo artists, serve the cause of freedom.
The Birth of SBO (1988)
The most significant development of the Derg era came in 1988, when the first explicitly Oromo liberation radio station was established by Oromo freedom fighters. This was Sagalee Bilisummaa Oromoo (SBO)—the Voice of Oromo Liberation.
SBO was different from all previous Oromo broadcasts. It was established:
- By Oromos, for Oromos: Not as a colonial tool or a state calculation, but as an instrument of Oromo national liberation.
- On a scientific historical foundation: SBO educated Oromos about their history, culture, and political rights in a systematic, analytical way.
- At a time of technological expansion: By 1988, radio ownership had spread to many Oromo homes, both in cities and rural areas. SBO could reach a broad audience quickly.
SBO became the voice of the Oromo liberation struggle, broadcasting resistance messages and mobilizing the people. Its impact was profound, and it laid the groundwork for the media explosion that would follow.
Part Four: The Post-Derg Transformation (1991-2000s)
In 1991, the Derg regime fell. A new Ethiopia emerged, and with it, a new era for Oromo media.
ETV and the First Oromo Television Broadcast
For the first time in history, Oromo language was broadcast on Ethiopian Television (ETV). Oromo had moved from audio to video—from ears to eyes. This was a watershed moment.
The Written Word Emerges
Following the fall of the Derg, a true “Oromo media explosion” occurred:
- Oromo on television began for the first time.
- The Latin script for Afaan Oromoo was officially adopted, after extensive research by Oromo scholars. This paved the way for widespread literacy and publication.
- Independent newspapers and magazines began publishing in Afaan Oromoo in cities across Oromia and beyond—a first in Oromo media history.
- Mass literacy campaigns in the Oromo script meant that Oromos could now read and write in their own language, dramatically expanding the media market.
VOA and International Recognition (1996)
On November 8, 1996, another milestone was reached: the Voice of America (VOA) began broadcasting in Afaan Oromoo. This was a stunning development—Oromo had joined the ranks of major world languages recognized by one of the world’s most powerful broadcasters.
At first, Oromo broadcasts were only 15 minutes per day. Meanwhile, Amharic broadcasts were reduced from 60 to 30 minutes—a shift that caused significant political controversy. Critics accused VOA of bowing to Oromo pressure, but the American broadcaster had done its homework: it recognized that Oromo was the language of one of Africa’s largest ethnic groups, a language with a growing global presence.
Diaspora Media Grows
Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, Oromo diaspora media flourished. Diaspora radio stations like Radio Sagalee Oromoo (RSO) launched. In the 2000s, the first Oromo television station in the diaspora—Oromo TV—began broadcasting from Minnesota, USA.
Part Five: The Internet Revolution—A Level Playing Field
The most transformative development in Oromo media has been the rise of the internet. For the first time in history, Oromo language has achieved something truly revolutionary: it now competes on a level playing field with Amharic.
Script and Technology
A key factor in this transformation has been the script. Oromo’s adoption of the Latin alphabet gave it a massive advantage in the digital age. While Amharic and Tigrinya speakers struggled to adapt their ancient Ge’ez scripts to computers, keyboards, email, and social media, Oromos could simply type.
Today, 80% of Eritreans—who also used Ge’ez script—have shifted to Latin script for digital communication, including emails, Facebook, Messenger, Skype, and mobile texts. The situation for Amharic speakers in Ethiopia is not significantly different.
The Rise of Oromo Websites, Social Media, and Online Media
The internet has enabled:
- Oromo websites and online publications to flourish, providing news, analysis, and cultural content.
- Social media (Facebook, Twitter, Telegram) to become dominated by Oromo voices, with Oromo activists driving discourse on Ethiopian and international issues.
- Online radio and TV to reach a global Oromo audience, free from state control.
Oromo social media presence is often more vibrant and dynamic than Amharic presence—a remarkable development given the historical dominance of Amharic in Ethiopian public life.
Part Six: The Road Ahead—Challenges and Opportunities
Despite this progress, significant challenges remain.
The Rural Majority
More than 85% of the Oromo people still live in rural areas. Many do not have access to television, internet, or even reliable radio signals. Media content—no matter how powerful—cannot reach them effectively.
State Jamming and Censorship
State-owned media in Ethiopia remains tightly controlled. Oromo-language broadcasts are often co-opted for state propaganda, and independent Oromo media faces pressure, jamming, and censorship.
The Need for Strong, Unified Media
The proliferation of independent Oromo media organizations is a strength. But it also risks fragmentation. Many diaspora Oromo radio and TV stations operate with limited resources, broadcasting to small audiences. The sustainability of these efforts is questionable.
The solution, many argue, lies in consolidation. Instead of dozens of small, struggling stations, Oromos should pool resources to create one powerful, well-funded, well-staffed media organization capable of:
- Producing high-quality, standardized programming that reaches rural audiences.
- Overcoming state jamming and propaganda with technical sophistication.
- Serving as a true voice of the Oromo people—educating, entertaining, and mobilizing.
The Challenge of Content
Even as technology improves, content remains a challenge. Oromo media must move beyond mere entertainment and propaganda. It must deliver substantive, accurate, and transformative content that addresses the real needs of the Oromo people—from education to health, from economic development to cultural preservation.
Conclusion: A Voice That Will Not Be Silenced
The history of Oromo media is a story of struggle against overwhelming odds. From the colonial radio of Jimma to the diaspora television of Minnesota, from the martyred journalists of Mogadishu to the vibrant voices of social media, Oromos have never stopped seeking to speak—and to be heard.
The journey has been long and painful. The Italian radio was propaganda. The emperor’s station was a calculated gamble. The Derg’s broadcasts were instrumentalized. But in each case, Oromo artists, journalists, and intellectuals took these tools and turned them into instruments of liberation.
Today, Oromo media is more vibrant and accessible than ever before. But the work is not complete. Millions of Oromos still lack access to reliable, trustworthy media in their language. The state still seeks to control the narrative. The diaspora still struggles to reach the homeland.
But the trajectory is clear. Oromo media will continue to grow. The voice of the Oromo people, once silenced, will become louder and clearer. And the martyrs of Mogadishu, the dreamers of Cairo, the artists of Radio Harar—their legacy will be fulfilled.
The history of Oromo media is a history of defiance. It is proof that a people who refuse to be silenced, who insist on speaking their truth in their own language, can never truly be conquered.
May the voices of those who came before rest in peace. And may those of us who carry the microphone today do justice to their memory and their dream.
The above feature story is adapted from YB, February 2014, Asmara, Ertirea.
Stand Up and Be Counted: The Oromo Community’s Call to Action for the 2026 Australian Census
By Daandii Ragabaa
MELBOURNE/SYDNEY/CANBERRA – A powerful call is echoing across Australian cities and suburbs, urging every Oromo person to stand up and be counted. On Tuesday, 11 August 2026, the Australian Census will offer what community leaders describe as a once-in-a-five-year opportunity to secure the Oromo community’s visibility, identity, and influence in the national landscape.
For decades, Oromo Australians have been rendered statistically invisible, their rich heritage and growing numbers absorbed into broader, less specific categories such as “Ethiopian” or “Other African.” This lack of precise data has meant that government funding, language services, youth programs, and multicultural support have often failed to reach the community in proportion to its actual size. But this year, every Oromo person holds the power to change that narrative—simply by identifying clearly and proudly as Oromo.
The Power of Two Answers
Community advocates are spreading a clear and urgent message: On Census Day, every household must take two decisive steps.
- For Ancestry: Choose “Oromo.”
- For Language Spoken at Home: Choose “Oromo/Afaan Oromo.”
These two seemingly simple answers are, in fact, powerful political and social tools. They ensure that the community is not only counted accurately but also recognised in federal and state government planning. When the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) compiles its data, accurate Oromo responses directly translate into evidence-based allocations for services, from interpreting and translation resources to culturally appropriate aged care and youth mentorship initiatives.
A History of Invisibility
The numbers from previous Census years paint a sobering picture. In the 2021 Census, only 2,578 people recorded Oromo ancestry, while 4,310 reported speaking Afaan Oromo at home. The significant gap between these two figures suggests that many community members—perhaps out of habit, misunderstanding, or a lack of clear guidance—did not fully self-identify.
Community leader Aliye Geleto, who has been at the forefront of the awareness campaign, emphasises the stakes involved. “If the Oromo public wants to have any influence on any entity—whether government, media, or civil society—we must first match their success with our own organised success. Being counted in the Census is the first and most fundamental step,” he stated.
A Community-Wide Mobilisation
The campaign is now a grassroots movement. Community organisations, cultural associations, and religious institutions are being urged to spread the message through every channel available. Social media platforms, community radio, WhatsApp groups, and local gatherings are buzzing with the hashtags #OromoCensus2026 and #StandUpAndBeCounted.
The process itself has been made simpler than ever. Households will receive a unique code in the mail, allowing them to complete the Census online quickly and securely. The deadline is clear: every form must be submitted on or before 11 August 2026.
Organisers are emphasising that every member of the household—children, youth, adults, and elders—must be recorded as Oromo. “When a family of five all ticks ‘Oromo,’ that is five voices that were previously silent. When a thousand families do it, that is a community that can no longer be ignored,” one community organiser explained.
Beyond Numbers: A Future of Influence
This visibility is not merely an exercise in statistics. It is a declaration of existence, a demand for recognition, and a blueprint for organised success. Accurate Census data will enable the Oromo community to advocate effectively for:
- Language Services: Afaan Oromo interpreters in hospitals, courts, and government offices.
- Cultural Events: Funding for annual Oromo cultural festivals, music, and arts.
- Youth Programs: Mentorship and leadership initiatives tailored to second-generation Oromo Australians.
- Multicultural Support: Targeted social services that understand the unique experiences of Oromo refugees and migrants.
As Australia continues to evolve as a multicultural nation, the Oromo community has a unique chance to ensure its voice is heard in the halls of power. The Census is not just a government form; it is a mirror reflecting the nation’s diversity, and for too long, the Oromo reflection has been blurred.
A Final Plea
As 11 August approaches, the message is clear: Choose Oromo. Speak Oromo. Record Oromo. Share widely.
This is not just about being counted. It is about being seen. It is about being heard. And it is about building a future where the Oromo community in Australia is recognised for its true size, strength, and potential.
“Our future influence begins with our numbers,” Aliye Geleto reminds the community. “On 11 August 2026, let every Oromo in Australia stand up and be counted.”
#Oromo #OromoInAustralia #Census2026 #StandUpAndBeCounted #AfaanOromo
A New Dawn for the Oromo: The Proclamation of the Michilleen Jahan Bachoo Seera Caffee Baldhoo Gahate
By Daandii Ragabaa
BALDHOO, OROMIA – In a historic and vibrant ceremony that resonated with the weight of tradition and the promise of the future, the Michilleen Jahan Bachoo have officially proclaimed the long-anticipated Seera Caffee (Coffee Ceremony Law) to the Tuulamaa community. After a year of rigorous deliberation and community consultation, the law was ratified and publicly announced on Saturday, marking a pivotal moment in the region’s governance and cultural preservation.
The event, held at the Awaash Baldhoo grounds, was not merely a procedural formality but a powerful reaffirmation of Oromo identity and self-determination. Thousands gathered as the Michilleen (the clan leaders) stood before their people to declare the new legal framework that will guide the sacred institution of the Caffee, the traditional Oromo coffee ceremony that serves as a cornerstone of social and political life.
The Proclamation of the Law
The air was thick with the aroma of coffee and incense as the Michilleen, led by the distinguished figure of Jahan Bachoo, addressed the assembly. The Seera Caffee, which had been under review and debate, was officially and publicly announced, bringing clarity and structure to the cultural practice. This act symbolized the community’s commitment to preserving its heritage through codified law.
In a parallel and equally significant move, the Michilleen also implemented the long-standing Seera Dhaka-Koratti, formally electing and announcing the new leaders (the “Saglii” or nine) at various levels of the Gadaa system. The process was hailed for its transparency and adherence to traditional democratic principles.
The Installation of Leadership
The heart of the ceremony was the formal installation of the new leadership. The Michilleen appointed and inaugurated the leadership for the Awaash Baldhoo region, with a new eight-year term of governance being proclaimed. The announcement of the new Abbaa Gadaa (the leader of the Gadaa system) was met with resounding cheers and the sounding of traditional horns.
One of the most poignant moments was the public blessing and transfer of power to Fissahaa Fiixa, the newly appointed Abbaa Gadaa for the Tuulamaa Jahan Bachoo Lammeechaa Lammaa Alangee. The ritual, conducted with the pouring of milk and honey by elders and spiritual leaders, symbolized purity, abundance, and the sacred continuity of the Gadaa cycle. The new leader was presented with the symbols of his office, including the traditional staff and headdress, amidst ululations and prayers for wisdom.
Highlights of the Ceremony
- Public Announcement: The ratified laws were proclaimed to the entire community, ensuring that every clan member was aware of their rights and responsibilities under the new Seera.
- Blessings and Rituals: The occasion was marked by the ritual of “Damma Biifudhaan,” where honey and milk were poured by scholars (Hayyuu) and spiritual leaders to bless the new leadership and the land. The ritual also included a symbolic act of touching the earth with a ceremonial staff, invoking a prayer for rain and prosperity, as the heavens answered with a gentle shower that was seen as a divine omen.
- Reconstruction of the Gadaa Council: A significant focus was placed on rebuilding the council of Oromo scholars (Hayyota Gadaa Tuulamaa), with prominent figures who have played a crucial role in the process being honored and reinstated.
- Election of Officials: The new “Saglii” (nine leaders) for the Michillee at various levels were officially elected and their appointments confirmed.
The Jahan Bachoo Lineage
The event was particularly significant for the Jahan Bachoo, a major Oromo clan with a presence in multiple zones, including Sh/Ki/Lixaa, Sh/Lixaa, and Sh/Kaabaa, with a diaspora stretching across all of Oromia. The Jahan Bachoo clan is a confederation of sub-clans including Iluu, Garasuu, Meettaa, Keekuu, Uruu, and Waajituu. The unity displayed at the Baldhoon gathering underscored the enduring strength of the Gadaa system as a tool for uniting the Oromo people.
A Celebration of Culture and Continuity
The ceremony was a resounding success, blending the solemnity of law-making with the joy of cultural celebration. Traditional songs, dances, and the rhythmic chanting of the Gadaa system filled the air, creating an atmosphere of profound unity and hope. The proclamation of the Seera Caffee and the installation of the new Gadaa leaders marks a new chapter for the Tuulamaa community, one that honors the past while boldly stepping into the future.
As the sun set over the plains of Baldhoon, the community dispersed with a renewed sense of purpose, confident that the spirit of the Gadaa – with its principles of equality, justice, and consensus – will continue to guide them for generations to come.
#Oromoo #Tuulamaa #Gadaa #Michillee
Adaamaa: The City of Many Names
In the heart of Ethiopia’s Oromia region, nestled along the banks of the Awash River, lies a city that has worn many names like layers of history. To the Oromo, it is Adaamaa —a name given by a man. To others, it is Nazareth —a name imposed by empire. And to the elders who still remember, it is a land of ancient villages with names that whisper of a time before the city ever existed.
This is the story of Adaamaa, a city whose very name is a testament to the resilience of a people and the ever-shifting tides of power.
The Man Behind the Name
The name “Adaamaa” is not a random word. It comes from Adaamaa Buttaa, a man of the Torban Oboo clan . His story is woven into the fabric of the city’s founding, and the elders of his lineage have kept his memory alive through generations.
When the name was changed to “Nazareth” after 1948 G.C. , it was a wound that cut deep. The Oromo elders of the Torban Oboo clan responded with a biting poem, a lament that still echoes in the oral traditions of the region:
“Adaamaa gurrarraan yaasee, yaasee,
Dabalaa rabbiitu baasee,
Haylasillaseen kunumti ni maraatee?
Akka namaatti, lafa kiristinnaa kaasee”
Translated, it speaks of Adaamaa rising from the darkness, of God lifting the lowly, and of Haile Selassie’s attempt to claim the land as Christian territory. It was a poetic protest against the erasure of Oromo identity from a place that had long been theirs.
Before the City: A Landscape of Villages
Before Adaamaa was a city, before the name “Nazareth” was ever uttered, this land was home to Oromo villages. The Karrayyuu Oromo and the Torban Oboo clan lived in scattered settlements across the area . These were not empty lands waiting to be claimed; they were thriving communities with names that told stories of their own.
According to scholars like Alemayehu Haile, Corree (or Chorre) was not the name of a clan but the name of a place—a piece of Oromo land . The Karrayyuu Oromo called this area by that name long before any city was built. The villages of Kurriftuu, Sololoqaa, Qobboo, Ulkaa, and Marguu dotted the landscape, each with its own identity and history .
The site where the city would eventually rise was known as Didibbisa before the railway station was built . The river that flows through it, now called Hawaas, was known as Malkaa Hiddaa —a name that evokes the deep, flowing waters that sustained life in this land .
The Birth of a City
The modern city of Adaamaa was born from a single structure: a railway station . When the railway line connecting Addis Ababa to Djibouti was constructed, a station was built at this location, and the settlement began to grow around it. The train brought commerce, commerce brought people, and people brought a city into being.
In the 1940s, a massive wave of development transformed the settlement. An Armenian businessman named Armank Bagadsoniya built many of the city’s early shops and markets . He left a lasting mark on the city’s commercial landscape. When Bagadsoniya died without children, his wealth and property passed to his wife, Almaz Abboye . It was a small story of love and legacy in a city that was rapidly changing.
The Forced Change to Nazareth
The transformation of Adaamaa into Nazareth was not a natural evolution—it was a deliberate act of political will. Dejazmach Sahlu Difaye, the governor of the city at the time, was the one who first erected a sign reading “Nazareth” in front of the railway station . The name was chosen, some say, to evoke the biblical city of Nazareth, aligning the growing settlement with Christian imagery and imperial ambition.
The renaming did not stop at the city itself. The oil company changed its name from “Kabanus” to “Nazareth Oil.” The American missionary school, the Abebe Andarge Hotel, the NAFC pasta factory—all adopted the new name . It was an effort to erase Adaamaa from the map, to rebrand a city that had been born of Oromo land and Oromo labor as something foreign.
Only the Akropool Palace Hotel stubbornly held onto its original name, a quiet act of resistance in a city that was being renamed piece by piece.
A City Under Administration
For decades, Adaamaa—now Nazareth—was administered under the Shawa Xeqlay Gizat (the Shewa province) . It became the capital of the Awrajaa Erer fi Karrayyuu (Erer and Karrayyuu District) . The name “Erer” represents the Torban Oboo Oromo, while “Karrayyuu” refers to the Karrayyuu Oromo . The district was further divided into the Bosat woreda (district), with Oolancitii serving as the woreda capital . This administrative structure, imposed from above, attempted to compartmentalize and control the Oromo people who had lived in these lands for centuries.
The Modern City
The city’s infrastructure grew with the times. The asphalt road connecting Adaamaa to Finfinnee (Addis Ababa) was constructed in 1963 G.C. , linking the city more closely to the capital. The city’s internal asphalt roads were completed in 1964 G.C. , paving the way for modernization.
Yet even as the roads were paved and the signs were changed, the memory of Adaamaa persisted. It survived in the songs of the elders, in the poems passed down through generations, and in the hearts of a people who refused to let their history be erased.
Adaamaa Today
Today, the city is officially known as Adama (the modernized spelling of Adaamaa) in government documents, though many still call it Nazareth in everyday speech. It has grown into one of Ethiopia’s largest cities, a bustling hub of commerce, education, and industry. But beneath the surface, the old tensions remain.
The story of Adaamaa is a story of names. Each name—Adaamaa, Nazareth, Didibbisa, Malkaa Hiddaa, Corree—represents a different layer of history, a different claim to the land. It is a testament to the enduring power of language and memory, and a reminder that a city is never just a city. It is a living archive of the people who built it, named it, and loved it.
As the Oromo elders said in their lament, “Adaamaa gurrarraan yaasee, yaasee” —Adaamaa rose from the darkness. And despite all attempts to rename it, Adaamaa still rises.
Sources: Local History of Ethiopia /Nazareth/ p-230, Nordic Africa Institute; Alemayehu Haile – Seenaa Oromoo Hanga Jaarraa 20ffaa – p-367; Journal of Ethiopia – 1966 – No-2 – pp-362-373.
The Lion’s Roar: How Wasanuu Didoo Carried Oromo Music Through Darkness to Light
By Daandii Ragabaa
In the shadowed years when speaking Afan Oromo was itself an act of resistance, a young man from the heart of Oromia picked up his father’s masenqo and began to sing. He did not know then that his voice would become the soundtrack of a people’s struggle, or that his songs would outlive the very darkness that sought to silence them.
His name is Wasanuu Didoo—and in the story of modern Oromo music, he is the lion who refused to be caged.
The Son of the Masenqo
To understand Wasanuu is to understand that music, for him, was never a choice. It was inheritance.
Born into a family where the masenqo—the traditional one-stringed fiddle of Oromo culture—was as familiar as breath, Wasanuu learned his art at the feet of his father, Didoo Booraa. In their household, the day did not begin without the plucking of strings, the rasp of the bow, the call-and-response that connected the living to the ancestors.
“When Wasanuu sang, Didoo played,” an elder once recalled. “The father and son were not two artists but one spirit divided between hands and voice.”
The music they made together was not for fame or fortune. It was for something far more ancient: the preservation of a people’s soul.
Singing Through the Long Night
The era in which Wasanuu rose to prominence was one of profound hardship. These were the dark years when Afan Oromo was suppressed, when cultural expression was monitored, when even a song could be interpreted as sedition.
But Wasanuu Didoo did something unprecedented.
He was among the first to take Oromo music and arrange it for ensemble performance—transforming the solitary sound of the masenqo into something that could fill concert halls and rally crowds. He brought Oromo melody to the stage at a time when such visibility was dangerous, and he did so with a courage that earned him the title of pioneer.
“Before Wasanuu, Oromo music was something you heard in villages, in homes, in secret gatherings,” writes music historian Tilahun Gemeda. “He was the bridge that carried it into the public sphere, into the consciousness of the nation.”
The Songs That Would Not Die
Many of Wasanuu’s compositions from that era remain unmatched in their resonance. Two in particular stand as monuments to his vision.
“Alam mangistaata bira deemna” (“We Walk Alongside the System”) and “Maasaan gamaa lafa hinbaatu” (“The Dance Floor Does Not Touch the Ground”) were not merely songs—they were coded messages, poetic declarations that navigated the narrow straits between expression and survival.
His lyrics are layered with xiiqii—the Oromo tradition of poetic irony and metaphor that says one thing while meaning another. To the uninitiated, his words might seem simple. To those who understood, they were revolutionary.
A verse from one of his most famous compositions captures this perfectly:
“Sangaa oofaa jennaan, oofnee baane Shaggariinii
Kaan shaniin bitata, kuun shantamaan bita gariini
Yaa alaamaa qawwee, taa’an tola Labaniinii
Labaniin ni iyyaa, maarree yoo du’e jabaan gaafa biyyaa”
Roughly translated:
“They said drive the ox, and we drove them out, Shaggarii
Others buy with eight, this one buys with five and a half
O sign of the spear, sit well with Labanii
Labanii cries out, but if the strong man dies, the day belongs to the nation”
To sing of Labaniin—one of the legendary Oromo warriors—was to remind the people that resistance did not die with one generation. When the father falls, the son must rise. When one voice is silenced, a hundred more must take up the cry.
The Wellspring of Tradition
Wasanuu Didoo is often described as the foundation stone of Oromo art—the bu’uura from which all else flows.
His innovation did not lie in invention but in reverence. He reached backward to pull forward, drawing from the deep well of Oromo oral tradition and reimagining it for a new age. His rhythms carried the pulse of the qeerroo; his melodies echoed the arsii; his lyrics breathed the philosophy of the gadaa system.
When he sang, he was not alone on that stage. His father’s spirit sang with him. The ancestors sang with him. And the future—unborn and unshaped—sang through him as well.
The Spreading Light
From the household of Didoo Booraa, the fire spread.
The Oromo art movement that began in that modest home reached outward like water finding its level. It flowed to the Afran Qal’oo, to the great cities, to the diaspora. Artists who came after—many of whom owe their careers to the path Wasanuu cleared—remember him as the one who opened the door.
“Wasanuu Didoo is the gateway,” says contemporary Oromo musician Ali Birra, himself a legend in his own right. “He was the one who made it possible for us to dream.”
Indeed, Ali Birra would follow in Wasanuu’s footsteps, carrying the tradition even further, but he would be the first to acknowledge that without Wasanuu’s pioneering work, the road might never have been paved.
The Echo That Remains
Today, the songs of Wasanuu Didoo continue to be performed. They are played on radio stations in Addis Ababa and in cafes in Minneapolis. They are sung by grandmothers in rural villages and by university students in global capitals.
The world has changed since those dark years. Afan Oromo is now spoken freely, broadcast widely, celebrated publicly. But the music of Wasanuu Didoo does not feel like a historical artifact. It feels alive—because it was never really about the time in which it was composed.
It was about something timeless.
His lyrics, with their layered meanings and poetic resilience, speak to any generation facing oppression. His rhythms, rooted in the earth of Oromia, connect people across distances and decades. And his example—an artist who chose courage over comfort, purpose over safety—continues to inspire those who pick up instruments or lift their voices in the name of cultural preservation.
The Lion’s Legacy
They called him the lion—and for good reason. Like the leenca of the Oromo highlands, Wasanuu Didoo was both powerful and protective. He did not roar for himself. He roared for his people.
He carried a culture on his shoulders when no one else would. He sang songs that could have been his downfall. He looked into the darkness and found the courage to sing anyway.
In the annals of Oromo art, many names will be written. But at the very beginning—at the source, at the kallacha from which the river flows—there is one name that cannot be erased.
Wasanuu Didoo. The pioneer. The foundation. The lion who roared, and in roaring, set a people free.
“His strings are the fabric of freedom. His words are woven with irony and depth. And that irony—that xiiqii—it carries you, it holds you, it makes you feel something beyond yourself.”
— An Oromo elder reflecting on the music of Wasanuu Didoo
Author’s Note: Wasanuu Didoo’s contributions to Oromo music and culture remain largely undocumented in mainstream historical accounts, but among the Oromo people, his legacy is preserved in the songs that continue to be passed from generation to generation. This feature story draws from oral histories, musical scholarship, and the enduring presence of his work in contemporary Oromo cultural life.
Advocacy for Oromia 