Last night, I wanted to break the 7th seal by writing about the depravities of Joe Biden. But for some reason, the internet kept crashing. I was determined to say my piece, so I proceeded and wrote 80% of the article titled “the rotten smell of success” but at the very end, I had a sudden revelation. The seventh seal cannot be about hate, it had to be about healing. So I went to sleep after praying, I asked God to guide me toward a message of deliverance.
This morning, I woke up groggy but hopeful. As I started checking the litany of messages and notifications I received after posting an interview I conducted last evening with Dr. Metasebya Solomon and brother Louis Jefferson about Covid-19 and the perils behind the Pfizer and Biogen “vaccines”, I decided to take a break and started to listen to a song by Abonesh Adinew (funny how we become our names) and her music started to heal me.
As I sat alone in the living room, waters started breaking as years of suppressed emotions started to bless my cheeks. What started as a trickle increased into a gush, all the sudden I started sobbing uncontrollably. The peak of my pique was reached when I heard Abiti mention both of my parents in passing, Fiker and Saron, it was not Fikre ena Sara but it was close enough for me to understand.
As I’m writing this article now, the same broken waters are flowing down my cheeks as I think about my mom and dad. I am writing this article today to break a seal that has kept me in bondage for too long. Unexpressed emotions, feelings that I stored away for fear of judgement, imprisoned me behind walls bigger than those that ghettoize Gaza and the West Bank. My story is not unique to me, what I am writing are the sorrows of tens of millions of Ethiopians, and really humans around the world, who are likewise shackled by the memories of lost ones who are no longer in the present.
Officially I lost my dad on January 4th, 2002 but to me his passing occurred the last day he was able to take a breath on his own. On Sunday, December 22nd, 2001, my father Fikremariam Million struggled to tell me that he loved me, his words coming by way of the twinkle in his eyes more than anything else. He was intubated so he could not speak but he spoke volumes through the tears he shed before he coughed up blood and shortly thereafter stopped breathing on his own.
The bedside experience I had with my father Fikremariam Million I did not have with my mom when Covid 19 took my best friend away from me on May 15th, 2020. The woman who brought me into this world through her womb and who loved me above all struggled with depression most of her life. Yet despite her battles, she overcame each morning to give hope to my sibling and me where she had none for herself. She lived long enough to see my son Yohannes and that is my biggest blessing.
I’ve been given a lot of advice in the past about shortening my articles because people just don’t have the time to read books when we are conditioned to scan and look. I rebelled against this notion all this time, but for today, in honor of my father Fikremariam and my mom Shewangizaw, I shall stop being a woyane (calm down fellow activists, Woyane just means rebel same as Jegna, stop fighting over semantics) and will instead be a moderator. No that does not mean I will silence speech, I am just saying I will find the middle ground between the two opposites who raised me. To my dad who was FIRE and my mom who was WATER. I am ehwa esat. Life is poetic:: #OurLoveGrows Click To Tweet
The king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a false hope for salvation, and by its great might it cannot rescue. ~ Psalms 33:16
My blessings! I smile when I see this picture because it reminds me that despite what’s happening outside, children continue to get older and love will continue to grow.#FikreBekele #OurLoveGrows pic.twitter.com/72XcmEtkfX
— Bethlehem Bekele (@BettyBeke) December 4, 2020
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