Category Archives: Election
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.
Understanding the Gadaa System: Peaceful Power Transfer in Oromo Culture
By Daandii Ragabaa
WAXABAJJII 07, 2018 E.C. (June 2026 G.C.) – The cycle has turned. The baton has passed. A new chapter in the centuries-old democracy of the Oromo people has begun.
Today, at the sacred site of Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti, the Walharkaa Fuudhinsa Alangee – the formal transfer of the Baallii (ceremonial baton of office) – was conducted for the 71st cycle of the Tuulama Gadaa. Power moved peacefully from the Gadaa Meelbaa grade to the Gadaa Muudanaa grade.
And at the heart of this ceremony stood one man: Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa, who received the Alangee and was inaugurated as the new Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo.
The Sacred Transfer
The Gadaa system, recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, operates on an eight-year cycle. Each cycle has a name, a purpose, and a set of leaders who carry the responsibilities of governance, conflict resolution, ritual observance, and community welfare.
The 70th cycle, Gadaa Meelbaa, has now completed its term. The 71st cycle, Gadaa Muudanaa, has begun. And with this transition, the Alangee – the symbol of legitimate authority – has been placed into the hands of a new leader.
The ceremony at Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti was not a political rally. There were no speeches attacking opponents, no promises that would be broken tomorrow, no expensive campaigns or negative advertisements. There was only ritual, tradition, blessing, and the quiet, solemn transfer of a baton that represents the collective will of the Tuulama Oromo.
Elders presided. The community witnessed. The Caffee assembly gave its consent. And Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa stepped into his role – not as a conqueror, but as a servant. Not as a king, but as a caretaker.
Who Is Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa?
Little is known by the wider public about the new Abbaa Gadaa. This is not unusual. The Gadaa system does not produce celebrities. It produces leaders who are chosen not for their charisma or their wealth but for their wisdom, their integrity, and their commitment to the community.
Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa emerges from within the Gadaa Muudanaa grade – a cohort of men who have been preparing for leadership for years, even decades. The Gadaa system does not allow anyone to simply declare themselves a leader. One must be born into a Gadaa grade, grow through its ranks, learn its laws, participate in its rituals, and be recognized by elders and community members as ready to lead.
The new Abbaa Gadaa has now received the Alangee. He has been blessed. He has been installed. And for the next eight years, he will carry the weight of the Tuulama Oromo on his shoulders.
The Significance of the 71st Cycle
Why does the 71st cycle matter? Why should anyone outside the Gadaa system care about the transfer of the Alangee?
The answer is simple: because the Gadaa system represents an alternative – a different way of organizing political life that does not depend on elections, parties, or constitutions. It depends on tradition, consensus, and the moral authority of elders.
In a world where democracy is in crisis – where trust in elections is collapsing, where leaders refuse to leave office, where political violence is normalized – the Gadaa system offers lessons. It shows that it is possible to transfer power peacefully. It shows that term limits can be respected without constitutional debates. It shows that leadership can be a burden to be carried, not a prize to be seized.
The 71st cycle of the Tuulama Gadaa begins at a moment of great challenge for the Oromo people. Displacement continues. Political repression persists. Economic hardships weigh heavily on ordinary families. The youth, the Qeerroo and Qarree, are restless. The diaspora watches from afar, hoping for change.
Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa inherits all of this. His Alangee is not just a symbol of authority. It is a symbol of responsibility. He will be expected to mediate disputes, to speak for his people, to preserve the Safuu (moral code), and to ensure that the Gadaa cycle continues when his eight years are complete.
Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti: The Sacred Ground
The ceremony took place at Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti, a site of profound spiritual and political importance for the Tuulama Oromo. It is here that the Gadaa grades gather, that the Baallii is transferred, and that the community reaffirms its commitment to the Gadaa way of life.
To stand at Dhaka Koraatti is to stand on ground that has witnessed centuries of Oromo democracy. The same rituals performed today were performed by the 1st Abbaa Gadaa, and the 20th, and the 50th. The continuity is not broken. The cycle has never stopped – not during the expansion of the Ethiopian empire, not during the Derg years, not during the periods of greatest repression.
The Gadaa system survived because it is not a building that can be destroyed or a law that can be repealed. It is a living tradition, passed from father to son, from elder to youth, from grade to grade. And today, at Dhaka Koraatti, it survived again.
The Role of the New Abbaa Gadaa
What will Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa do with his eight years?
He will preside over the Caffee assembly, where community decisions are made by consensus. He will mediate disputes – between families, between clans, between individuals – using Seera (customary law) and Safuu (moral principle). He will lead rituals, including the annual Irreecha thanksgiving ceremonies. He will represent the Tuulama Oromo in relations with other Gadaa groups – the Borana, the Gujii, the Karrayyuu, the Arsi, and others. He will ensure that the next grade, Gadaa [the following cycle], is properly trained and prepared to receive the Alangee when his term ends.
He will not have a palace. He will not have a salary. He will not have a security detail. He will walk among his people, listen to their concerns, and carry their burdens.
This is what the Gadaa system demands. This is what the Alangee represents.
The Meaning of “Alangee”
The word Alangee refers to the ceremonial baton or sceptre that symbolizes legitimate authority within the Gadaa system. It is not a weapon. It is not a scepter of domination. It is a symbol of responsibility – a reminder that authority is granted by the community and must be exercised for the community’s benefit.
When Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa received the Alangee today, he did not receive a license to command. He received a charge to serve. The Alangee will accompany him to Caffee assemblies, to ritual ceremonies, and to community gatherings. And when his eight years are complete, he will pass it – peacefully, ceremonially, joyfully – to the next Abbaa Gadaa.
That is the Gadaa way. That is the Oromo way. That is the way of a people who understood democracy long before the word was invented.
Tagany Bafiqaadu: The Reporter
This report was brought to us by Tagany Bafiqaadu of AMN PLUS. Journalists who cover Gadaa ceremonies occupy a unique position – they are not merely observers but also participants in the preservation of Oromo heritage. Tagany’s presence at Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti ensured that this moment was documented, that the names were recorded, and that the story will be told to future generations.
In an era of digital media and instant news, the Gadaa system might seem anachronistic. But as Tagany’s reporting reminds us, there is nothing outdated about peaceful transitions of power, community-based governance, and leaders who serve rather than rule.
Looking Ahead: Eight Years of Gadaa Muudanaa
The Gadaa Muudanaa cycle now begins. For the next eight years, Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa will lead the Tuulama Oromo. He will face challenges – some predictable, some unimaginable. He will make decisions that will be debated and discussed. He will be praised by some and criticized by others.
But he will not be overthrown. He will not be assassinated. He will not cling to power when his term ends. When the eight years are complete, he will hand the Alangee to the next Abbaa Gadaa and step back into the community as an elder, watching as the cycle turns without him.
That is the promise of the Gadaa system. That is the guarantee written not in a constitution but in the hearts and minds of the Oromo people.
A Final Reflection
Today, at Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti, the Walharkaa Fuudhinsa Alangee was conducted. The 70th cycle, Gadaa Meelbaa, stepped aside. The 71st cycle, Gadaa Muudanaa, stepped forward. And Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa received the Alangee and became the new Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo.
It was a quiet ceremony, witnessed by those who understand its meaning. There were no television cameras broadcasting live to the world. There were no world leaders sending congratulations. There was only the community, the elders, the sacred ground, and the Alangee passing from one hand to another.
But sometimes the quietest ceremonies are the most profound. Sometimes the traditions that receive the least attention are the ones that matter most.
The Gadaa cycle has turned. The 71st Abbaa Gadaa has been installed. And the Oromo people, as they have for centuries, continue to govern themselves in their own way, on their own terms, under their own sacred trees.
Gadaatu Fala. The cycle continues. The Alangee is in good hands.
Daandii Ragabaa
Finfinne
Report Source: AMN PLUS, Waxabajjii 07, 2018 E.C.
Reporter: Tagany Bafiqaadu
Location: Ardaa Jilaa Dhaka Koraatti
Event: Walharkaa Fuudhinsa Alangee Gadaa Tuulamaa (71st Gadaa Cycle Transfer from Gadaa Meelbaa to Gadaa Muudanaa)
New Abbaa Gadaa: Abbaa Gadaa Geetuu Taliilaa Tufaa
Meeting the Abbaa Gadaa: A Portrait of Continuity and Change
By Daandii Ragabaa
FINFINNE – They stand together in a single frame — three men, three generations of leadership, three keepers of a cycle that has turned for centuries. The photograph captures them shoulder to shoulder, not as rivals or predecessors, but as custodians of the same sacred trust.
On the left, Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo of the Gadaa Roobalee. In the center, Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo of the Gadaa Birmajii. On the right, Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa of the Gadaa Meelbaa.
They are the 68th, 69th, and 70th Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo. Their photograph is not merely a portrait. It is a visual document of continuity, of peaceful transition, and of a democratic tradition that has endured for longer than most nations on earth.
The Gadaa Cycle: A Living Democracy
To understand the significance of this photograph, one must first understand the Gadaa system itself. Recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, the Gadaa system is an indigenous governance framework that has regulated the political, social, economic, and ritual life of the Oromo people for generations.
Every eight years, power cycles peacefully from one Gadaa grade to the next. The Abbaa Gadaa — the father or leader of the Gadaa — serves as the highest authority during his term, presiding over the Caffee assembly, mediating disputes, leading rituals, and ensuring that the laws of Seera and the moral code of Safuu are upheld.
At the end of eight years, he does not cling to power. He does not manipulate the constitution to extend his term. He does not imprison his opponents. He steps down. He hands the Baallii — the ceremonial baton symbolizing authority — to the next grade. And he becomes an elder advisor, watching as the cycle turns without him.
This photograph captures three such leaders at a rare moment of convergence: the 68th, the 69th, and the 70th Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo, standing together in a single frame.
Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo – Gadaa Roobalee (68th)
Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo led during the Gadaa Roobalee cycle. His tenure, like all Gadaa terms, lasted eight years — a period that coincided with significant challenges and transformations for the Tuulama Oromo.
Those who knew him speak of an Abbaa Gadaa who prioritized unity. The Tuulama, whose traditional territories encircle Finfinne (Addis Ababa), have long been at the crossroads of Ethiopian political life. Their proximity to the seat of imperial and state power brought both opportunities and vulnerabilities. Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa worked to keep his people united in the face of pressures that sought to divide them.
His name, Nagawoo, carries echoes of Nagaa — peace, tranquility, well-being. It was not merely a name but a mission. During his term, he mediated disputes between clans, presided over Caffee assemblies that drew hundreds of participants, and ensured that the Gadaa calendar was observed with full ritual precision.
When his eight years concluded, he did what every Abbaa Gadaa before him had done: he stepped aside. He placed the Baallii into the hands of the next grade and became an advisor, watching as the cycle continued without him.
Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo – Gadaa Birmajii (69th)
The baton passed to Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo of the Gadaa Birmajii cycle. His term came at a moment when the Gadaa system itself was facing new pressures — modernization, urbanization, displacement, and the ongoing struggle for Oromo cultural and political rights.
Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa proved to be a steady hand. He understood that the Gadaa system could not survive if it remained frozen in the past. It had to adapt while preserving its core principles. Under his leadership, the Caffee assemblies began to incorporate new voices — including a greater role for women and youth, who had sometimes been marginalized in traditional structures.
He also worked to strengthen the connections between the Tuulama Gadaa and other Oromo communities — the Borana, the Gujii, the Karrayyuu, the Arsi, and others. The Gadaa system, he argued, was not the property of one clan or region. It was the heritage of all Oromo people, and it would survive only if it remained a living, breathing institution, not a museum piece.
When his term ended, he handed the Baallii to the next grade with the same grace with which he had received it. The cycle turned.
Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa – Gadaa Meelbaa (70th)
Today, the Baallii rests in the hands of Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa of the Gadaa Meelbaa cycle, the 70th Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo. He stands in the photograph as the current bearer of a tradition that stretches back centuries.
Abbaa Gadaa Goobana inherited a system that, despite its resilience, faces real challenges. Young people, educated in modern schools and absorbed by digital media, sometimes know less about Gadaa than their grandparents did. Migration to cities has scattered communities that once gathered regularly under Odaa trees. And the Ethiopian state, despite constitutional recognition of customary law, has not always made space for Gadaa institutions to operate freely.
Yet Abbaa Gadaa Goobana is not discouraged. He travels extensively, visiting Gadaa centers across Tuulama and beyond. He speaks to youth in language they understand, connecting the principles of Gadaa — consensus, term limits, accountability, community — to the democratic aspirations of the present generation. He works with scholars to document Gadaa laws and rituals. And he presides over Caffee assemblies where disputes are resolved not through courts and lawyers but through dialogue and consensus.
His photograph with his two predecessors is not just a formality. It is a statement. It says: The Gadaa lives. The cycle continues. The 68th handed to the 69th, who handed to the 70th. And when my time is done, I will hand to the 71st.
What the Photograph Captures
Look closely at the three men in the photograph. They are dressed differently — some in traditional Oromo attire, others in modern clothing. They stand at different angles. Their expressions vary — one smiling, one solemn, one in between.
But what unites them is visible to those who know what to look for. It is the quiet confidence of men who understand that they are not the center of the story. The Gadaa system is the center. They are merely its temporary servants.
The photograph captures:
- Continuity – Three leaders, one cycle. The 68th, 69th, and 70th Abbaa Gadaa standing together as living proof that the Gadaa system did not die with the past. It is alive, and it is here.
- Peaceful Transition – Unlike many political systems in Africa and beyond, where leaders cling to power until they are overthrown or die in office, the Gadaa system institutionalizes the transfer of authority. These three men did not fight each other. They did not imprison each other. They handed the baton and remained friends.
- Shared Purpose – Despite their different personalities and the different challenges they faced, all three share a common commitment: to preserve, protect, and promote the Gadaa system for future generations.
- Humanity – They are not icons on a pedestal. They are men — fathers, grandfathers, farmers, elders. They have known joy and sorrow, success and failure. And yet they carry a weight that few others can understand: the weight of a tradition that depends on them.
The Significance of the 68th, 69th, and 70th
Why does it matter that we can name the 68th, 69th, and 70th Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo? Why does it matter that we can see their faces, know their names, and trace the cycle through their terms?
It matters because indigenous systems are too often treated as timeless and unchanging — as if they exist outside of history. But the Gadaa system has a history. It has specific leaders who faced specific challenges at specific moments. The 68th Abbaa Gadaa was not the same as the 60th. The challenges of the Gadaa Birmajii cycle were not identical to those of the Gadaa Meelbaa cycle.
By naming these leaders and documenting their terms, we resist the temptation to treat Gadaa as folklore. We insist that it is real governance, with real leaders, real achievements, and real accountability.
The photograph of Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo, Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo, and Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa — the 68th, 69th, and 70th — is a challenge to those who would dismiss indigenous systems as primitive. It says: Look. Here is democracy without elections. Here is accountability without constitutions. Here is term limits without term-limit debates. This is not primitive. This is sophisticated. This is Oromo.
The Future: The 71st and Beyond
As Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa continues his term, preparations are already underway for the next transition. The Gadaa grade that will produce the 71st Abbaa Gadaa is already being trained. The young men who will one day lead are already learning the laws, the rituals, and the responsibilities.
The cycle does not stop. It cannot stop. Because the Gadaa system is not a building that can be destroyed. It is a river that flows. It can be diverted, blocked, or polluted — but it always finds a way back to its course.
When the 71st Abbaa Gadaa takes the Baallii, he will stand where Abbaa Gadaa Goobana now stands. And one day, perhaps, a photograph will be taken of the 70th, 71st, and 72nd standing together — a new generation of custodians, continuing the cycle.
A Final Reflection
The photograph of the 68th, 69th, and 70th Abbaa Gadaa of the Tuulama Oromo is a small image. It occupies a fraction of a page or a corner of a screen. But it contains a universe.
It contains the memory of centuries of Oromo self-governance. It contains the proof that democracy did not arrive in Ethiopia with the first multiparty election. It has been here all along, under Odaa trees, in Caffee assemblies, in the peaceful transfer of the Baallii from one hand to the next.
It contains a challenge to the present: Will we honor this legacy? Will we learn from it? Will we ensure that the 71st, 72nd, and 100th Abbaa Gadaa will have a system to lead?
And it contains a promise: As long as the Gadaa cycle turns, the Oromo people will remember who they are. They will remember that they had governance before colonization, democracy before occupation, and leaders who knew when to lead and when to step aside.
The 68th handed to the 69th. The 69th handed to the 70th. And when the time comes, the 70th will hand to the 71st. The cycle turns. The Gadaa lives. And the photograph remains.
*Daandii Ragabaa is a journalist based in Finfinne covering family stories, displacement, and the human dimensions of political history across Oromia and Ethiopia.
Captions for Reference:
| Position | Name | Gadaa Cycle | Order |
|---|---|---|---|
| Left | Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo | Gadaa Roobalee | 68th |
| Center | Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo | Gadaa Birmajii | 69th |
| Right | Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaa | Gadaa Meelbaa | 70th |
Ethiopia’s Election: 143 Polling Stations Closed Amid Security Crisis
By Daandii Ragabaa
Finfinne
FINFINNE – The hopeful hum of a nation casting its ballots was silenced in 143 corners of Ethiopia today, their shuttered polling stations standing as stark monuments to the country’s persistent security fractures.
As voters lined up under a heavy sky in the capital, the chairperson of the National Election Board of Ethiopia (NEBE) delivered a sobering update from behind a lectern at the Skylight Hotel. “Security concerns,” Chairperson Melatwork Hailu explained, have forced the complete closure of 143 polling stations across the Amhara and Oromia regions. Their doors never opened.
But the tally of disenfranchisement does not end there. In a separate, more chaotic category, an undisclosed number of additional stations managed to open only to be violently silenced, forced to shut their doors early as the security situation on the ground deteriorated.
The electoral map is now pocked with dark spots. In the districts of Kersa, Kutaber, Gilolopa, and Gosache, voting began with the morning bell only to be interrupted by unseen threats. For the citizens there, the act of democracy was reduced to a waiting game—one that, by late afternoon, appeared lost. It remains unclear exactly how many voters will be unable to cast their ballots, their civic voices swallowed by regional instability.
Melatwork tried to offer a counterpoint of resilience amid the disorder. Of the more than 52,000 polling stations erected across the sprawling federal landscape, she noted, over 50,000 did open on time. Yet nearly 700 others suffered delays—not all from bullets or intimidation, but from the tangled knots of technology.
Across the country, long queues snaked around schoolyards and community halls, not just from enthusiasm but from frustration. Election officials pinned the sluggish pace on complications with the online voter registration data. In a nation still bridging the digital divide, the glitches led to hours of waiting, with fingers stained not by ink, but by restless anxiety.
The day, already heavy with political weight, took a tragic turn long before the polls closed. Melatwork disclosed that an election facilitator—one of the thousands of citizens who had volunteered to shepherd this democratic process—lost his life earlier today. He died not in a clash with security forces, nor at the hands of militia, but in a mundane yet devastating motorcycle accident in Enamorena Enayer, deep in the Gurage Zone.
He was, the chairperson noted quietly, simply trying to help.
As the sun sets on this seventh national election, the image that lingers is not of the ballots cast, but of the 143 doors that never opened—each one a silent referendum on whether, in parts of this country, peace can arrive before the next election day.
Daandii Ragabaa is a journalist based in Finfinne covering political and social affairs across Ethiopia.
The Calculus of Participation: Why Ethiopia’s ABO Party Joined the 7th Round Election – and Its Three Options Ahead
FINFINNE – At first glance, the decision seemed paradoxical. After boycotting multiple national elections over the past decade, the opposition ABO (a pseudonym for a major Oromo opposition party in this feature) suddenly threw its weight into Ethiopia’s 7th round national polls. Skeptics called it a climbdown. Loyalists called it strategy.
The party itself offered a blunt two-part explanation – one legal, one political – that has since become the subject of intense debate across opposition circles and government offices alike.
“We participated for two reasons,” a senior ABO strategist told this reporter on condition of anonymity because he is not authorized to speak to foreign media. “First, the Electoral Board’s own rules say that missing two consecutive national elections would de‑legalize us as a political entity. Second, we saw a gap: we need to mobilize the people, teach our policies and programs. Sitting out does not fill that gap.”
But the same strategist was quick to douse any expectation of an electoral upset. “Do not misunderstand us,” he added. “We do not think we will form the next government.”
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The Two Reasons: Legal Survival and Public Education
The legal argument is straightforward. Ethiopia’s electoral law, as interpreted by the National Election Board of Ethiopia (NEBE), stipulates that political parties that fail to field candidates in two consecutive national elections may lose their legal registration. ABO had already sat out the 6th round. Another boycott would have meant administrative dissolution.
“You cannot change the system if you don’t exist,” says Dr. Mulugeta Abera, a political scientist at Addis Ababa University who follows opposition dynamics closely. “For ABO, participation was an existential choice – not a win‑now calculation.”
The second reason is more ambitious. By entering the 7th round – even without a full slate of candidates – ABO leaders believe they can use the campaign period as a mobile classroom. Public rallies, door‑to‑door canvassing, and media appearances become platforms to explain ABO’s alternative vision on land rights, federalism, and economic reform.
“They are playing a long game,” Mulugeta explains. “The ballot box is not the only measure of success. The real prize is political education. If thousands of voters hear ABO’s message now, that seed may grow by the 8th round.”
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Why Not a Serious Bid for Power?
If the goal is eventual governance, why not contest every seat? ABO’s own analysis, shared in internal strategy documents and confirmed by multiple sources, points to two stark realities.
First, the absence of a level playing field. “There is no free, fair, and just election in Ethiopia today,” the strategist said flatly. “Without a democratic transfer of power – where the ruling party accepts defeat – no opposition can truly win. And the ruling party, from what we see, is not prepared for that.”
Second, a mathematical problem. ABO did not field candidates for all 537 Caffee (regional council) seats or all 547 parliamentary seats. “To defeat an incumbent, you need a full slate. You need thousands of candidates, not hundreds,” the strategist acknowledged. “Under a truly democratic election, we could do that. Under the current constraints, we cannot.”
Thus, the 7th round is framed internally as a testing and learning election – a chance to gauge organizational capacity, test messaging, and build a database of sympathetic voters, all without the crushing expectation of immediate victory.
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Three Roads, One Destination?
Where does ABO go from here? Party insiders have outlined three possible paths forward. None is easy. Each carries distinct risks and opportunities.
Option One: The Incrementalist Path
“Take what is available – just like Abiy and Izzema did,” the strategist said, referring to how Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s Prosperity Party and other Oromo political figures consolidated power by first entering parliament and regional councils. Under this scenario, ABO would accept any seats or appointments it wins (however few), enter the Caffee and federal parliament, negotiate for ministerial or regional positions, and use state resources – including the gabaa (market) of political access – to build internal strength.
The goal? Prepare in full for the 8th round election. “This is the pragmatic path,” says political analyst Obse Lemma. “You play the inside game, grow your infrastructure, and strike when the conditions mature. The danger is co‑optation. Many opposition parties have disappeared that way.”
Option Two: The Boycott‑Plus Path
This scenario would see ABO first ensure that the Electoral Board completes its full legal composition. Then, the party would publicly challenge the fairness of the 7th round process – releasing detailed reports of irregularities, mobilizing civil society, and declaring the election not credible.
The emphasis would shift to building pressure for a genuinely free and fair 8th round, while simultaneously preparing the party and the public for that future contest. “This preserves the party’s moral high ground,” Obse notes. “But it also cedes the 7th round entirely. And if the public is exhausted by endless boycotts, the party risks irrelevance.”
Option Three: The National Dialogue Path
The most ambitious option would treat the flawed 7th round as a case study – a vivid example of what not to do. ABO would then channel its energy into demanding a genuine national dialogue (Mariin Biyyoolessaa) and a national consensus (Araarri Biyyoolessaa) that establishes agreed rules for a truly competitive election.
“This is the ‘seek a solution and follow due process’ path,” explains Mulugeta. “It requires the ruling party’s cooperation, which is not guaranteed. But if successful, it could reset the entire electoral playing field – not just for ABO, but for all opposition.”
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What the 7th Round Really Means
For now, ABO has entered the 7th round – but without abandoning any of the three options. Party leaders describe the election as a bridge, not a destination. Whether they cross toward incremental power, principled opposition, or national reform will depend on how the coming months unfold: How many votes do they actually get? How does the ruling party treat their elected officials? Does the Electoral Board reform itself?
Late one evening in Finfinne, the ABO strategist summed up the dilemma with a farmer’s metaphor: “You cannot harvest what you have not planted. But you also cannot plant if the land is poisoned. This election, we are planting test seeds – and testing the soil. Next time, God willing, we will plant the whole field.”
Outside his office, the city hummed with campaign trucks and blaring loudspeakers. The 7th round had begun. And for ABO, the long walk toward an uncertain future had finally taken its first, deliberate step.
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— A feature story based on party strategy documents, insider interviews, and political analyst commentary. The name ABO is used as a composite representation of a major Oromo opposition party called Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) for narrative clarity.
Advocacy for Oromia 