Category Archives: gender
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.
The Written Word: The Story of Afaan Oromoo’s Journey to Script
For centuries, Afaan Oromoo existed as a purely oral language—spoken by millions across the Horn of Africa, yet never written down in any systematic way. Stories, poems, history, and knowledge were passed from generation to generation through speech alone. Today, that has changed dramatically. The story of how Afaan Oromoo gained a writing system is not merely a linguistic tale—it is a story of resistance, identity, and cultural survival.
The Spoken Foundation
Before any script was ever applied to Afaan Oromoo, the language thrived through an rich oral tradition. Literature existed in the form of tales, poems, songs, epics, riddles, proverbs, and lullabies. These oral works served a vital purpose: they socialized Oromo youth into ethically committed and morally strong individuals, teaching what was good and evil, destructive and constructive. The language was the vessel for Oromo identity, a storehouse of values, myths, and collective experience.
This oral tradition would later prove crucial. When political forces attempted to suppress Afaan Oromoo and Oromo cultural identity, the grievances were articulated, recorded, and passed on vertically from generation to generation and horizontally across geographic areas through this oral literature. The language itself became an instrument of resistance.
The First Written Attempts (1840s)
The earliest known written documents in Afaan Oromoo date to the 1840s. They were the work of Johann Ludwig Krapf (1810–1881), a German missionary whose indefatigable endeavors left a lasting mark on languages across the Horn of Africa. Initially, Krapf used the Latin script to write Oromo, but he later shifted to the Ethiopic (Ge’ez) script.
Krapf’s work was foundational: he translated sections of the Bible into Afaan Oromoo and wrote its grammar. But this early flowering of Oromo writing was short-lived. After King Menilek annexed Oromo territories in the west, south, and southeast in the 1880s, the project was discontinued. The political winds had shifted against Oromo linguistic expression.
The Ge’ez Era: Onesimos Nasib’s Bible
The most significant contribution to Oromo writing in the Ge’ez script came from Onesimos Nasib (c. 1856–1931), an Oromo evangelist who was freed from slavery and educated by the Swedish Evangelical Mission. Nasib, whose birth name was Hika—meaning “Translator”—chose to use the Ge’ez alphabet, believing it would be better received by Ethiopia’s Coptic Orthodox priests than a Latin-based script.
His crowning achievement was the translation of the entire Bible into Afaan Oromoo, published in 1899. This was a monumental work that had a significant impact on introducing Oromo literacy. For decades, this Bible translation—along with the work of Aster Ganno and others—remained one of the few major published texts in the language.
Yet the Ge’ez script had limitations. It could not adequately represent certain Oromo sounds, particularly vowel length and consonant germination. The script, increasingly associated with Amharic dominance, also carried political baggage.
Indigenous Innovation: The Saphalo Script
In 1956, an Oromo scholar, poet, and religious teacher named Sheikh Bakri Sapalo (1895–1980) created his own writing system specifically designed for Oromo phonology. The Saphalo script—also known as Qubee Sheek Bakrii Saphaloo—was an abugida, like Ge’ez, but with no inherent vowels associated with consonants. It was, in many ways, more linguistically suited to Oromo than the scripts that preceded it.
The script gained acceptance in the Hararghe region of Ethiopia. But the Ethiopian government viewed it with suspicion, worrying it would make the Oromo self-aware and endanger national unity. In 1965, Sheikh Bakri Sapalo was placed under house arrest. He later fled to Somalia in 1978 and died in a refugee camp in 1980, his writings largely unpublished. The Saphalo script remains one of the few scripts so closely associated with a single individual—and one that met such a tragic end.
The Struggle Intensifies
Writing Afaan Oromoo in any script was banned under the government of Haile Selassie. This suppression only intensified Oromo determination. The struggle to write in Afaan Oromoo became inseparable from the broader Oromo national struggle.
During the Italian occupation (1936–1941), the Oromo experienced a brief period of linguistic freedom, as the Italians used Afaan Oromoo for education, broadcasting, and official activities. This taste of cultural freedom made the Oromo pose serious resistance against the restoration of Haile Selassie’s rule. The Harar and Bale uprisings, the Maccaa-Tuulamaa Association, the Afran Qalloo Cultural Movement—all emerged from the imposed language policies and gradually consolidated Oromo consciousness.
The Birth of Qubee
The search for an appropriate alphabet intensified in 1968, when Oromo students in Europe began the work. In 1972, an Oromo students’ study group formally adopted the Latin-based alphabet that would come to be known as Qubee. The Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) began using Qubee for communication and literacy work in the late 1970s, both at its bases and among Oromo refugees in neighboring countries.
The decisive moment came on November 3, 1991. The OLF convened a meeting of over 1,000 Oromo intellectuals to decide which alphabet to use for writing Oromo. After many hours of debate, they decided unanimously to adopt the Latin alphabet. The choice was conscious and political: the Ethiopic script was seen as the colonial script of the Amharic people, while the Latin script was not felt to be the colonial script of the Anglo-American world. Global functional considerations also played a role: the Latin alphabet was better suited to computer technology, more pedagogically accessible, and more linguistically adequate for representing Oromo sounds.
Qubee was formally adopted as the official orthography of Afaan Oromoo in 1991. For the first time, the language spoken by approximately 40 percent of Ethiopia’s population—more than 40 million people—had an officially recognized writing system.
A Literary Renaissance
The impact was immediate and profound. It is believed that more texts were written in the Oromo language between 1991 and 1997 than in the previous 100 years. Schools in Oromia began teaching in Afaan Oromoo. Oromo communities in the diaspora gained a standardized way to write their language. Literature flourished.
Today, Qubee consists of 33 fundamental letters: 5 vowels and 24 consonants, with additional combined consonant letters like CH, DH, NY, PH, SH, TS, and ZH. The alphabet has been adapted for modern use, including educational apps like “Qubee Kids” that teach children the letters through interactive games.
Challenges and Controversies
The adoption of Qubee has not been without controversy. Proponents of the Ge’ez script argue that its use would unite Ethiopians and that using other scripts threatens national unity. Some have actively petitioned regional governments to replace Qubee with the Ge’ez script.
Supporters of Qubee counter that the opposition is not based on linguistic analysis or technical considerations, but on subjective political grounds. They point to Qubee’s linguistic suitability, pedagogical ease, and adaptability to technology. The Latin-based alphabet, they argue, better represents Oromo sounds—showing vowel length, marking consonant germination, and adequately representing all Oromo phonemes.
Looking Forward
The story of Afaan Oromoo’s writing system is far from over. It is a living narrative of a people’s determination to see their language written, read, and preserved. From the oral traditions that sustained Oromo identity for centuries, through the missionary translations of the 1840s, the monumental Bible of Onesimos Nasib, the indigenous innovation of Sheikh Bakri Sapalo, and finally the political decision for Qubee in 1991—each chapter reflects the broader struggle for cultural survival and self-determination.
Today, Afaan Oromoo thrives in written form as never before. But challenges remain: internal debates about orthography, external political pressures, and the ongoing work of developing literature, educational materials, and digital resources. The language that was once officially unwritten now has a script that carries the hopes, history, and identity of millions.
As the Oromo saying goes: *”Afaan keenya, aadaa keenya”—our language, our culture. In the written word of Afaan Oromoo, that culture has found a new and enduring voice.
The Voice of Freedom: How Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo Amplifies the Oromo Struggle
By Daandii Ragabaa
In the vast and complex landscape of the Oromo liberation movement, few tools are as powerful as the human voice. But when that voice is broadcast—amplified, repeated, and carried across borders, across battlefields, and across generations—it becomes something more than sound. It becomes a weapon. It becomes a comfort. It becomes a call to awaken.
This is the enduring role of Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo (The Voice of Oromo Freedom).
For decades, this media platform has served as one of the most vital organs of the Oromo liberation struggle. Whether through radio waves that cross national boundaries, through digital content that reaches the global diaspora, or through the whispered sharing of cassette tapes in the dark years of repression, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has been a constant companion to the Oromo people in their long march toward self-determination.
Strengthening the Struggle
The primary mission of Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has always been clear: to strengthen the Oromo liberation struggle.
In practical terms, this means providing a platform for the Oromo Liberation Front (ABO) and other Oromo political and civic actors to communicate directly with the Oromo people, without the filtering, distortion, or outright censorship that characterizes state-controlled media. It means broadcasting news from the frontlines, whether those frontlines are military, political, or cultural.
In the armed struggle years, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo was often the only source of information about the progress of Oromo fighters, the atrocities committed against civilians, and the diplomatic efforts being made on behalf of the Oromo cause. Families separated by war and exile could listen to the same broadcast and know that they were not alone.
Even in periods of relative peace and political openness, the Voice of Oromo Freedom continues to play this role. It holds the movement accountable. It debates strategy. It remembers martyrs. It celebrates victories, however small.
Awakening the Oromo People
But strengthening the struggle is only part of the mission. Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo also exists to awaken the Oromo people—to dammaqsuu.
This awakening is both political and psychological. For generations, the Oromo people were told that their language was not fit for official use, that their history began with conquest, and that their identity was a threat to Ethiopian unity. This systematic campaign of erasure created a people who, in many cases, had internalized their own marginalization.
Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo works to reverse this damage. It broadcasts Oromo poetry that stirs the soul. It tells Oromo history that textbooks omit. It gives voice to Oromo scholars, artists, and activists who articulate a vision of Oromo dignity and self-respect.
To listen to Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo is to hear a different narrative—one in which the Oromo are not victims of history but agents of their own destiny. This is not propaganda. This is the restoration of a truth that has been deliberately suppressed.
When an Oromo farmer in a remote village hears his language spoken with authority and respect on the radio, something shifts inside him. When an Oromo student in the diaspora hears the names of Oromo heroes recited alongside the great liberators of the world, she understands that her people belong in the company of nations. This is awakening.
Proclaiming the Goal of Freedom
Finally, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo serves as a constant reminder of the ultimate objective: Kaayyoo Bilisummaa Oromoo—the goal of Oromo freedom.
The Oromo struggle has, at different times, been characterized in different ways. Some have framed it as a demand for human rights within a united Ethiopia. Others have articulated it as a quest for self-determination up to and including secession. Still others have focused on cultural and linguistic rights, economic justice, or political representation.
Through all these variations, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has consistently held the line on the fundamental principle: the Oromo people have the right to be free. What that freedom looks like—whether a federal arrangement, a confederation, or an independent Oromo state—is a matter of political discussion. But the right itself is non-negotiable.
By consistently broadcasting this message, the Voice of Oromo Freedom ensures that the goal is never forgotten. In periods of political co-optation, when Oromo elites are tempted to trade long-term freedom for short-term positions, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo reminds listeners of the martyrs who died for the cause. In periods of despair, when the struggle seems endless and victory distant, it reminds listeners that freedom is not a gift to be requested but a right to be claimed.
The Evolution of the Voice
Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has not remained static. Like the struggle it serves, it has evolved with the times.
In the early decades, the Voice often operated clandestinely, broadcasting from neighboring countries, using makeshift equipment, and reaching audiences through shortwave radio. The signal could be weak. The hours were limited. The risk of jamming or retaliation was constant.
But the audience was loyal. Oromo families would gather around radios at specific times, turning the volume low to avoid detection, listening to every word. The Voice was a lifeline.
Today, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has expanded into digital platforms. It reaches the global Oromo diaspora through social media, streaming services, and websites. Young Oromo who have never used a shortwave radio can access the same content on their smartphones. The technology has changed, but the mission remains.
Challenges and Resilience
Operating as a voice of liberation is never easy. Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo has faced jamming, legal harassment, and political pressure from successive Ethiopian governments. Its journalists and broadcasters have been targeted. Its infrastructure has been attacked.
Yet, like the Oromo people themselves, the Voice endures.
Each time the signal is blocked, it finds a new frequency. Each time a broadcaster is silenced, another steps forward. The resilience of Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo is a testament to the depth of the Oromo people’s commitment to their own liberation.
A Call to Listen
For those who are already part of the Oromo struggle, Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo needs no introduction. It is a familiar companion, a trusted source, a rallying cry.
But for the younger generation—those who have grown up in the diaspora, those who have been disconnected from Oromo language and culture, those who are only beginning to understand the meaning of Oromummaa—the Voice of Oromo Freedom is an essential resource.
To listen is to learn. To learn is to understand. And to understand is to join the struggle, whether through political activism, cultural preservation, or simply the determination to live with dignity and pride.
Conclusion
Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo is more than a radio station, more than a website, more than a collection of broadcasts. It is a living institution of the Oromo liberation movement. It is a witness to history. It is a voice that refuses to be silenced.
As the Oromo people continue their long journey toward freedom, the Voice will be there—broadcasting the news, awakening the consciousness, and proclaiming the goal.
Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo – the voice that will not be stilled.
Daandii Ragabaa, reporting on Oromo liberation media.
Sagaleen Bilisummaa Oromoo: Qabsoo humneessuu, Ummata dammaqsuu, Kaayyoo beeksisuu.
(The Voice of Oromo Freedom: Strengthening the struggle, awakening the people, proclaiming the goal.)
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
Unity Among Borana, Guji, and Gabra: A Call for Strength
By Staff Reporter
In the vast, sun-scorched lowlands of southern Oromia and northern Kenya, where pastoralists have roamed with their cattle for centuries, three names are spoken with reverence: Borana, Gabra, and Guji. They are not merely neighboring communities. They are, in the words of a powerful new message circulating among Oromo communities, “ilmaan haadha tokkoo”—children of one mother.
Now, as political tensions and fragmented narratives threaten to sow discord across the Horn of Africa, elders, youth, and community leaders from these three groups have raised a collective voice. Their message is simple, ancient, and urgent: We are one.
“Warri ajandaa dhunfaa barbaachaaf, fixxi-fixxi jechaa uummata wal irraa qoqqooduu yaaltaan dhaabbadhaa ofi ilalaa,” the statement reads. “Those who seek personal agendas, speaking in fragments and trying to divide the people, should look at themselves.”
The declaration leaves no room for ambiguity. Borana, Guji, and Gabra are not separate nations. They are siblings—”qorii tokko keessaa nyaatu,” those who eat from the same bowl. They share ancestry, language, culture, and a profound bond of kinship that predates modern maps and political borders.
A History of Harmony, Not Hatred
The message acknowledges that misunderstandings may arise from time to time, often rooted in the complex history of past kingdoms and shifting governance. But it insists that there is no innate enmity between these communities.
“Wantii yeroo adda addaatti mul’ataa ture seenaa fi adeemsa mootummootii darban irraa kan madde malee, ummatoota kana gidduutti hammeenyii dhalootaan jiru tokkoo hin jiru,” the statement explains.
Translation: Except for what occasionally appears from the history and processes of past governments, there is no generational hatred between these peoples.
In other words, the divisions some seek to exploit are not born of tradition or blood. They are artifacts of political maneuvering—and they can be undone by conscious, collective will.
Rejecting False Narratives
The statement takes particular aim at what it calls “kashalabbee miidiyaa sobaatiin”—the lies spread through dishonest media. It warns against those who, disguised in the name of the people, spread suspicion and hatred, whether from inside or outside the community.
“Namoonnii muraasnii faayidaa dhuunfaa isaaniif jechaa gosa walitti buusuuf wixxiratan ni jiru,” the message concedes. Yes, there are a few who conspire to pit clan against clan for personal gain.
But the children of Borana, Guji, and Gabra know the truth. “Harka wal qabannee tokkoomnee dura dhaabbanna; waan waliin dhabne irratti mari’anna, waan wal dhowwanne nuu hin qabnu.”
They will stand together, united hand in hand. They will discuss what they have lost together. They have nothing they need to deny each other.
Unity is Strength
The message closes with a call that echoes across the generations: “Tokkummaan keenya humna keenya.” Our unity is our strength.
Respect, listening, and mutual support are not foreign concepts—they are tradition. “Wal kabajuu, wal dhaga’uu fi wal tumsuun aadaa teenna.”
Borana, Guji, and Gabra, the statement affirms, have lived together, grown together, and stood for each other—yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They are Oromo. They are children of one mother.
Tokko taanee haa jiraannu; Tokkummaan humna!
Let us live as one. Unity is strength.
—
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.
When the Bokkuu Blooms Again: The Oromo Quest to Revive a Native System
FINFINNE, OROMIA — The morning mist still clings to the highlands when Jaldessa Gammadaa, 74, raises the bokkuu—a curved wooden staff wrapped in leather and beads—toward the rising sun. His weathered hands tremble slightly, not from age, but from the weight of what this simple object represents.
“The bokkuu never died,” he says softly, his voice carried by the wind sweeping across the grassy plains of Mecha, in western Oromia. “It was only sleeping. Now, we are waking it up.”
For the Oromo people, Ethiopia’s largest ethnic group, the bokkuu is more than a ceremonial scepter. It is the embodiment of the Sirna Oromoo—the Oromo system of governance, law, spirituality, and social organization that once governed millions across the Horn of Africa. And after decades of suppression, forced assimilation, and state-sanctioned neglect, the Oromo are engaged in a quiet but determined revolution: not with guns, but with memory.
They are reviving. They are rebuilding. They are strengthening.
—
A System That Predates Modern Democracy
The Gadaa system—the beating heart of Sirna Oromoo—is a complex, age-grade-based democratic governance structure that has been recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Every eight years, power transfers peacefully from one generation to the next, with elected leaders known as Abbaa Gadaa presiding over legislative, judicial, and ritual functions.
Political scientists have marveled at its checks and balances. Its separation of powers. Its regular succession mechanisms that prevent authoritarian drift—all developed centuries before many European nations had abolished absolute monarchy.
“People ask me if the Oromo had democracy before colonialism,” says Dr. Worku Tesfaye, a historian at Addis Ababa University who has studied Gadaa for three decades. “I tell them no. We had something more sophisticated. Colonialism never reached Oromia in the same way it reached the coast. The Gadaa system is indigenous, organic, and astonishingly modern in its core principles.”
Yet for much of the 20th century, successive Ethiopian regimes viewed the Gadaa system as a threat. Emperor Haile Selassie’s government sought to centralize power and absorb Oromo lands, sidelining Oromo institutions. The Marxist Derg regime (1974–1991) banned what it called “feudal and tribal structures.” And even after 1991, while ethnic federalism allowed some cultural expression, Gadaa was largely relegated to folklore—performed at tourist festivals, but stripped of its governance authority.
“The system was broken,” Jaldessa recalls. “When I was a boy, the elders still met in secret under the oda tree. But the meetings grew smaller every year. Young people laughed at us. They said we were ghosts telling old stories.”
—
The Revival: From Memory to Movement
Today, the ghosts are finding their voices again.
Across Oromia—and in diaspora communities from Minneapolis to Melbourne—a grassroots cultural renaissance is underway. Community elders known as hayyuus (wise ones) are holding intergenerational workshops. Local Gadaa councils, once dormant, are being reconstituted—not to replace modern government, but to complement it in matters of conflict resolution, environmental stewardship, and social welfare.
In the city of Adama, a youth group called “Dallachaa” (Growth) has documented over 200 oral histories from elders who remember the Gadaa system before its suppression. In Addis Ababa’s Oromo neighborhood of Bole, young professionals meet weekly to study the Seera (customary laws) and debate how they might apply to contemporary issues like land rights and gender equality.
“We’re not trying to turn back the clock,” says Hundaol Banti, 28, a software engineer who co-founded a digital platform cataloging Gadaa principles. “But there are things our ancestors got right—consensus-building, ecological balance, leadership rotation. Why would we throw that away just because it’s old?”
The revival has found unexpected allies. In 2016, the Oromo Protests—massive anti-government demonstrations rooted in land rights and political marginalization—took the bokkuu as their symbol. Young protesters, many of whom had never witnessed a full Gadaa ceremony, raised wooden staffs in defiance. The image of the bokkuu became a rallying cry.
“Those protests changed everything,” Worku says. “Suddenly, a new generation saw the bokkuu not as a relic of their grandparents, but as a weapon—a peaceful one—against injustice. The system was re-politicized in the best sense.”
—
The Challenges Ahead
Yet revival is not without its fractures.
Some women’s groups have pushed back against Gadaa’s traditionally male-dominated leadership structures. While the system includes ritual roles for women—the Siiqqee institution, named after a staff carried by women—critical governance positions were historically held by men. Contemporary reformers are debating how to reinterpret these traditions for an era that demands gender parity.
“The Siiqqee was not just symbolic,” insists Asha Boru, a women’s rights activist and Gadaa scholar from Borana zone. “Women could veto decisions, call assemblies, and protect other women from abuse. But yes, there is work to do. The beauty of Sirna Oromoo is that it is built on debate. We are debating now.”
There are also tensions between rural and urban practitioners. In rural areas, particularly among the Borana and Guji Oromo, the Gadaa system never fully disappeared; it operated underground. In cities, revival efforts sometimes risk romanticizing a complex system that also had hierarchies and rigidities.
And then there is the state. While the current Ethiopian government, led by Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed (himself Oromo), has made conciliatory gestures—declaring the Irreecha festival a national holiday, funding cultural centers—the legal authority of Gadaa councils remains unclear. Can customary courts sentence someone? Can Gadaa assemblies collect taxes? The boundaries remain contested.
“The government is comfortable with Irreecha and folklore,” says one Addis Ababa-based analyst who requested anonymity to speak freely. “But a fully autonomous Oromo governance system? That is a different conversation. The revival is cultural for now. Whether it becomes political again—that is the question.”
—
Under the Oda Tree
On a recent Friday afternoon, under a sprawling oda tree in the village of Odaa Nabee—a site of immense spiritual significance where Oromo oral tradition says the Gadaa system was formalized—Jaldessa oversees a ceremony. But this is no tourist performance.
Twenty-three young men and women sit in a semicircle, notebooks in hand. They are learning the Gadaa grades—the five eight-year stages through which every Oromo male (and now, in some communities, female) once passed. They memorize the names of the Abbaa Gadaas of the past. They practice the Jaarsummaa (eldership) protocols of conflict mediation.
“We will not all become elders overnight,” Jaldessa tells them. “But you cannot grow a tree from a dead root. We are watering the root.”
One of his students, 19-year-old Marge Waqjira, raises her hand. She wants to know whether a woman can one day hold the bokkuu as a full Abbaa Gadaa. The question hangs in the air.
Jaldessa smiles. “The law does not forbid it,” he says slowly. “The law says a leader must be wise, just, and chosen by the people. So I ask you: does wisdom have a gender?”
The students laugh. Marge writes something in her notebook. And under the oda tree, the Oromo system—rebuilt, revived, and strengthened—takes another small step into the future.
As the sun sets behind the highlands, Jaldessa plants the bokkuu into the earth. It stands upright, alone for a moment. Then he walks away, leaving it there—a promise that next time, it will be younger hands that lift it.
— Reported from Oromia
The Power of One Voice: Ambassador Dagifee Bulaa on Ethiopia’s Electoral Responsibility
By Bariisaa Newspaper
May 23, 2018
In the quiet corridors of the Federal Institute of Law and Justice, Ambassador Dagifee Bulaa speaks with the measured precision of a man who has spent decades navigating the complex intersections of justice, diplomacy, and national transformation. As the current Director of Ethiopia’s Federal Institute of Law and Justice, his voice carries the weight of experience—from serving as ambassador to Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of Congo to leading the Ethiopian Football Federation and media oversight.
But today, on the eve of Ethiopia’s seventh national election, his message is both urgent and timeless: “In an election, the people must understand that every single vote is decisive, and they must participate.”
Building Justice from the Ground Up
The Federal Institute of Law and Justice, under Ambassador Dagifee’s leadership, operates on four fundamental pillars: conducting research on justice sector issues, providing training to legal professionals, collecting evidence from various jurisdictions, and spearheading comprehensive reform efforts.
“We don’t just conduct research and leave it on a shelf,” Ambassador Dagifee explains from his office in the Ayat area of Addis Ababa. “Our research has directly contributed to reforming legal procedures, including the long-overdue revision of the Criminal Procedure Law that served for over sixty years.”
What sets the Institute apart is its three-tiered training approach—a comprehensive system designed to transform theoretical legal education into practical, applied justice. Newly appointed judges and legal professionals undergo nine months of intensive training before ever hearing a case. Sitting judges receive five-to-ten-day refresher courses. And practicing lawyers must complete five days of paid continuing education annually to maintain their licenses.
Perhaps most striking is the Institute’s embrace of technology. “We have now implemented E-learning platforms,” Ambassador Dagifee notes. “Judges and legal professionals can complete their assignments from wherever they are, receiving their certifications without disrupting their court schedules.”
A Dictionary for Justice
One of the Institute’s most ambitious projects has been the creation of the first-ever comprehensive Oromo language law dictionary—the “Walabu Law Dictionary”—alongside an updated Amharic version completed two years ago.
This was no academic exercise. Ambassador Dagifee recounts the urgent need: “For too long, legal terminology has been interpreted inconsistently across different regions. A term that works in Shawa might cause confusion in Wallagga, Boorana, Gujii, Arsi, or Hararge. When a judge’s decision affects someone’s property and very life, precise understanding of legal terms is not optional—it is essential.”
The dictionary took two and a half years to complete, bringing together legal scholars, linguists, and practitioners from across Oromia. “This is unprecedented in Ethiopia,” he says with pride. “Not just in quality, but in scope. And it is available in both print and soft copy, ensuring accessibility for judges, lawyers, police, and anyone working in the justice system who works in Oromo.”
The Justice Sector’s Electoral Duty
As Ethiopia prepares for its seventh national election, Ambassador Dagifee emphasizes the critical role of justice sector institutions in ensuring the process is democratic, fair, peaceful, and free.
The Institute recently convened a symposium for judges and legal professionals specifically focused on their electoral responsibilities. “The role of four key institutions—NEBE, police, prosecutors, and courts—is paramount,” he explains.
The electoral board creates the enabling environment. Police ensure security around polling stations. Prosecutors investigate and refer any electoral disputes to the courts. And the courts adjudicate based on electoral law.
“The election has proceeded peacefully so far,” Ambassador Dagifee observes. “Both parties and individuals have been given the opportunity to compete wherever they wish. Even those who have stepped back, perhaps doubting their chances of victory, must remain engaged.”
On Federalism and National Unity
Some political parties have argued that Ethiopia’s federal system divides rather than builds. Ambassador Dagifee disagrees—but with an important qualification.
“Twenty-eight countries worldwide, including the United States, Canada, Germany, and Nigeria, operate under federal systems. There is nothing unique about Ethiopia’s federalism that makes it inappropriate for our context.”
He continues: “Properly implemented, federalism allows regions to govern themselves while uniting under a national framework. The problem has never been federalism itself, but how it has been implemented. We have not adequately focused on what binds us as one nation.”
A Final Appeal
As our interview concludes, Ambassador Dagifee returns to the eve of the election with a final message to every Ethiopian holding a voter card.
“The election belongs to all the people of this country. Every citizen who holds a voter card must cast their vote. Our hope is that tomorrow’s election will be peaceful, democratic, fair, and free for every Ethiopian.”
His words echo through the Institute’s modern facility—a 10,000 square meter campus built with 3.5 million Euros of European Union support, complete with training halls, dormitories, cafeteria, library, E-learning studio, and a 40 million Ethiopian birr borehole.
But the most important resource, Ambassador Dagifee would argue, is not in the buildings or the technology or even the new law dictionary. It is in the hands of millions of Ethiopian voters, each holding a single vote, each deciding to make their voice heard.
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This feature story was developed from an interview conducted by Bariisaa Newspaper’s Natsaannat Taaddasa on May 23, 2018
Advocacy for Oromia 