In the 1970s, a unique orphanage called “The Mountain of Revolutionary Ethiopia’s Children” was established to raise the sons and daughters of fallen soldiers. Its choir became legendary—then history forgot them.

The year was 1973 (Ethiopian Calendar), or 1980/81 in the Gregorian calendar. The country was engulfed in war on multiple fronts—fighting internal and external forces that claimed the lives of countless Ethiopian soldiers. Men fell on battlefields across the nation, leaving behind children with no guardians, no caregivers, no one to raise them.

The streets began to fill with orphans.

The Derg government, concerned by the growing number of abandoned children, took action. By special order of the country’s then-president, Mengistu Haile Mariam, an institution was established to shelter, educate, and raise these children. It was called “The Mountain of Revolutionary Ethiopia’s Children”—YeAbyotawi Ethiopia Children’s Amba.

A City on a Hill

Located in what was then called Shoa Province, in the region of Lakes and Butajira, within the Alaba Kulito woreda, the Amba sat in an area known as Alage. It was here that children who had lost their parents to war, natural disasters, and other calamities found a new home.

The institution was divided into five “villages” or compounds: Seble Abiyot, Meskerem Two Ogaden, Zeray Deres, and Mengistu Haile Mariam—five communities that together formed a small city of children.

The Amba took in children of all ages, from newborns to adolescents. They were housed, fed, clothed, and educated within the institution’s walls. The mission was clear: raise these children with dignity, provide them education and moral guidance, and prepare them to re-enter society as whole human beings.

Growing Up on the Mountain

Former children of the Amba remember that when a child turned 18—or completed 12th grade—they would bid farewell to the institution that had raised them. But before departure, they received special counseling designed to ensure they left with strong moral character and, crucially, without the stigma of having grown up in an orphanage. The goal was integration, not isolation.

Those who excelled academically had paths forward. Some entered Ethiopia’s institutions of higher learning. Others were sent abroad—most often to Cuba or Russia—to continue their education. For children who had lost everything, the Amba offered not just survival but opportunity.

“Father” Departs, Shadows Fall

In 1983 (Ethiopian Calendar), disaster struck—not of the natural variety. President Mengistu Haile Mariam, whom all the children called “Our Father,” fled the country. For the children and staff of the Amba, his departure cast a long shadow. The man who had ordered their rescue, who had been the patron of their mountain, was gone.

What followed was a period of uncertainty. The institution continued, but the symbolic and practical support it had enjoyed evaporated with the regime that created it.

The Choir That Captured a Nation

But the Children of the Amba were known for something beyond their orphanage: their music. Under the tutelage of the renowned poet and artist Alemtsahay Wedajo, the children received artistic training that would make them famous across Ethiopia.

Gathered into a performance group called YeJegna Fire—”The Seed of Heroes”—the children regularly presented musical and artistic programs for audiences. Their choir performances were deeply moving, laden with messages about sacrifice, heroism, and national pride.

Among their most beloved works were songs that became anthems for a generation: “Tsehayé” (My Sun), “Yejegna Lij Jegna” (A Hero’s Child is a Hero), and “Ergibitu Hijji” (The Dove Hijji). These songs were not mere entertainment; they were the voice of children who had lost everything yet found purpose in serving their nation through art.

The Soundtrack of an Era

In the late 1970s and early 1980s (Ethiopian Calendar), these songs were everywhere. Young people across Ethiopia knew them by heart, singing them as if they were folk songs passed down through generations. Ethiopia Radio and Television broadcast them repeatedly. To hear a YeJegna Fire performance on the airwaves was not a novelty—it was a regular part of the cultural landscape.

The children’s choir had achieved something remarkable: they had transcended their origins to become a beloved national institution.

Erased by History

Then came 1991. The Derg fell. The transitional government that followed had no interest in preserving the cultural legacy of the fallen regime. The songs of YeJegna Fire were silenced. The children of the Amba scattered. Their music became, as one observer put it, “history, then forgotten.”

For decades, these recordings sat in archives, unheard by new generations. The voices of those orphaned children, raised up by a revolutionary government and trained by one of Ethiopia’s great artists, faded into silence.

A Flicker of Return

Recently, however, word has spread that a CD has been published containing some of these long-lost recordings. For those who grew up with these songs, it is a chance to hear their childhood again. For younger Ethiopians, it is an opportunity to discover a piece of their national heritage that was deliberately buried.

The songs of YeJegna Fire are more than propaganda artifacts. They are the voices of real children—orphans of war who found shelter, education, and purpose in a state-run institution. Their music carries the hopes, dreams, and resilience of a generation that history tried to forget.

The Mountain’s Legacy

Today, the Alage area where the Amba once stood continues its educational legacy in different form. The Alage Agricultural College, established in its own time, sits in the same region. But the children’s mountain—the YeAbyotawi Ethiopia Children’s Amba—exists now only in memory and in the fading recordings of a choir that once captivated a nation.

For the children who grew up there, now in their 50s and 60s, the Amba remains an indelible part of their identity. They were the seeds of heroes, planted on a mountain, scattered by history’s winds, but never entirely lost.

As Ethiopia continues to grapple with its complex political inheritance, stories like that of the Children of the Amba remind us that behind every regime, every ideology, every political transition, there are human beings—children who grew up, loved, lost, and longed for the homes they once knew.

The songs are returning. The children are now elders. And the mountain, though silent now, still echoes with the voices of those who once called it home.

This feature is part of the #Karamara48 and #Karamara_EthiopianVictoryDay series, commemorating Ethiopia’s complex and layered history.

As International Women’s Day 2026 is celebrated globally, the women of Oromia stand as pillars of family, community, and liberation—their contributions finally receiving the recognition they deserve.

FINFINNEE, March 7, 2026 — As the world prepares to mark International Women’s Day on March 8, 2026, the spotlight turns to the indispensable role women play in every facet of society—from the daily rhythms of family life to the grand architecture of nation-building.

This year’s global theme, “Rights. Justice. Action. For ALL Women and Girls,” calls for translating commitments into concrete change: eliminating harmful practices, dismantling barriers to equality, and amplifying women’s voices on the world stage. Complementing this is the global campaign “Give to Gain,” which emphasizes that supporting and empowering women—individually, collectively, and nationally—is not charity but strategy. When women are empowered to contribute their full strength, participation, and potential, they become transformative forces in social and political change.

For Oromo women, this message resonates with particular urgency and pride.

From Home-Building to Homeland-Building

In Oromo society, the proverb holds true: a home without a woman is a deserted place. Women are mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters—each role carrying profound dignity and responsibility. But their contribution extends far beyond the domestic sphere.

The Women’s and Children’s Affairs Wing of the Oromo Liberation Army (DDD-ABO) has issued a powerful statement on the eve of International Women’s Day, affirming that Oromo women play a visible and undeniable role in both building families and building the nation.

“Women in Oromo society occupy a position of great honor and respect,” the statement reads. “From constructing homes to constructing the homeland, their contribution is clear and unmistakable. A home without a woman is an abandoned place.”

Women in the Liberation Struggle

The history of the Oromo liberation struggle is written in the blood and sacrifice of women. Despite facing double oppression—both as Oromos under a repressive system and as women in a patriarchal world—they have never been subjugated or silenced.

Throughout decades of struggle, Oromo women have shouldered immense burdens. They have been fighters on the front lines, organizers in the shadows, and the backbone of communities under siege. Foreign oppression and gender-based violence have sought to break them, but have only forged them stronger.

Their participation in the broader national movement has been unwavering, their commitment absolute. They have proven that the liberation of Oromia cannot be achieved without the liberation of Oromo women.

Political Participation: The Key to Lasting Peace

This year’s theme from the DDD-ABO carries a powerful message: “Women’s participation in politics is fundamental to peace, justice, unity, and nation-building.”

The statement emphasizes that when women are involved in governance and political decision-making, the outcomes are transformative. Their participation ensures lasting peace, upholds justice, strengthens national unity, and builds a proper foundation for the state.

“Women’s involvement in government and political decision-making demonstrates that they play a crucial role in achieving sustainable peace, ensuring justice is upheld, strengthening national unity, and building the nation properly,” the statement declares.

This vision aligns with the ABO’s commitment to establishing a peaceful and lawful government. The organization has put forward its symbol, Horooroo, as the choice before the people in the upcoming electoral contest.

Horooroo: A Symbol of Peace and Identity

The ABO’s electoral symbol, Horooroo, represents peace, reconciliation, justice, and the broad identity of the Oromo people. It embodies the right to self-determination and stands for democracy, justice, equality, and lasting peace.

As Oromia approaches its 7th round of elections in 2026, the ABO is contesting under this symbol, offering a vision of a lawful, people-centered government—government by the people, for the people. The DDD-ABO statement makes clear that this vision cannot be realized without the full participation and empowerment of women.

“To achieve this goal,” the statement affirms, “we must work together in unity. We must choose the ABO’s ‘Horooroo’ symbol in this 7th round of elections to build a lawful and just government that includes and empowers women to bring about real change.”

A Call to Action

As International Women’s Day 2026 is celebrated, the message from Oromo women is clear: their role in building both home and homeland is indispensable. Understanding this, ensuring their participation across all sectors—political, economic, and social—is not optional but essential for achieving lasting peace, restoring justice, reclaiming national truth, mending national unity, and building a democratic state.

The DDD-ABO concludes its statement with a rallying cry that echoes across Oromia:

“Victory to the Broad Public!
Women’s and Children’s Affairs Wing (DDD) ABO
March 7, 2026
Finfinnee”

The Road Ahead

This International Women’s Day, as the world reflects on the progress made and the journey still ahead, Oromo women stand as living proof that empowerment is not a gift to be granted but a right to be recognized. They have always built—homes, communities, movements, and a nation. The task now is to ensure they have their rightful place at every table where decisions about their future are made.

For in the words of the DDD-ABO, when women participate fully, peace becomes lasting, justice becomes real, and the homeland becomes whole.

International Women’s Day 2026 is being observed globally on March 8 under the theme “Rights. Justice. Action. For ALL Women and Girls.”

A Hero’s Farewell: Oromo Liberation Veteran Abba Boru Dhaddacha Qamphare Passes Away

FINFINNE – The Oromo people have lost one of their most dedicated and resilient sons. Abba Boru Dhaddacha Qamphare, a renowned scholar, a steadfast freedom fighter, a development expert, and a humanitarian, passed away on Muddee 15, 2025. His life was a profound testament to unwavering service to his people and an unyielding commitment to justice.

Born on Amajjii 19, 1952, to his father Dhaddacha Qamphare Jaldessaa Iyyaa and mother Qabbalee Waariyoo Guyyoo, Abba Boru’s journey was one of intellect and courage. He pursued his primary education at the Mission School in Nagellee Boorana and continued his secondary studies in Yirgalem. A man fortified by knowledge, he graduated with a law degree from Finfinne University. His quest for learning then took him to the United Kingdom, where he earned a Master’s degree from the University of Sussex, focusing on development economics. He was in the midst of pursuing his PhD there when duty called him back to the struggle.

Abba Boru’s life was defined by sacrifice. Twice, he put his people’s calling above his own academic ambitions, interrupting his studies to participate directly in the Oromo liberation movement, enduring immense hardship in the process.

His involvement in the struggle was deep and multifaceted. While pursuing his first degree, he joined the fight to secure the borders of Oromia in the Boorana region. Later, following the collapse of the Derg regime in 1991, he once again set aside his PhD studies to play a pivotal role in the political transformations and the ongoing Oromo struggle.

Abba Boru was a contemporary and comrade of legendary Oromo figures such as Baaroo Tumsa, Galaasaa Dilboo, Leencoo Lata, Dhaddacha Gololcha, and Dheressaa Qiixee. His work was instrumental in entrenching the Oromo struggle in the Boorana and Gujii regions. He worked alongside leaders like Colonel Salasaa Jaaloo, Boruu Diinee, and Saaraa Jarsoo to build upon the movement’s foundations. He was also a key figure, alongside activists like Godaanaa Tunii Khanoo and Shalaaqaa Jataanii Alii, in fostering political and economic development awareness.

In the wake of the assassination of Shalaaqaa Jataanii Alii, Abba Boru stepped into a senior leadership role in the region, working tirelessly to strengthen the unity of the Oromo people across the Ethiopian and Kenyan borders. Even after the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) withdrew from the transitional government, he continued to lead the national struggle from Kenya alongside Dr. Diimaa Naggahoo.

Beyond his political activism, Abba Boru was a dedicated development expert and humanitarian. His expertise was prominently featured in the ‘Southern Rangeland Project,’ where he focused on creating economic opportunities for pastoralist communities. He also served with distinction at the Norwegian Church Aid (NCA), rising to the position of national coordinator. In this capacity, he worked to bring the socio-economic challenges of southern Ethiopia’s pastoralists to the world’s attention, advocating for comprehensive and inclusive development.

Abba Boru Dhaddacha Qamphare will be remembered as a pure-hearted leader, an intellectual, and a compassionate human being. His life was a continuous struggle for the rights of the voiceless, a manifestation of developmental change, and a model of true human service.

Though the hero is gone, his legacy is etched in the history he helped shape. His story will bear witness for generations to come, inspiring a future built on justice, dignity, and compassion for the vulnerable, including the orphans he helped raise.

Rest in power, Abba Boru. Your struggle is our foundation. Your memory is eternal.
Nagaan boqodhi.

Echoes of the Struggle: A Historic Reunion in the Heart of Oromia

There are moments in the life of a nation that transcend politics and policy, touching the very soul of a people’s journey. Today, in the bustling heart of Finfinnee, we witness one such moment. It is a scene heavy with history, a living tapestry woven from threads of sacrifice, exile, and the unyielding dream of self-determination.

Before us stand two elders, not merely as men, but as monuments. Mr. Lenco Lata and Mr. Hassan Ali. Their handshake is more than a greeting; it is the meeting of two rivers that carved the landscape of the modern Oromo struggle. To look at them is to look into the past and see the foundations of the present.

Mr. Lenco Lata, a veteran of the ABO struggle, carries the weight of the armed resistance on his shoulders. His story is one written in the shadows, in the trenches of conviction, where the fight for Oromia was not a political slogan but a daily, dangerous reality. He belongs to a generation that believed the cause was worth their very breath.

Beside him stands Mr. Hassan Ali, a figure of foundational governance. As the first president of the Oromia Regional State, he was tasked with the monumental challenge of translating decades of resistance into the framework of administration. He stood at the vanguard of a new, hopeful, and uncertain chapter, attempting to give structural form to the very cause for which Mr. Lata and his comrades fought.

Though their paths diverged—one in the trenches of guerrilla warfare, the other in the halls of nascent governance—their fates were tragically united. For their unwavering dedication to the Oromo cause, both were branded as threats. Both were forced to drink from the bitter cup of exile, expelled from the very land they dreamed of liberating and building. They became custodors of the Oromo dream from distant shores, watching, waiting, and hoping for the day they could walk the soil of Oromia as free men.

That day is today.

Their meeting in Finfinnee is not a simple reunion of old colleagues. It is a historic memory being made tangible. It is the closing of a painful loop and the affirmation that their sacrifices were not in vain. The city that once felt the absence of their voices now bears witness to their presence.

As they sit together, the ghosts of fallen comrades, the pain of years in exile, and the joy of return all linger in the air. They represent a bridge between the Oromia that was fought for in the wilderness and the Oromia that continues to be built today. In seeing them together, we are reminded that the journey is long, the price has been high, but the spirit—the indomitable spirit of Oromia—remains unbroken. This is more than a photograph; it is a page of history, written in resilience, sealed with sacrifice, and now, finally, framed in the dignity of homecoming.

The Paradox of Protection: How ‘National Interest’ and ‘Media Ethics’ Became Tools to Suppress Independent Journalism

February 27, 2026 – When governments move to shut down independent media outlets, the justifications often sound reasonable, even noble. “National security,” we are told, requires certain information to remain undisclosed. “Social harmony” demands that divisive voices be quieted. “Media ethics” must be enforced against those who would spread misinformation. “National interest” trumps individual rights.

These phrases roll easily off official tongues. They appear in legislation, in court rulings, in press statements announcing closures or arrests. They are designed to reassure: this is not about silencing dissent; this is about protecting something greater.

But across the globe, from Ethiopia to Egypt, from Hungary to the Philippines, these same phrases have been deployed in ways that systematically undermine the very institutions democracy requires. What emerges is a paradox: the language of protection becomes the instrument of suppression, and the promised safeguards for society become mechanisms for entrenching power.

The Language of Legitimacy

The terms “national interest” and “media ethics” carry genuine weight. Nations do have legitimate security concerns that may require some information to be protected. Journalists do have ethical obligations to verify information, correct errors, and avoid causing harm.

But these concepts are also inherently flexible—and that flexibility makes them dangerous tools in the hands of those who would control information.

“National interest” has no fixed definition. It can mean protecting troops in wartime. It can also mean hiding corruption, embarrassing diplomatic cables, or evidence that development funds have been stolen. The same phrase covers both legitimate secrecy and illegitimate cover-up.

“Media ethics” similarly spans a vast territory. It can mean refusing to publish unverified allegations. It can also mean refusing to publish anything critical of those in power. When the government becomes the arbiter of journalistic ethics, ethics quickly become whatever the government wants them to be.

“The problem is not the concepts themselves,” explains media law scholar Dr. Tsegaye Berhanu. “The problem is who gets to define them. When the state is both the subject of journalistic scrutiny and the judge of whether that scrutiny is ‘ethical,’ you have created a system where accountability becomes impossible.”

The Ethiopian Context: A Case Study in Linguistic Capture

Ethiopia’s recent history illustrates how the language of protection can be repurposed for suppression. Since the onset of conflict in various regions, authorities have increasingly invoked national security concerns to justify restrictions on reporting.

In Oromia, where conflict between government forces and the Oromo Liberation Army continues, independent access is severely limited. Journalists attempting to report on human rights abuses or humanitarian conditions face accusations of undermining national unity or supporting terrorist groups.

The 2020 state of emergency legislation granted broad powers to restrict “any information that could disturb the public peace” or “incite violence.” While these goals are legitimate, the definitions are expansive enough to encompass almost any critical reporting.

“The government has effectively made itself the sole judge of what constitutes responsible journalism,” says a veteran Ethiopian journalist who requested anonymity. “If you report government abuses, you’re ‘inciting violence.’ If you report opposition abuses, you’re ‘supporting terrorists.’ There is no space left for simply reporting facts.”

The result, human rights organizations warn, is that Ethiopia’s media space has contracted dramatically. Outlets have been shuttered. Journalists have fled into exile or ceased reporting on sensitive topics. The information vacuum is filled by rumor and diaspora-based outlets operating beyond any regulatory framework.

The Slippery Slope: From Regulation to Suppression

The journey from legitimate media regulation to systematic suppression rarely happens overnight. It follows a predictable pattern:

Step One: Establish the Framework – A government passes laws allowing action against media that threatens national security or violates ethical standards. These laws often appear reasonable and may even be drafted with input from media professionals.

Step Two: Expand the Definitions – Gradually, the interpretation of key terms expands. “National security” comes to include economic reports that might deter investment. “Incitement” comes to include criticism of government policy. “Ethical violations” come to include failure to present the government’s perspective.

Step Three: Selectively Enforce – The laws are applied primarily to opposition or critical media, while government-friendly outlets enjoy immunity. This creates the appearance of even-handed regulation while effectively silencing dissent.

Step Four: Create Self-Censorship – Journalists, observing what happens to colleagues who cross invisible lines, begin censoring themselves. The government need not close every outlet; it need only demonstrate that crossing certain boundaries carries consequences.

“Self-censorship is the most efficient form of suppression,” notes media ethics researcher Hanna Mekonnen. “It requires no ongoing enforcement, no public relations pushback. Journalists simply internalize the boundaries and police themselves. The government gets exactly what it wants—a compliant press—without having to do anything.”

The Ethics Paradox: Who Guards the Guardians?

Perhaps the most insidious aspect of using “media ethics” as a suppression tool is that it reverses the proper relationship between press and power.

In democratic theory, the press serves as a watchdog on power—the “fourth estate” that holds government accountable. Media ethics are professional standards that journalists voluntarily adopt to ensure they perform this function responsibly. Ethics are supposed to guide journalists in serving the public interest, not to serve as a leash held by those in power.

When government becomes the enforcer of media ethics, this relationship is inverted. The watchdog is muzzled in the name of responsible behavior. Those who should be scrutinized become the scrutineers.

“Imagine if corporations were allowed to define what constitutes fair business reporting,” says Tadesse Desta, a media lawyer. “Or if politicians could decide what counts as unbiased political coverage. That’s exactly what happens when government enforces ‘media ethics’—the subjects of journalism become the judges of journalism.”

The National Interest Fallacy: Short-Term Silence, Long-Term Danger

The invocation of “national interest” to justify media suppression rests on a fundamental fallacy: that hiding problems makes them go away.

In reality, suppressing information about national challenges does not protect national interest—it undermines it. A nation that does not know about corruption cannot address it. A government that does not hear about policy failures cannot correct them. A society that cannot discuss its divisions cannot heal them.

“When you silence reporting on ethnic tensions, you don’t eliminate those tensions,” says conflict resolution specialist Worku Aberra. “You just ensure that no one sees them building until they explode. The ‘national interest’ argument gets it exactly backwards: transparency is in the national interest. Secrecy serves only those who benefit from the status quo.”

This dynamic plays out repeatedly in conflict settings. In Ethiopia’s Oromia region, restricted reporting means that early warning signs of violence go undetected. Humanitarian needs remain invisible. Opportunities for intervention are missed. The “national interest” justification for media restrictions becomes self-defeating as conflict deepens and spreads.

The International Dimension: Learning from Others

Ethiopia is far from alone in facing these dynamics. Across Africa and beyond, governments have refined the art of using protective language to justify suppressive action.

In Tanzania, the 2016 Media Services Act expanded government power to sanction journalists for “undermining public confidence” in state institutions—a phrase capacious enough to cover almost any criticism. In Uganda, repeated internet shutdowns during elections are justified as necessary for national security, though critics note they primarily serve to block opposition organizing.

In Hungary, media legislation framed as promoting “professional standards” has resulted in a media landscape heavily tilted toward government-friendly outlets. In the Philippines, the closure of ABS-CBN, the nation’s largest media network, was justified on technical licensing grounds but widely seen as retaliation for critical coverage.

Each case has unique features, but the pattern is consistent: language that sounds protective is deployed to achieve suppressive ends.

The Way Forward: Reclaiming the Concepts

If the language of “national interest” and “media ethics” has been captured by those who would suppress independent journalism, what is to be done? The answer is not to abandon these concepts—they remain important—but to reclaim them.

For national interest: The concept must be narrowly defined and subject to independent oversight. Secrecy should be the exception, not the rule, and decisions about what constitutes a genuine national security threat should not rest exclusively with those who might benefit from concealment.

For media ethics: Professional standards should be developed and enforced by journalists themselves, through independent press councils and voluntary associations. When governments involve themselves in ethical enforcement, the conflict of interest is simply too great.

For the public: Media literacy and support for independent journalism are essential. A public that understands the value of a free press is less likely to accept its suppression in the name of security or ethics.

Conclusion: The Light That Protects

There is a reason authoritarian regimes always move against independent media first. There is a reason democratic transitions always prioritize press freedom. Journalism is not merely one institution among many—it is the institution that makes all others accountable.

When independent media is suppressed in the name of national interest, the nation’s interests are not protected. They are betrayed. When independent media is suppressed in the name of media ethics, ethics are not served. They are subverted.

The only genuine protection for national interest and media ethics is a free press that can speak truth to power, expose wrongdoing, and facilitate the public debate on which democracy depends. Any framework that suppresses independent journalism in the name of protecting these values has misunderstood them entirely—or never intended to protect them at all.

As the Ethiopian journalist who fled into exile observed: “They tell you they are closing the newspapers to protect the country. But a country that cannot hear itself think is a country that cannot save itself. The silence they create is not peace. It is just the quiet before the next storm.”