The Living Clock of the Oromo: How the Gadaa System Keeps Time, Justice, and Identity
In the highlands of Tuulama, where the horizon rolls like an endless green drum, there is no king on a throne. There is only a cycle—a sacred, unforgetting wheel of five names.
In an era when most nations measure leadership by coups, elections, or hereditary bloodlines, the Oromo people have for centuries followed a stranger, wiser rhythm: the Gadaa system.
Among the Tuulama Oromo, this ancient democracy is not a relic in a museum. It is a living, breathing constitution written not on parchment, but on memory, ritual, and the rotating faces of fathers who pass power like a baton in a relay that has never stopped.
The system has five drums. Each beats for eight years. And together, they have kept time for over five centuries.
The Five Gates of Power
The Tuulama Gadaa cycle is built around five maddaa (parties or classes), each taking its turn to rule. They are:
- Roobalee – the rainmakers, the openers of the cycle.
- Birmajii – the sharpeners, who hone the laws of the previous generation.
- Meelbaa (Horata) – the gatherers, who are in power today.
- Muudana (Michillee) – the annointers, who will inherit the sceptre next.
- Halchiisa – the closers, who seal the cycle before handing it back to Roobalee.
👉 Right now, at this moment in history: the Gadaa Meelbaa holds the staff of authority.
👉 Next in line: Gadaa Muudana (Michillee) will take the baallii (ceremonial flag) when the birin (transition) comes.
The Fathers Who Did Not Die
The Gadaa system is not anonymous. It remembers names. Over the last 32 years—four full cycles of eight years each—four Abbaa Gadaa (fathers of the law) have stood at the center of the Oromo universe:
- Halchiisa – Abbaa Gadaa Lammaa Baarudaa
- Roobalee – Abbaa Gadaa Naggasaa Nagawoo
- Birmajii – Abbaa Gadaa Bayyanaa Sanbatoo
- Meelbaa – Abbaa Gadaa Goobana Hoolaati
Each man was not a dictator. In the Gadaa way, an Abbaa Gadaa is a custodian, not a commander. He sits under the odaa tree, listens to the assembly (chaffee), and speaks only after the women, the elders, and the youth have had their say.
Democracy, Oromo style, was never borrowed from Athens. It grew from these highlands.
When the Cycle Was Wounded
The Gadaa system has not had an easy path. Colonial conquest, imperial absorption, and modern state centralization—first under the Abyssinian emperors, then under Marxist Dergue, and later under ethnic federalism—all tried to break the clock.
For decades, the formal installation of an Abbaa Gadaa was driven underground. Rituals became whispers. The odaa tree became a dangerous meeting place.
But the Oromo people, stubborn as the volcanic rock of their homeland, found ways to keep the cycle turning.
They invented adaptive traditions:
- Foollee – a system of camouflage, where Gadaa rituals were hidden inside coffee ceremonies and weddings.
- Goodannaa – a form of itinerant counsel, where elders traveled secretly between villages to align the lunar and solar calendars of the cycle.
- Haarrii Buqqifannaa – a practice of renewal through symbolic “plowing,” where old wounds were ritually buried to make way for a new Gadaa generation.
These were not defeats. They were proof that a living tradition cannot be outlawed—only forced to sing in a quieter voice.
The Clock Is Still Ticking
Today, as Oromia navigates the pressures of modernity—urbanization, social media, formal state law—the Gadaa system faces new questions. Can a rotational indigenous democracy coexist with a national parliament? Should the Abbaa Gadaa be recognized by the modern constitution?
In Tuulama, the elders do not rush to answer. They sit. They listen to the wind in the sycamore. And they repeat the old law:
“Gadaan hin citu. Gadaan hin badu. Gadaan waan bineensi nyaate hin ta’u.”
(The Gadaa does not break. The Gadaa does not perish. The Gadaa is not food for wild animals.)
Epilogue: The Fifth Drum
There is a reason the Tuulama cycle has five gadaa—not four, not six. Five is the number of fingers on a hand. Five is the number of directions: east, west, north, south, and the center—where the odaa tree stands.
The Halchiisa closes the circle. The Roobalee opens it again. And between them, the Oromo people have learned that power is not a prize to hoard but a season to steward.
Today, as Gadaa Meelbaa holds the staff, the drum of Muudana is already being tuned. Somewhere in the countryside of Tuulama, a boy born into the next class is being taught the names of his ancestors—not as history, but as a promise.
He will rule in thirty years. And when he does, the clock will still be ticking.
The Gadaa system is not a memory. It is a meeting that never adjourned.
“Sirni Gadaa yeroo adda addaatti rakkoo seenaa keessa darbeera. Haata’u malee, uummanni Oromoo duudhaa isaa tikfachuuf jira.”
(The Gadaa system has passed through many historical trials. Nevertheless, the Oromo people live to preserve their custom.)
The Pharmacist Who Prescribed Freedom: Baro Tumsa and the Birth of the Oromo Dream
He carried two degrees—one in pharmacy, another in law. But his greatest prescription was not a pill or a legal brief. It was the idea that the Oromo people deserved a name, a flag, and a future.
In the cold, damp cells of an Ethiopian prison in 1978, a man in his forties scratched a final message into a piece of torn cardboard. He was not a soldier by training. He had never fired a weapon in anger. But he was about to become one of the most dangerous men the Dergue regime had ever captured.
His name was Jaal Baaroo Tumsaa. To his people, he was simply Baro Tumsa—the quiet revolutionary who built an army not with bullets first, but with books, chemistry, and a radical belief in Oromo unity.
The Making of a Nationalist
Born in 1938 in western Oromia, Baro Tumsa grew up in a world where speaking Afaan Oromo in a classroom could earn you a slap. Where Oromo history was written by the conquerors. Where the word Oromo itself was sometimes used as an insult.
But young Baro had a different chemistry in his blood.
He excelled in school—brilliant with numbers, sharper with words. He became a pharmacist, learning the precise science of healing bodies. But he soon realized that a deeper sickness afflicted his people: the sickness of silence, of land alienation, of a culture forced underground.
So he went back to school. This time, he studied law.
Now he had two weapons: the knowledge of how to heal, and the knowledge of how to fight injustice within a system that had been designed to ignore the Oromo.
The Quiet Architect of the OLF
By the early 1970s, Baro Tumsa had become a restless soul. He watched as successive Ethiopian regimes—imperial, then Marxist—treated Oromia as a colony within a colony. Land was taken. Languages were suppressed. Young Oromo men were conscripted into wars that were not theirs.
Baro Tumsa began to meet with other Oromo intellectuals, students, and farmers in secret. In living rooms, under odaa trees, in the back rooms of pharmacies in Addis Ababa, they asked a forbidden question: What if the Oromo organized for themselves?
That question became the seed.
In 1973, Baro Tumsa became one of the principal founders of the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF). Unlike the armed struggle that would follow, his early role was ideological and structural. He helped draft the movement’s early political programs. He connected rural grievances with urban intellect. He argued, passionately, that Oromo liberation was not a tribal ambition—it was a democratic necessity for all of Ethiopia.
He was, in every sense, the goota jiraachuu—the living hero who gave his life so that Oromiyaa could be built from the bones of the fallen.
The Arrest and the Silence
The Dergue, the brutal military junta that seized power in 1974, had long ears. By 1978, Baro Tumsa was on their most-wanted list. They did not want him for a crime. They wanted him because he had given the Oromo people something harder to kill than any guerrilla: a political consciousness.
He was arrested. Not in a dramatic firefight, but in the quiet way revolutions are often crushed—a knock at dawn, a hood over the head, a car disappearing into the gray morning.
For weeks, he was interrogated. The regime wanted names. They wanted confessions. They wanted him to renounce the OLF on the radio.
According to surviving accounts from fellow prisoners, Baro Tumsa refused every time. He did not shout. He did not weep. He simply repeated, in his calm pharmacist’s voice: “You can kill a man. You cannot kill a people’s right to exist.”
Freedom Fighter in the Mountains of Gara Mulata
Tumsa left behind the comfort of his privileged life in Finfinne to join the nascent guerrilla force of the OLF in the eastern command in 1978 and sacrificed his life for the freedom of the Oromo nation.
By then he was married and a father of three children. He comes from an unprivileged background and established himself as a member of the urban elite educated and well connected middle class.
However, he swapped these luxuries for the hardships in the mountains of Oromia for the sake of the freedom of his people whom he loved with all his heart and mind. The circumstances of his death remains unclear to this day.
He was 40 years old.
His body was never returned. No grave bears his name. The regime buried him in anonymity, hoping that without a tomb, the man would also be forgotten.
Why Ebla 15 Still Burns
Every year on Ebla 15, Oromos across the globe—from Finfinne (Addis Ababa) to Minneapolis, from Nairobi to Melbourne—pause. They do not hold parades with permission. They do not wait for government recognition. They light candles. They recite poetry. They name their children Baro and Tumsa.
They remember not just a man, but a generation: the gootota tokkummaa Oromoo—the heroes of Oromo unity who were executed together in 1980 so that a movement could live.
And they say a simple prayer, whispered in Afaan Oromo:
“Bakka jirru maratti maqaa isaa ol kaafnee faarsina.”
(Wherever we are, we raise his name and praise him.)
The Unfinished Pharmacy
Baro Tumsa left behind no mansion, no autobiography, no statue in a capital city. What he left behind was something more fragile and more powerful: an example.
He showed that an intellectual can be a revolutionary. That a pharmacist can heal a nation’s spirit before its body. That law, when it fails the people, must be resisted by a higher law—the law of dignity.
Today, the OLF has gone through splits, peace talks, and transformations. Ethiopian politics has shifted in a thousand ways. But the question Baro Tumsa asked in 1973 has never gone away: Who speaks for the Oromo?
And every Ebla 15, the answer echoes back: We do. Because he did.
Epilogue: The Cardboard Testament
They say that in his final days, Baro Tumsa wrote a message on a scrap of cardboard—a last prescription. It was smuggled out of prison by a guard whose heart had turned.
It read, in part:
“Do not cry for me. Cry for the land that makes its children prisoners. Then dry your tears. And finish what we started.”
The cardboard was lost. The guard disappeared. But the words have been memorized by thousands of Oromo youth who never met Baro Tumsa, but who carry him in their names, their songs, and their unbroken walk toward Bilisummaa—freedom.
He was not just a hero of the past. He is a verb in the present tense.
“Goota ofii wareegamee dhiiga lafee isaan Oromiyaa ijaare darbe.”
(A hero who sacrificed himself, whose blood and bones built the foundation of Oromia, has passed.)
Ebla 15. Remember. Raise his name. Continue the walk.
The Day Oromia’s Ten Sons Chose Unity Over Surrender
Remembering the Ebli 15 Martyrs of the Shinnigga Pit
(SHINNIGGA, Ethiopia) – In the chronicles of a people’s struggle for freedom, certain dates become etched not in ink, but in bone. For the Oromo people, one such date is **Ebli 15, 1980** (roughly late April in the Gregorian calendar). On that single, terrible day, the soil of Shinnigga drank a blood cocktail of revolutionary courage, religious tolerance, and unbreakable unity.
This is not merely a story of death. It is a story of how ten men—commanders and fighters of the Oromo liberation struggle—faced a common grave and refused to let their faith divide them.
They were the sons of *Oromiyaa hadhaa dhiigaa fi lafee isaaniin ijaaran*—Oromia built by their blood and bones. They were warriors of the *Adda Bilisummaa Oromoo* (Oromo Liberation Front), leaders who had carried the weight of the struggle during its darkest hours. Among them were legendary figures like Hayyuu-Duree Jaal Magarsaa Barii (Barisoo Waabee) and his deputy, Itti Aanaa Jaal Gadaa Gammadaa (Damisee Tacaanee).
But when the end came, they were not just commanders. They were brothers.
The Trap at Shinnigga
By 1980, the Oromo liberation army had become a thorn in the side of the Derg regime. The fighters, seasoned by the harsh terrains of Waabe and the strategic depth of the *Dirree Qabsoo Hidhannoo*, were pushing toward a new phase of the armed struggle. But war is also a game of betrayal.
While on a critical mission, a group of ten key figures—including the intellectual giants and tactical minds of the movement—were ambushed. Somali *Shifta* militia, operating as proxies for the regime, surrounded them near the rugged lowlands of Shinnigga. Outnumbered and cut off from reinforcements, the Oromo fighters fought to their last bullet.
They were not killed in the heat of battle.
They were captured alive.
The Pit
The militia dug a single, wide pit. It was not a grave for an individual. It was a mass tomb designed to swallow an ideology. The ten prisoners were forced to kneel at its edge. Their hands were bound. Their clothes were torn and stained with the dust of a long march.
According to survivors’ accounts passed down through the Oromo oral tradition, the *Shifta* executioners tried one final trick. They separated the prisoners by their names—some Muslim, some Christian, some following the *Waaqeffannaa* tradition of their ancestors.
“You see,” a commander allegedly said to the prisoners in a low, mocking voice. “You fought together. But you will die apart. Let each man pray to his own god before we throw him in.”
The executioners expected fear. They expected a scramble for last rites—a final, petty division to prove that the Oromo cause was a fragile lie.
They were wrong.
‘We Are One Name’
Jaal Magarsaa Barii, the senior commander, looked at his men. There was Jaal Abbaa Xiiqii (Abboomaa Mitikku), the strategist. Jaal Doorii Barii (Yiggazuu Bantii), the fearless cavalry leader. Jaal Faafam Dooyyoo, whose voice had rallied thousands. Falmataa (Umar/Caccabsaa), whose faith was as steadfast as his rifle. Jaal Irra’anaa Qacalee (Dhinsaa), Jaal Dhaddachoo Boruu, Jaal Dhaddachoo Mul’ataa, and the youngest, Jaal Marii Galaan.
Ten men. Ten names. One nation.
Without a word, they stood up. Jaal Magarsaa did not ask for a Christian priest. Jaal Gadaa did not ask for a *sheikh*. Falmataa did not turn his back on the others. Instead, they linked their arms—bound as they were—and stepped forward together.
“*Maqaa amantaan gargar hin baanu*,” Jaal Magarsaa declared. “We do not divide names by religion. Dig the pit wider or throw us in together. We are Oromo first.”
According to legend, Jaal Gadaa Gammadaa, the deputy, turned to the executioner and smiled. “You want to see us pray? Watch this.”
And together, the ten men—Muslim, Christian, and Waaqeffataa—intoned a single prayer. Not to Mecca. Not to the Cross. But to *Waaqa Oromoo*, the God of their land, who had seen their mothers’ tears and their fathers’ bones scattered across the highlands.
The executioners, unnerved, shoved them into the pit.
They fell as one. They died as one.
The Legacy of Ebli 15
Forty-six years have passed. The Shinnigga pit has long since been covered, but no grass grows there without a story attached. In Oromia today, the names of those ten men are whispered in schools, sung in protest songs, and invoked in political meetings.
They are called the *Ebli 15 Wareegamtoota*—the martyrs of Ebli 15.
They did not die for a flag or a single faith. They died for an idea: that an Oromo is an Oromo, whether they pray in a church, a mosque, under a tree, or in silence.
Jaal Marii Galaan, the youngest of the ten, was just 19 years old. Before he was pushed into the pit, he reportedly looked at the sky—the wide, unforgiving sky of Shinnigga—and shouted:
“*Oromiyaan hin duutu!* Oromia will not die!”
It hasn’t. And every Ebli 15, when the Oromo people gather to remember, they do not mourn ten separate men. They mourn one collective heart that beat for freedom until the dirt filled their mouths.
And in that final, defiant act of unity, they won a victory the pit could never bury.
Oromo Diaspora in the Netherlands Declares Independence, Rejecting Ethiopian Rule
(THE HAGUE, Netherlands – April 10, 2026)– In a historic gathering that shook the diplomatic silence of this international city, members of the Oromo diaspora assembled in the heart of The Hague on Friday to declare their independence from the Ethiopian government, citing decades of alleged atrocities, border violations, and ongoing military campaigns in their homeland.
The declaration, which unfolded in a solemn ceremony near the Peace Palace, saw hundreds of Oromo men and women raise their voices in a chorus of defiance. For nearly four hours, testimonies echoed through the square—stories of loved ones lost, villages razed, and a people determined to chart their own destiny.
“We are no longer asking,” said one community elder who helped organize the event, speaking on behalf of the gathered crowd. “We are declaring. The blood of our people has soaked the soil of Oromia for too long.”
A Protest Born from Blood
The independence declaration did not emerge from a vacuum. Organizers and participants pointed to three specific grievances that have galvanized the movement:
Extrajudicial killings – Allegations that Ethiopian security forces have systematically targeted civilians in Oromia, with witnesses describing massacres in rural villages that never make international headlines.
Border violations – Claims that the Ethiopian government has unilaterally redrawn regional boundaries, carving up traditional Oromo lands and displacing entire communities without consultation or consent.
Ongoing war – The continuation of military operations across Oromia, which protesters described not as counterinsurgency but as collective punishment against the Oromo people.
“We have watched our children die. We have watched our elders dragged from their homes,” said a woman who identified herself only as Fatuma, her voice cracking as she addressed the crowd. “We are here because The Hague is where the world comes to talk about justice. And we need the world to finally listen.”
The Hague as a Stage for Justice
The choice of location was deliberate. The Hague, home to the International Court of Justice and the International Criminal Court, has long served as the symbolic capital of international law. For the Oromo diaspora—scattered across Europe, North America, and Australia—it represented the one place where their voices might carry legal and moral weight.
“Ironically, we cannot seek justice in our own land because the institutions there are controlled by those who oppress us,” said one young protester, a university student who arrived in the Netherlands as a refugee three years ago. “So we bring our case here, to the world.”
Throughout the afternoon, speakers took turns reading aloud the names of villages they said had been destroyed. Each name was followed by a moment of silence. The list stretched long enough that by the twentieth village, many in the crowd were weeping openly.
Testimonies of the Displaced
The gathering also served as an informal truth commission. Diaspora members who had fled Ethiopia at different times over the past decade compared accounts, finding disturbing consistencies in their stories.
One man, a former farmer from western Oromia, described how government forces arrived in his village at dawn. “They separated the men from the women. They took my brother behind a tree. I heard the shot. I never saw him again.” He fled to Kenya the following week, eventually making his way to Europe through a patchwork of smugglers and humanitarian visas.
Others spoke of families scattered across three continents, of parents who refused to leave ancestral lands despite the dangers, of children born in refugee camps who have never seen the Oromia their parents describe with such aching nostalgia.
“Independence is not a slogan for us,” said another organizer, a woman in her forties wearing traditional Oromo colors woven into a contemporary scarf. “It is survival. It is the only guarantee that what happened to our parents will not happen to our children.”
Ethiopian Government Response
As of press time, the Ethiopian government had not issued an official response to the declaration. However, in previous statements regarding diaspora activism, Ethiopian officials have characterized such movements as the work of “a small, extremist fringe” amplified by foreign media and hostile foreign governments.
Human rights organizations tracking the Horn of Africa have offered more nuanced assessments. Multiple reports from international bodies have documented abuses in various Ethiopian regions, though attributing responsibility remains complex in a country fractured by ethnic federalism and competing armed groups.
What Independence Would Mean
The declaration in The Hague carries no immediate legal weight. No nation has extended recognition. No ambassador has been dispatched. But for the thousands of Oromo in the Netherlands—and the millions more across the global diaspora—the act of declaration was itself a form of liberation.
“Legally, we know what we are doing today changes nothing on the ground tomorrow,” one speaker acknowledged to the crowd. “But politically? Morally? We have said what needed to be said. We have drawn our line. The world cannot claim it did not hear us.”
As evening fell over The Hague, the crowd did not disperse angrily. Instead, they stood in small clusters, embracing one another, singing old songs that had been passed down through generations—songs of resistance, of longing, of a homeland they refuse to surrender.
The declaration papers, signed by dozens of community representatives, were formally presented to a representative of the city government—a symbolic gesture, but a gesture nonetheless.
“We will send copies to the United Nations. To the African Union. To every embassy that will accept mail from us,” the lead organizer said. “And if no one responds, we will declare again. And again. Until our independence is no longer a declaration. It is simply a fact.”
For now, the Oromo diaspora in the Netherlands has planted its flag—not on soil, but in history. Whether the world will salute or look away remains to be seen. But on April 10, 2026, in The Hague, a people spoke.
And for one afternoon, the world listened.
The Martyrs of the Western Front: How April 15 Became Oromia’s Day of Sacrifice
In the dense forests and rugged terrain of western Oromia, a band of liberation fighters once gathered under the cover of darkness. Their mission was audacious. Their fate was sealed. And their memory now echoes across generations every April 15.
The year was 1980. The Ethiopian Derg regime, led by Mengistu Haile Mariam, was at the height of its brutal military rule. Armed resistance had become the only language the regime understood. And the Oromo Liberation Front (ABO) was preparing to expand its armed struggle into a new theater: the Western Front.
A Mission Born in the Shadows
It began with a leadership change. On April 15, 1980, the ABO appointed a new chairman in Shinnigga. One year later, the leadership that would command the Western Front—mirroring that Shinnigga structure—was installed. The goal was clear: launch an armed resistance in the West.
The ABO’s new commanders meticulously planned their next move. They sent 12 batches of fighters to Eritrea for military training. After completing their preparations, 17 fighters were dispatched to the Western Zone to begin operations.
These were not faceless soldiers. They were fathers, brothers, and sons. Their names would eventually be carved into Oromia’s collective memory:
· Daawud Ibsaa — Battalion Commander
· Abbaa Caalaa Lataa — Deputy Battalion Commander
· Jaal Tottoobaa Waaqwayyaa — Squad Leader
· Jaal Birruu Taasisaa (Gabbisaa)
· Jaal Caalaa Ulmaanaa (Kormee Dinqaa)
· Jaal Taarreqanyi Ayyaanaa (Waaqgaarii)
· Jaal Abdallaa Raggaasaa
· Jaal Suleemaan Raggaasaa
· Jaal Waaqoo Guyyoo (Abbaa Gadaa)
· Jaal Abdulra’uuf
· Jaal Miijanaa Yandoo
· Jaal Adam Amaan
· Jaal Saanii Abdullaahi (Kerkedee)
· Jaal Yohaannis Dinqaa (Wayyeessaa)
· Jaal Kabbadaa Fufaa (Gambel)
· Jaal Taaddalaa Makuriyaa (Bayyanaa)
· Jaal Abduqqee (Habbuuqaa)
These 17 commanders were sent to ignite the Western Front resistance. But the Derg regime had no intention of allowing the ABO to take root. A fierce counterinsurgency campaign was already underway, designed to crush the liberation movement at its foundation.
The Work Before the War
Before bullets could fly, the commanders focused on what would make the struggle sustainable: mobilizing communities, building infrastructure, and educating the people. They recruited new members. They strengthened the resistance. They worked in the shadows, knowing that discovery meant death.
It was during this organizing phase that the leadership made a strategic decision. Commander Daawud Ibsaa and his deputy, Abbaa Caalaa Lataa, along with a man named Taaddasaa Shorroo and one other, divided their forces into two groups. One group, loyal to Daawud Ibsaa, headed toward Gidaami. The other, following Abbaa Caalaa Lataa, moved toward Begi.
On December 21, 1981, the two groups agreed to return to their base and reunite. They planned to share intelligence and coordinate their next moves. But the reunion would never happen as intended.
The Poisoned Reunion
The two groups did not return in triumph.
The faction led by Daawud Ibsaa headed toward Gidaami, in the village of Giraayii Sonkaa. On December 23, 1981, they received an order from Nugusee Faantaa, then the security chief of Wallagga Zone, in coordination with Zakariyaas Shorroo, Dirribaa Moggaa, and Hiikaa Masaadii—the administrator of Gidaami district at the time.
The orders were chilling: the fighters were to be poisoned.
But not through open combat. The betrayal came from within. Zakariyaas Shorroo, whose own brother Taaddasaa Shorroo was among the fighters, became the instrument of the regime. He provided the poison that would kill his own kin.
Eight ABO commanders ingested the poison prepared by the Derg regime. Among them were:
· Jaal Daawud Ibsaa
· Jaal Tottoobaa Waaqwayyaa
· Jaal Hinsarmuu
· Jaal Adam Amaan
· Jaal Yohaannis Dinqaa
· Jaal Suleemaan Raggaasaa
· Jaal Shaanqoo
· Jaal Taaddasaa Shorroo
They died in the same place, their bodies falling together. A brother had handed poison to his brother. The regime’s strategy of divide and rule had found its most devastating expression.
A Slow Death in Captivity
Jaal Daawud Ibsaa did not die immediately. Severely weakened by the poison, he was captured alive by Derg forces and taken to Dambi Dollo Hospital. From there, he was transferred to Maikelawi Prison and other detention centers, where he endured a slow, agonizing decline. He eventually suffered in custody—a martyr twice over, first by poison and then by neglect.
The ABO had lost eight of its most promising commanders in a single stroke. The Western Front resistance, still in its infancy, suffered a blow from which it would take years to recover.
Remembering the Fallen
For one year, the surviving ABO leadership grappled with the loss. The struggle continued, but the wound was deep. The Derg regime, along with collaborators like Ziyaad Barree, intensified its campaign. Blood and bone were spilled across Oromia. Heroes were buried in unmarked graves.
Then, in 1984, the remaining ABO leaders convened. They made a decision. Beginning in 1985, April 15—the date of the Shinnigga leadership appointment in 1980—would be permanently commemorated as Oromo Martyrs’ Day. Article 56, subsection 2 of the ABO constitution formally recognized it as one of the organization’s official holidays.
Since 1985, April 15 has been observed in the forests of Oromia and in the diaspora. Inside Oromia, ABO members commemorate the day in secret, risking arrest or death. Outside, in refugee camps and community centers across Europe, North America, and Australia, Oromos gather openly to honor those who fell.
Today: A People’s Memorial
Today, the Oromo people remember April 15 as Guyyaa Gootota Oromoo—Oromo Martyrs’ Day. It is a day to honor not only the 17 commanders of the Western Front but all those who have fallen in the struggle for Oromo liberation.
The names of the Western Front martyrs are recited in poems and songs. Their faces appear on banners at diaspora protests. Their story is taught to Oromo children growing up far from the forests where their fathers died.
“April 15 is the day we remember all the martyrs of the Oromo liberation struggle,” one elder in the Oromo community explains. “The commanders who were poisoned. The fighters who fell in battle. The civilians killed in their villages. We remember them all on this day.”
The Western Front mission of 1980-81 ultimately failed to achieve its immediate military objectives. The resistance there was crushed. The commanders were killed or captured. But the memory of their sacrifice outlived the regime that murdered them.
Mengistu Haile Mariam fled to Zimbabwe in 1991. The Derg is gone. But the names of Daawud Ibsaa, Taaddasaa Shorroo, and their comrades remain. Every April 15, the Oromo people prove that while regimes can poison bodies, they cannot poison history.
—
This feature article is dedicated to the 17 commanders of the Western Front and to all Oromo martyrs who gave their lives for the liberation of their people. April 15 — Guyyaa Gootota Oromoo.
Join the Irreecha Arfaasaa Celebration on April 26, 2026
Irreecha Arfaasaa (the spring thanksgiving festival) being celebrated on April 26, 2026, at Tulluu Dandenong (likely a reference to the Dandenong Ranges in Victoria, Australia). This appears to be a diaspora celebration organized by the Oromo community in Melbourne, and Oromo Irrecha Association.
Understanding Irreecha Arfaasaa: Oromo Thanksgiving Festival
Irreechaa Arfaasaa is a day of thanksgiving at the end of dry seasons and beginning of rainy season every year at the top of hills or mountains to acquire and celebrate good spirit. For this event, the Oromos usually go to the mountain during the time of their worshiping rituals, or during Irreessaa celebration.
Traditionally, Oromos hold two seasonal Irreecha festivals at national level:
1) one is held at the end of September (or beginning of October) at the start of the sunny season and the end of the rainy season (i.e. during the harvest season, thus it’s called ‘Thanksgiving’ festival). This seasonal Irreecha is most known to Oromos and friends of the Oromo throughout the world. This Irreecha is called Irreecha Birraa.
2) The other Irreecha festival is held on the onset of the rainy season (i.e. during the sowing season). The sowing season’s Irreecha celebration is held to pray to Waaqaa to bring about Good Spirit with rain and efforts; after all, farmers spread their seeds on the ground with the only assurance that Waaqaa is on their side to turn the seeds into bountiful crops at the end of the rainy season. This Irreecha is called Irreecha Arfaasaa.
The month of May is the height of the sowing season in Oromia, and it’s during this month that Irreecha Arfaasaa (‘Oromo Festival of Good Spirit’) is held in Oromia among the Oromo people. The following are video clips from this year’s Irreecha Arfaasaa celebrations in Oromia.
The Oromo people celebrate Irreechaa Arfaasaa not only to thank Waaqaa (God) but also to welcome the new rainy winter season associated with nature and creature. On Irreechaa festivals, friends, family, and relatives gather together and celebrate with joy and happiness. Irreechaa festivals bring people closer to each other and make social bonds.
Moreover, the Oromo people celebrate this auspicious winter event to mark the end of dry season, known as Bonaa, and to welcome the dry seasons. It was established by Oromo forefathers, in the time of Gadaa Melbaa in Mormor, Oromia. The auspicious day on which this last Mormor Day of Gadaa Belbaa — the Dark Time of starvation and hunger- was established on the 1st Sunday of last week of May or the 1st Sunday of the 1st week of June according to the Gadaa lunar calendar has been designated as the second winter Thanksgiving Day by modern-day Oromo people.
A Historic Protest for the Voiceless: London’s Oromo Diaspora Rises on 30th March 2026
London, UK – Feature Article
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It was a cold, grey morning in central London when the first voices began to rise. By noon, the streets around the Ethiopian Embassy had become a river of red, green, and red – the colours of the Oromo flag – flowing with a quiet but unshakable resolve. Men, women, and children, many wrapped in traditional scarves against the March chill, stood shoulder to shoulder. Some carried photographs of faces they would never see again. Others held placards that declared, in bold letters, “Stop the Killings in Oromia” and “Justice for the Voiceless.”
The date was 30th March 2026. For the thousands who gathered, it was not just another protest. It was a hiriiraa– a gathering – that they called “Seena Qabeessa Sagalee Dhabeessa Taasifame”: a historic assembly that gives voice to those who have been silenced.
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A Gathering Born of Grief
Every protest has a backstory, but the one that unfolded on the streets of London this past Monday was carved from grief too heavy for silence. The demonstrators, members of the Oromo diaspora from across the United Kingdom, had come to demand that the world finally pay attention to what they describe as a relentless wave of atrocities against the Oromo people in Ethiopia’s Oromia region.
“We are not here because we want to be,” said Firaol T., a 34-year-old software engineer who travelled from Manchester with his two young daughters. “We are here because our families back home are living in fear. My cousin was killed last month – shot at a checkpoint simply because he was Oromo. I cannot sit in comfort here while my people are being buried in mass graves.”
Firaol’s words were echoed by dozens of speakers who addressed the crowd through a portable sound system set up on the pavement. The speeches were delivered in Afaan Oromo, Amharic, and English – a multilingual testimony to a diaspora that spans generations and geographies but remains bound by a shared anguish.
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‘They Want to Erase Us’
Protesters carried banners listing the names of towns and villages in Oromia that have become shorthand for suffering: Wollega, Guji, Shashamane, Walliso. Many held portraits of Hachalu Hundessa, the iconic Oromo singer and activist whose assassination in 2020 ignited the largest protests Ethiopia had seen in decades. Hachalu’s face was everywhere – on placards, on T‑shirts, even painted on a large cloth banner that hung from the embassy gates. For many in the crowd, his death was the beginning of a darker chapter that has yet to close.
“Hachalu sang for our freedom,” said Marta D., a university lecturer from London. “They killed him because they feared the power of our voice. But here we are, five years later, still speaking, still demanding justice. They cannot kill us all.”
The demonstrators accused the Ethiopian federal government, under Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, of orchestrating a systematic campaign of extrajudicial killings, mass displacement, and ethnic cleansing against the Oromo. They pointed to reports from international human rights organisations documenting widespread violence in the Oromia region, including the use of drones and heavy artillery against civilian areas.
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The Unseen Crisis
While the world’s attention has often been drawn to Ethiopia’s internal conflicts in Tigray and Amhara, the Oromo – the country’s largest ethnic group – say their suffering has been rendered invisible. “There is a media blackout on Oromia,” said Bontu B., one of the protest organisers. “When Oromos are killed, it does not make the headlines. That is why we are here – to force the world to see.”
The protesters carried a petition addressed to the UK Foreign Office, demanding an immediate halt to all British military and financial support to the Ethiopian government. They also called for the International Criminal Court to investigate what they term “crimes against humanity” perpetrated by Ethiopian security forces and allied militias.
“The UK government continues to fund a regime that is bombing our villages,” Bontu added. “Every pound that goes to Addis Ababa is a pound that buys bullets aimed at Oromo children. That must stop. Today.”
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A Diaspora Unmuted
What made the 30th March gathering particularly striking was the range of participants. Young British-born Oromos, many of whom have never set foot in Ethiopia, stood alongside elders who fled political persecution in the 1980s and 1990s. There were mothers pushing prams, university students in graduation gowns as a symbol of the future they fear is being stolen, and even a small contingent of non-Oromo Ethiopians who had come in solidarity.
“I am Amhara, and I am here because the suffering in our country is not ethnic – it is political,” said Elias M., a London-based architect holding a sign that read “Ethiopia Needs Peace, Not War.” “The government has turned our nation into a graveyard. We must all say: enough.”
The atmosphere was sombre but disciplined. Police officers stood at a distance, observing the largely peaceful crowd. Only once did tensions rise, when a small group of counter-protesters tried to approach the embassy gates, but they were quickly separated by officers and absorbed back into the flow of London traffic.
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‘A Day That Will Be Remembered’
As afternoon turned to early evening, the crowd began a slow, silent march towards Trafalgar Square. There was no music, no drumming – only the soft thud of footsteps and the occasional whispered prayer. At the square, they formed a circle, and for one full minute, they stood in complete silence. Then, as if on cue, a single voice rose: “Oromoo, dagaagaa!” – “Oromo, rise up!” The chant was taken up by hundreds, then thousands, until the square echoed with a roar that seemed to shake the stone lions at its base.
Organisers later described the gathering as the largest Oromo diaspora protest in London in recent years. “This is a turning point,” said Lammi G., a community elder who has lived in the UK since 1992. “For too long, our people have been told to be quiet, to wait, to hope that things will improve. But 30th March 2026 will be remembered as the day we said: we will wait no longer.”
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The Weight of Absence
Amid the chants and the flags, there were also moments of intimate grief. Near the embassy gates, a small shrine had been set up: a row of framed photographs, each one showing a young Oromo man or woman. Beside each photo was a lit candle and a handwritten name. Gammachiis. Faayyisaa. Roobee. Caalaa. The names spanned the years 2020 to 2026 – a timeline of unending loss.
A young woman knelt in front of one photo, her forehead touching the pavement. When she stood up, her face was wet with tears. “My brother,” she said softly, gesturing to the picture. “He was a student. They killed him in 2023. I promised him I would never stop speaking his name.”
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A Long Road Ahead
As dusk settled over London and the protesters began to disperse, there was a sense that this was not an ending but a beginning. Organisers announced plans for a follow-up rally outside the Houses of Parliament, and for a sustained campaign targeting Ethiopian diplomatic missions across Europe.
“We will not be satisfied with one day of speeches and signs,” said Bontu. “We are building a movement. The voices of the dead demand it.”
Before leaving Trafalgar Square, many of the protesters turned one last time to face the National Gallery – a monument to British history. They raised the Oromo flag high, and someone began to sing an old Oromo freedom song. The melody was haunting, carried on the cold London air, a reminder that even far from the hills of Oromia, the struggle for justice continues.
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In the days that followed, the images from 30th March would circulate across social media, shared under the hashtag #OromiaRising. For the thousands who had gathered, however, the memory was already etched not in pixels, but in the cold ache of their hands from holding signs, the rasp of their throats from chanting, and the quiet, stubborn hope that somewhere, someone was finally listening.
Because on that day, in the heart of London, the voiceless were given a voice – and they made sure it was heard.
Voices Across the Ocean: Oromo Diaspora in London Protests Alleged Atrocities in Ethiopia
By: Oromia News Agency
(London, UK, ONA) – In a stirring display of collective grief and political defiance, hundreds of members of the Oromo diaspora gathered in central London today to raise their voices against the government of Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed. The protesters, many draped in the traditional red, green, and red colors of the Oromo flag, marched to demand an immediate end to what they describe as systematic human rights violations, including extrajudicial killings and forced displacement in the Oromia region.
“We Are Here to Speak for the Voiceless”
The demonstration, which saw the closure of a major thoroughfare outside the Ethiopian Embassy, was marked by a palpable sense of urgency. Chanting slogans and holding placards reading “Stop the Genocide” and “Abiy Ahmed is a killer,” the protesters accused the Ethiopian National Defense Forces and allied regional militias of waging an offensive against Oromo civilians.
Recent reports from international observers have painted a grim picture of the security situation in Ethiopia. In its World Report 2026, Human Rights Watch (HRW) documented continued hostilities between federal forces and the Oromo Liberation Army (OLA) in parts of Oromia, resulting in significant civilian casualties and widespread displacement. Similarly, Genocide Watch’s 2025 country report highlights systematic patterns of violence against ethnic groups, noting that thousands of civilians have been killed in the Oromo and Amhara regions over the past year.
“We are here to speak for the voiceless in Oromia,” said one organizer, who identified himself as Bulti. “The international community cannot stay silent while our people are killed, our villages are burned, and our children are forced to flee their homes.”
Demands for Sanctions and ICC Prosecution
The London protest, which follows similar rallies in other major European capitals, carried a list of specific demands. Organizers submitted a formal petition to the UK Foreign Office, urging the British government to suspend financial and diplomatic support for the Ethiopian administration.
Among the key demands issued by the protest leaders were:
· Immediate Halt of Offensives: A call for the Ethiopian government to cease military operations in Oromia and withdraw security forces from civilian areas.
· Accountability: A demand for Ethiopian officials implicated in human rights abuses to be brought before international courts, including the International Criminal Court (ICC).
· Release of Political Prisoners: An urgent request for the unconditional release of opposition figures and activists held without trial.
· Justice for Slain Activists: The demonstrators specifically demanded justice for murdered artists and activists, including the iconic singer Hachalu Hundessa, whose death in 2020 sparked massive nationwide protests.
“We want the UK government to stop arming this regime,” protester Lemlem Tadese told reporters. “They have blood on their hands.”
A Deepening Crisis
The unrest in Ethiopia, Africa’s second-most populous nation, has been escalating for years. While the Tigray war officially ended in 2022 with the signing of the Cessation of Hostilities Agreement (CoHA), violence in the Amhara and Oromia regions has continued unabated.
Recent conflict dynamics have further complicated the situation. Reports from late March 2026 indicate that a rebel alliance, including Oromo forces, was closing in on the capital, Addis Ababa, leading to a state of emergency declaration. Concurrently, fierce fighting has been reported in western Oromia, where Oromo and Amhara militants have clashed, leaving civilians caught in the crossfire.
The humanitarian toll is staggering. According to the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (UNOCHA), over 288,000 people have been displaced since July 2025 following renewed inter-communal violence along the Oromia-Somali regional border, with many lacking access to clean water, shelter, or medical care.
A History of Marginalization
For many in the diaspora, the protests in London are not just a reaction to recent events but a culmination of decades of perceived marginalization. The Oromo, Ethiopia’s largest ethnic group, have long complained of political and economic disenfranchisement, including the historical banning of their language and the expropriation of their ancestral lands.
Protesters pointed to the government’s handling of the Addis Ababa Master Plan as a flashpoint, arguing that the expansion of the capital constitutes land grabs that displace Oromo farmers. “This is a struggle for survival,” said protester Desta Mulugeta. “We are fighting for our right to exist.”
A Divided Response
The Ethiopian government has consistently denied allegations of committing atrocities or targeting civilians along ethnic lines. Officials often characterize the OLA and other opposition groups as terrorist organizations bent on destabilizing the nation.
The London protest, however, highlighted the deep divide between the diaspora and the current administration. While the demonstration was largely peaceful, it reflects a growing frustration among the Oromo diaspora, who feel that diplomatic pressure alone is insufficient to halt the violence.
The Road Ahead
As the sun set over London, the protesters dispersed, but they vowed to return. Organizers announced plans for a nationwide awareness campaign and a potential mass rally in front of Parliament.
“We will not be silenced,” Bulti declared. “Until justice is served in Oromia, we will be here, every week, until the world listens.”
Melbourne’s Oromtittii Day: A Heartwarming Community Celebration
A Celebration of Heritage: Melbourne’s Oromo Community Marks Third Annual Oromtittii Day with Joy and Warmth
Melbourne, Australia – The Oromo community in Melbourne has once again demonstrated its rich cultural pride, celebrating Oromtittii Day (Oromo Mothers’ Day) for the third time in a vibrant ceremony held today. The event, which took place in a setting filled with warmth and beauty, was distinguished by a strong sense of family, with elders and children gathering together to honor the occasion.
This year’s celebration was dedicated to elevating the respect and recognition deserving of mothers. Attendees described the event as a heartwarming success, noting that the third annual commemoration brought immense joy to all who participated.
Organizers have already set their sights on the future, with plans to expand the event further. “We are already planning to make next year’s celebration even warmer and more inclusive than this one,” a member of the organizing committee shared.
“Our goal is to deepen community involvement and elevate this tradition.”
Community leaders extended their gratitude to all who participated, stating, “We thank our community members who came together to be part of this.”
The inaugural Oromtittii Day in Melbourne was first celebrated in 2024, and today’s event marks a continued commitment to honoring Oromo heritage and the pivotal role of mothers within the community.
Advocacy for Oromia 