Nagessa Oddo Narrator

Ayano Jiru Interviewer

September 10, 2016 Saint Paul, Minnesota

Interview conducted in Afaan Oromoo Translated into English by Hassen Hussein

Nagessa Oddo -NO Ayano Jiru -AJ

AJ: I am Ayano Jiru. I am recording the history of the Oromo with the Minnesota Historical Society. Today’s date is September 10, 2016. I am doing this interview with Nagessa Oddo. Nagessa, welcome!

NO: Thank you.

AJ: I really want to thank you for the opportunity to do this interview today. To begin our interview, let us start from your place of birth. Where were you born?

NO: I was born in , the Regional State, Goro Dola district, in a small town called Jidola. The next town there is Negele, where I usually say I am from. The town is known as Negele Borana. I was born there [Jidola] and went to first grade of school there, in Negele itself. For junior high as well I studied there—grades seven and eight. I also completed my high school education in 2000, also at the Negele secondary school. Immediately after, in September of 2000, I joined University in the capital. Ever since I joined the university, there were ongoing protests by Oromo students there. As soon as I joined the university, there was a protest touched off by the decision of the council of the Oromia Regional State to relocate the state capital from Finfinne [Addis Ababa] to .

AJ: This means as soon as you entered the university?

NO: Yes, as soon as I did. Students at the university began their protests a year before I had entered. However, before that, they were simply organizing themselves underground. A year before I was to enter university, students demanded to put out a forest fire that consumed pristine natural forests in Bale and Guji provinces. When this request was denied, they started sporadic protests. In a protest at Ambo High School, two student protesters were killed. Ever since the political organization speaking for the Oromo was pushed out in 1992, university and high school students had been organizing for protests. The first such protest was when I was still in high school. Once I joined the university, what was previously going on underground started

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coming to the fore. During the month of January, a sociology professor used the galla word [derogatory term for Oromos], and this instigated opposition from Oromo students.

AJ: What does galla mean?

NO: It is a derogatory name for the Oromo, a name of insult. It is a name used to undermine the Oromo. The professor used this derogatory language in class. Oromo students could not swallow it, and as a result students were detained in the ensuing confrontation. I am not sure if it was eight or ten students. I am not sure about the exact number. Those detained were our seniors. We went on a protest march. This was in January. This was the first of its kind at Addis Ababa University. Previously, we had marched all the way to the Council of the Oromia Regional State to petition our grievances. Only five months after my entrance at the university, this thing came up. We marched demanding the release of the students detained. Immediately, we were invaded by the federal police, who broke into the campus and started beating people. They blooded our skulls with batons and were beating students after breaking into their dormitories.

AJ: Politics is such a sensitive issue. However, let us return to the oral history format. We will return to politics as well in due time. You told me where you were born. Were your parents also born there?

NO: They were born in Gujiland, inside the province of Guji. The reason why my father was called Odo has to do with where he was born—in a general area called , on Mount Mulata. My mother was born in Goro Dola. I don’t really know the exact village of her birth.

AJ: What did they do?

NO: My father was a healer.

AJ: Was he a doctor?

NO: He was what you call a rural doctor. It was during the [Dergue, socialist regime established in 1974] era—actually during the Emperor regime [1930-1974]. A bit before the fall of the imperial regime—I am not sure whether it was while he was falling or earlier—my father was recruited from seventh grade to take a training to do vaccinations for smallpox. After the vaccination campaign, he left [school] behind. He got himself some medicine and made himself something like a clinic. He would get the medicine from the government, and that was how he started his practice. All along that is what he did. As far as my memory goes, we had a clinic.

AJ: In the town of Negele?

NO: In Jidola. He was also a man of religion. The people who sent him to school were from a group called the Lutheran Mekane Yesus [Ethiopian Evangelical Church Mekane Yesus]. When he was leaving school, he was a pastor as well as a clinician, which meant he was a highly respected person in the community.

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AJ: How many kids did your parents have?

NO: We were four. However, our parents went on to divorce while I was a little child. The four of us were from the same mother. After the separation, my mother went on to have six more children, whereas my father grew the number to nine. In total, I believe we were seventeen.

AJ: That is a big family. How was it growing up in such a big family, especially one with a doctor as a father? Was it like the Bill Cosby family here in America?

NO: [Laughing.] I did not grow up with my parents. After my parents deposited me in the town of Negele, where my parents did not live, I spent most of my early life there. They placed me at a person’s house, and I grew up and studied while always missing my parents. I just played with kids because I was away from my parents.

AJ: Did they take you there for educational reasons?

NO: Yes, it was for education.

AJ: In those days there was education?

NO: In the village where I was born, there was one [school] for grades one to four. However, the school was turned into a military camp following accusations that the general area was where the Oromo Liberation Army [OLA, military wing of the Oromo Liberation Front] operated. Soldiers took over the school and turned it into a military garrison. Until the OLF [Oromo Liberation Front, nationalist organization] was driven out of the area, there was no school at all. In our area, there were two towns—the town of Gidole and Ganale—bordering the adjacent province of Bale and situated right on the Ganale river valley, which were believed to be the operational centers of the OLF. Consequently, there was no school there for a long time. It was because of this reason that I was sent to Negele and grew up there. I barely lived with my parents. Once I became an adolescent, I would go there on foot on Fridays and return on Mondays having had some milk. During the summer school recess, I sometimes would return and herd the cattle. Aside from this, I barely grew up with my parents.

AJ: Schools are always situated far away, not nearby as they are here in America.

NO: Sometimes we almost walked six to seven hours on foot to attend school.

AJ: Did you follow in the footsteps of your father and go to the medical field, or did you study something else?

NO: Actually, my father wanted me to pursue the medical field. He wanted me to follow the two professions he liked. With regards to religion, he wanted me to follow his example, and with regards to education, he wanted me to study medicine. However, I did not have any interest in either.

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There was something that drew my interest early on. I saw, during the military operations, our people being pulled out of their homes and beaten. They would arrest a father saying, “Your son is a member of the OLF.” They would say, “Your son is a rebel,” and imprison the whole family and take away their cattle. I saw them taking the entire cattle properties of families and taking those to urban areas, including Negele, under the allegation that a member of the family was suspected of having a link to the OLF. They would keep the cattle in military camps. Some women would refuse to part away with their cattle and come all the way to the city. That is how they made men and women cry. They detain some of the family and bring the rest together in a field and beat them up—mostly people with some form of education, especially those liked and respected by the community. This created something in my mind and it grew as I grew. I also used to listen to Oromo songs and follow things. The more I listened, the more I tended toward making the desire to change this unfortunate circumstance my life’s mission. I convinced myself that I could change the situation. Because this thought has been growing in my mind, the reason why I studied and grew up to be was to change this sad situation.

AJ: Law and politics?

NO: Yeah. I did not want to follow what he wanted me to be. I did not.

AJ: You had alluded to something previously where you stated that you took part in student demonstrations as soon as you moved to the capital, Finfinne.

NO: Yes. Upon my entry into the university as a freshman, our seniors quickly sifted who we were, who was Oromo and whatnot, and welcomed us accordingly. They had assignments. Some were assigned to work with and organize those coming from the south. They had the same for students coming from other regions as well—the east as well as the west.

There was this Guji boy who had attended high school in . This guy approached me and said he wanted to see me and advised me to come to this dormitory where others were also invited. Those of us gathered there were from the same geographic area. They introduced us to each other and gave us an orientation. To prevent students from failing, they found an empty space on campus, and once a week our seniors, those who excelled in their studies, would be assigned to tutor us. That is how they helped build our sense of identity, confidence in each other, and built relations with each other and anchored our Oromo identity in our communal relationships with each other. That was why lots would actively participate in rallies and other community activities. The material was already in us—all they had to do was cultivate it a bit more.

In the meantime, there was a split within the ruling party in 2001, I believe around April. There was an agitation for an Ethiopia-wide rights movement, a demand for a student council, as it was disbanded and there was no bulletin or magazine where students could air their views. Students were rallying for these demands. There was a debate among the Oromo whether to take part in these protests or stay out. I was at the forefront of those arguing in favor of taking part. This was against our common enemy. Those rights being demanded also concerned us. We should not be limited singly to Oromo issues and isolate ourselves. We do need a student council. It will be

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something common for all the students. The magazine will also be common for all of us. My argument was that whatever is for everyone, we should rally along with others.

AJ: All the students were organizing? Including the Amhara?

NO: Yes. The Amhara wanted to organize as Ethiopians irrespective of all particularities. The separate organization of the Oromo, they saw as a threat. They thought that risked fragmenting the country. They did not like it. On the other hand, our folks rather liked to organize on their own. It was fine to organize as such in a clandestine manner and then lead all others. However, they won’t follow you! If you had an all-encompassing agenda, they might have followed. However, our people lacked that mentality, and our mind was set contrarily.

AJ: If the Amhara wanted to promote an all-encompassing Ethiopia-wide agenda, why would the Oromo refuse to be a part in such a movement? Did the Amhara always want to be at the head and there was no fairness? Is that why the Oromo refused to participate?

NO: One of the first reasons why they would refuse is that if the movement included all Ethiopians, the language was going to be Amharic. There were different kinds of concerns. Moreover, the way Oromo politics was designed was awkward as it lacked a desire to organize all others and take the lead. Our grievance was that we were marginalized—that the Oromo language and culture has been marginalized. This forced a return to own identity and forced us to organize [ourselves] separately.

The problem was not limited to the Amhara. We also had our shortcomings. We did not go forward and rally behind an all-inclusive agenda and then fail to find anyone who would follow us. We did not have such an agenda in the first place. Our agenda was more Oromo-centric. Until we started talking about the issue of land and similar transcendental demands, our fight was over being called galla, over being insulted and that sort of a thing. For quite a long time we did not properly frame our agenda. As a matter of fact, while they used election cycles to promote their agenda, we barely took note of the organizing opportunities presented by election cycles. The idea of taking part in the elections and waging a political struggle was only a recent phenomenon for the Oromo. Others have been taking advantage of the opportunity long before we did.

For example, during 2002, they made a great attempt. We also did a little bit of organizing during the 2005 elections. Even if we did the bare minimum, we had not convinced each other that this was a proper forum to organize and wage our struggle. That is why we failed to come up with an agenda which could have rallied others. During those rallies, we were partially reserved, barely went to the front. There was food at the cafeteria. We ate. They said they would boycott it. But we decided to join the boycott of classes. Not going to classes was technically in support of that struggle. However, if we had refused to go to the cafeteria, we would have been disproportionately harmed as most of us were from the countryside. We did not go to the front of the rallies because we did not know if the others had some hidden agenda. They might have prepared a plan—for example, how to take power—which we were not privy to. We still decided to rally along with them.

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Since we were also boycotting classes, the police came in twice, beating students and breaking limbs. If you were not attending classes, the police saw it fit to drive us out of campus. I was also among those beaten and taken to a military camp where they trained their police force. Afterwards, they punished us by dismissing us from school for one year. They dismissed us without saying anything. A little later, they formally announced our dismissal from education. They later came back and decided to return us to our education when the issue was raised at a parliamentary hearing. There were about ten thousand students affected! It was decided that we return to school. We returned after one year, sometime in 2002.

AJ: All ten thousand students?

NO: Yes.

AJ: They punished and disciplined all these ten thousand students for over a year?

NO: They did not detain us for a year. They released us after beating us up for a while. They would force you to do difficult sport exercises as a form of physical punishment. They would beat the hell out of you and then let you go.

AJ: How long did they keep you there? For a whole year?

NO: No, it was not a whole year. Rather about a week. After we were dismissed, we spent a year with our parents. Then they called us and allowed us back into the school. Afterwards, there was another incident sometime in December of 2003 when we demanded for the establishment of an Oromo cultural and language council. That year I was the student leader at the Sidist Kilo campus, meaning Oromo students. We used to have such a thing. We were the ones who welcomed incoming students. We would organize them. I would welcome the first year students and set the agenda.

AJ: The Qubee Generation [Literature Generation, Oromos born since 1980] would transfer responsibilities from each other. Were you the one who initiated this?

NO: Yes.

AJ: Does this mean that it was from there that it began to take hold?

NO: Yes, that was where it began to take root. We even more strongly organized ourselves in 2003 and demanded the formation of the Oromo cultural and language council. They kept dragging their feet on this issue. Sometimes they would say that they would grant us the request. They would turn back and refuse to do so. Then they announced that they would let OPDO students [’s Democratic Organization, political party allied with the ruling coalition in Ethiopia] form the council. Until 2003, there was no single student who self- identified as OPDO. We learned that they had recruited a few students, not exceeding ten by then. Unknown to us, there were students that worked with them secretly. What they did was to arm these students with pistols and bring to us this idea that the council will be guided by these

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students. We filed a petition rejecting the idea of a party-appointed council and demanded that the council be composed by those elected by the students.

Two issues popped up at the same time. While we were going back and forth with the university on the formation of an Oromo cultural and language council, we heard the news that the Oromia Regional State was forced to relocate its capital outside of Finfinne. To move it! The decision was made in 2000, following which they also amended the constitution of Oromia to the same effect. Now they were asked to implement that decision.

AJ: Then what?

NO: Upon hearing the news, the Mecha-Tulama Association [Oromo civic organization] called for a demonstration in opposition to the decision. We took part in this rally. That was one of the days when I was severely beaten. I brought with me from the university this blind boy. He was a law student and also my senior. Demonstrators had been dispersed around out of intimidation. I told this guy to board a taxi and turn around and leave because the demonstration was already aborted. I boarded this guy on a taxi and stayed put. Unknown to me, this person had pointed to the secret police that I was the organizer of the protest—this was done by one of the Oromo students whose name is known. While I was standing by the taxi boarding area and chatting with fellow students, this police officer came around and started kicking me. He insisted that we vacate the place. He kept pushing me away. I said, “Where are you pushing me to?” He was a member of the federal police. I told him I was trying to board a taxi and leave. He kept pushing me away. “Who the hell is pushing me? Leave me alone!” I demanded. From the corner, I could see a police pickup truck waiting. I sensed that they were about to detain us. It dawned on me that they were detaining us. [Laughing.] When we were taken to the car, they asked us to board it. We did. I was the first to do so. They demanded that we sit down. While I was about to sit down, they kicked me right here—I believe it is on the right side that they hit me.

AJ: Yes, I could see the cut.

NO: He kicked me with the back sole of his shoes. You see, I thought I had lost my sight. I was bleeding a lot. Blood was flowing all over me. I covered my blooded eye and sat down. They had these small batons, and they kicked you with it. They made me their target. Even though there were many other students, I was the one they beat the most. I did not mind the beating.

They took us to a police station. Screaming at them, I demanded that the policeman who did this to me account. They detained us there overnight and asked us to sign this paper saying that we took part in an illegal demonstration. I told them that it was not an illegal demonstration. The demonstration was called on a newspaper. I also told them that I had done no wrong. They just kept us overnight and released us the next morning. Their plan was to frighten us.

Unintimidated, we went on to organize another demonstration. Some unknown people sneaked into the demonstration and broke the windows of the library, some damage of which was shown on TV. They wanted to frame us as terrorists, putting up the destruction of property as a pretext. [Laughing.] They said we were guilty of breaking the John F. Kennedy Library. They wanted to claim that we were guilty of destroying American property. The night of the demonstration, they

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detained some students, about ten in total. We went on a demonstration demanding that these eight students be released. They refused to heed our demands, and a week later we gathered in front of the office of the president of the university. We chose our representatives and sent them inside because no one was coming out to talk to us. I and this other student, who was also a law student and my senior, walked to the office of the minister of education. Since we had sent a petition here, we wanted to talk to her and hear what she had to say. She simply refused to meet with us. We handed our letter and turned around back to the university.

By the time we reached the Sidist Kilo campus, the compound was invaded by the police. Federal police had encircled the compound. Nobody could go inside. This other student had just won a DV [diversity visa] lottery to come to America, and there was little time left before his departure. He was scared of getting in [so as to] not jeopardize his chance to go to America. I, on the other hand, looked for an opportune door and went in through this door where there was some kind of a church. The campus had about six entrances. When I went inside, there was another layer of police cordon. When I passed by the law faculty, there was also another layer, and I saw they were guarding students. I told them I wanted to go inside. They told me to go away. I told them I was with those students being encircled. [Laughing.] When they chased me away, I just let it go. While I was standing right there, they left, hoarding the students on about six large trucks. There were about 350 students aboard those trucks.

Since it was futile to try to organize for another rally, I advised the remaining students to disperse and come back together the next morning. Among those students were this guy named Idris, who is currently in America and has recently written a book, from the faculty of business and economics, who had arrived with about ten other students from his faculty. He and his group heeded my call and left. The other students refused to budge. While I and these other students were arguing about what to do, the police came back with a pickup truck and took us all away and merged us with those who were previously carted away. They took us to a place known as the Kolfee police station where they tortured us, ordering us to lie down, to get up, and to carry each other and whatnot—all in the form of physical punishment.

AJ: Did they give you food?

NO: Did they give us food, man? Perhaps some dry bread?

AJ: They would make you do all those exercises without giving you something to eat?

NO: Yes. They made us sleep on the cold floor. Some of the students slept on the very tables upon which the police recruits did their school work. The rest of us slept on the floor. That was how they kept us there all night, without any night clothes.

AJ: You went to college in the year 2000, right?

NO: I graduated from high school in June 2000. Was the national examination not in May? Yes, I went to college in September 2000.

AJ: When did you graduate from college?

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NO: I graduated college in 2009. It took me nine years.

AJ: Two thousand nine?

NO: Yes. It took me nine years. First, one year I was dismissed from school towards the beginning. Later, I was imprisoned in 2004 for three years. I was released in 2007, and they let me go back to school.

AJ: Was school not difficult—having to start, be dismissed, come back, go to prison and back to school?

NO: For us, prison was also a life. Unless you have had another opportunity in your own country, it is part of life.

AJ: You could not graduate from school on time. You could not manage to make money and build yourself economically. How much did this affect your future life?

NO: Yes. What this means is that my life itself became a life of struggle. My life was totally geared towards the struggle.

AJ: You could not graduate from school on time. You could not manage to make money and build yourself economically. You had also mentioned how they would trouble your parents. Did you have any freedom with regards to practicing your religion?

NO: What freedom was there? They would manipulate the election of religious leaders. They also did the election of political leaders by themselves. They would appoint religious leaders. There is no institution in that land that is free from state interference and diktat. Afraid that independent organizations would wrest power away from it, the state monitors the activities of all organizations. The religion that I would like to practice is waqeffanna [waaqeffataa, traditional Oromo religion]. Because the government associates waqeffanna with Oromo nationalism, they look at it as some kind of enemy religion in that country. Overall, there is no religion in Ethiopia that is free from government interference and control. Did I tell you I was released in 2007?

AJ: Yes?

NO: I graduated in 2009. Initially I was employed at the so-called Justice Organs Training Center—that of Oromia. They continued to follow me there too. The follow up intensified, especially with regards to the takeover of gold mines by the MIDROC group [private investment company], which is owned by millionaire Sheikh Al Amoudi. Once becoming their target, I had no choice but to quit from there.

Then I ran in an election after becoming a member of an opposition party. It was that year that I joined the opposition party known as the Oromo People’s Congress [OPC]. I ran for a seat in parliament in the 2010 general national elections. They intensified their targeting of me during

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the campaign because of the support I was receiving from the populace. The people took me as someone who would fight for their rights, someone who went to jail for the people. Upon seeing how much support I had with the people, they started monitoring me even more closely. They deployed a security detail and would from time to time search our house. According to the law, an individual running for election is supposed to have immunity. They, however, surrounded my father’s house and detained my siblings. Initially, they tried to cajole me through elders so that I would pull out of the election.

AJ: How long would these elders of ours remain agents of the enemy and do their errands?

NO: The fact that the government would talk to them and send them as its emissary was such a big deal for them. They grew up in this mentality because of the severe oppression under which they themselves lived. Their mind is badly damaged as a result. Once a mind is enslaved, there is no getting free out of it. The current generation is at least educated in their mother tongue and has a measure of self-confidence. Even if the oppression was still imposed on them, they have this belief that they are not inferior to anybody else. However, for the elders, the fact that the government would even bother to talk to them is such a big deal for them. That is why you cannot blame them. They lack the confidence that this generation has built. This is something that has been happening in human history. Even in South Africa, when the youth were waging the struggle, their mothers would say, “What did those people do to us? We exist because of them. They provide for us. They are the ones who pay our salary. Do not mess with them.” [Laughing.] They think their oppressors somehow brought from outside the money which it collected from those it oppressed, and they say things like, “They built schools for us, they built roads for us.”

They even tried to shoot me to death. I was saved by God. After the 2010 election, I moved back to the capital and lived there until 2013. From 2011 onwards, I increased my involvement with the opposition party. The same year, I was elected as the vice-chairman of the OPC, becoming the deputy of Dr. Marara [Merera Gudina, leader of the OPC].

As I increased my activism, there was this issue whereby there were two Oromo opposition parties—the OPC and the OFDM [Oromo Federalist Democratic Movement], which was being led by Mr. Bulcha [Bulcha Demeksa, chairman of the OFDM]. We each held our respective general assembly meetings and decided to merge the two organizations. I was among the four individuals who worked on the merger. In July 2012, we managed to merge the two parties and the merged party became known as the OFC—Oromo Federalist Congress—and I became its head of public relations until my departure from the country.

On the twenty-fourth of July 2013, I came to the US for education at Winona State University, which sent me my I-20 [immigration form for students]. There was this thing called the intercultural scholarship. I won half of my award from it, and that is how I received my visa and came to this country.

AJ: So you came to America on a student visa?

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NO: Yes. I did not relent with my activism after my arrival. As you can see, I am active in whatever way I can, including media appearances, to organize the people, especially to support the organization in which I was a member, because I knew their agenda and their limitations, especially with regards to lack of financial resources, which I tried to ameliorate to the best of my abilities.

AJ: How old were you when you came to America?

NO: Perhaps 34, actually 33.

AJ: All these years, you tried to study. But political oppression would not allow you to meet your educational goals.

NO: Yes. Actually a year before coming to the US, I had started to study international law, which was a master’s program. Anyways, I had no hope of completing it because the situation was not convenient. Secret agents of the ruling party kept their eyes on me. They kept warning me, “You may either go to prison, get killed, or work with us.” As much as possible, they wanted to force people to abandon the cause for which they stood and relinquish their activism. If they kept pushing you, you either relinquish it altogether out of sheer exhaustion or tell them, “I will leave it all and just leave me alone,” rather than going to jail. If you were somebody who can be bought with money, they will give you some money. Their thinking is that you would stay in your chosen opposition party and provide them with internal information. If you refused to cooperate, it means you would end up like Bekele [Bekele Gerba, activist and leader in the Oromo Federalist Congress] and end up in prison. They would identify somebody with a potential and bother them as such. This meant I was on my way to prison. But I was lucky to take this opportunity and leave it all behind. This was how my life was.

AJ: When you came in America, what did you see?

NO: After I came to America… In what way?

AJ: With regards to education?

NO: I could not pursue my education. First I had to get asylum, which meant I filed for asylum. Besides, there are fees, and I was not ready for it. I had to first settle down. Besides, my asylum was also not finalized. It has been two years and some months since I applied. I submitted it on December 25, 2013, which means it has been over two years. They didn’t even interview me yet. I am just waiting. I have also asked them to expedite it for me. They tell me they have included my file in the expedited list.

As a country, it is great. It is a country where people have rights. I am free to be able to speak about what I feel, to freely express my opinion. The people are also great. On the other hand, I am also trying to engage in legislative advocacy and social media efforts. After doing some study as to how to influence the policy of this country towards Ethiopia, I have been making some effort, in collaboration with the community.

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AJ: Since you did not have money with which to pay for school, are you doing these studies on your own?

NO: Yes. I am studying on my own.

AJ: When you left your country, what did you leave behind which worried you?

NO: My wife is still in the country. She is still living under a great risk.

AJ: Did you have children?

NO: I used to raise my adopted children. My adopted children are also still in the country. My wife, children, and family—they all worry me.

AJ: How was it leaving behind these people? How did you prepare to leave? Did you do this openly with a party or in secret?

NO: No party! I didn’t want them to know I was leaving. I dropped the news to the ears of my select friends the day I was leaving, inviting them to come over, telling them that I was leaving. They were shocked but somehow managed to drop me at the airport. I told no one. Why? Because if the news was broken, I was afraid that they would not let me leave from the airport, which was why I kept it secret.

AJ: Upon your arrival, who welcomed you?

NO: Somebody who I had known while in prison. This guy with whom I was detained who won a DV lottery had come to America. I had told him that I was coming before leaving home. He was the one who received me.

AJ: Are you still living with the same person who welcomed you?

NO: I am not living with him at present. I am living on my own.

AJ: Are you doing difficult work? What kind of a job is it?

NO: Actually, I provide school transportation with my own van.

AJ: How did you choose to come to Minnesota?

NO: The college that invited me is in Minnesota, which is why I ended up here. This happened to be a great opportunity for my activism.

AJ: How did you get in touch with Winona University?

NO: Actually, somebody sent me a link. I was trying different colleges. For example, I was looking at this program in rule of law and democracy or good governance and democracy—a

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master program at a university known as Ohio Northern University. I was not successful. For the most part, I tried universities in Europe, for example Sweden and the like. Luckily, I applied using the link that this guy had sent me. They asked me to send necessary documents, such as official transcripts and the like, and finally gave me an admission.

AJ: You were lucky. You have good luck.

NO: Yes, I was lucky.

AJ: In general, how did America welcome you? Has it been great for you, or are you still dreaming of your country? Do you ever think of things like going back to your country?

NO: Actually where I grew up, the memory through which I came to be—what we had tried there, saying that we would bring justice to that country and instead lived under injustice—my mind is still back there. I see people still going to the very prisons in which I was imprisoned— the very same way that they tied my hands behind my back and took me to court. Even if I am physically here, my mind, my thoughts, are still there. Still university students are being beating as I was beaten. I believe I need to do whatever I can to support the struggle there for justice. I have a great opportunity now to shed light on the suffering of my people. I have the opportunity to do more. Physically I am not there. However, as much as I can, I will lend support so that what people there are striving to achieve is achieved. I will support them with whatever I can. To the extent possible, I will try to organize the diaspora. I will attempt to influence US policy as much as I can. Because if they [the Ethiopian government] could not receive money from the United States, that government cannot exist. I will strive to ensure that people know that there are views aside from those in power. I will strive to show that the view that this country will go down the drains without this government is false. It is not solely them that could protect the interest of America. As a matter of fact, the interest of America is best served if it is on the side of the people, and the country will be greater for it. To the extent possible, I would like to show that the regime that is killing the people is not promoting US interests there, and I want to influence policy so that the people’s voice is not silenced and the struggle will continue to be strengthened on its nonviolent course. I have tried to make an impact through the media. I gave it all and left nothing behind.

AJ: Don’t we always see it? We always see your work on social media. We talked enough about the country. Now let us return to and talk about life here in America, here in Minnesota. How is the day-to-day life of new Oromo immigrants? How do they dress up? How do they eat? How are they holding on to their culture? How do you see the lives of immigrants in today’s Minnesota?

NO: Sometimes I feel like I am here in America only physically. Because I am always with my own people. [Laughing.]

AJ: This is 2016. How large is the Oromo population here in Minnesota?

NO: The population is large. Anecdotally I hear that the population is forty thousand. I don’t really know the statistics. This is only from what I have heard.

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AJ: So you feel like you are still in your country?

NO: One is that. Secondly, unless at work, I rarely mix with other peoples. You mostly interact with our people. Even when going to a restaurant, you go to an Oromo or Ethiopian restaurant. The job of organizing the diaspora is also largely with our folks. That is why I said so. Most of the immigrants strive to work and support themselves and try their best to change the politics of that country. I am one. So we cannot say we have utilized all the opportunities that this country has to offer. Regardless, as someone living in a country where there are more opportunities, our lives are greatly better than those still living in their countries.

AJ: Since you arrived here, are there changes you made to further acclimate and correspond with life in this country?

NO: I have quite a few things, yes, I have tried. Trying to improve your thinking and adapting oneself with this culture is very important. However, abandoning what you have been in for a long time and what you grew in is very difficult. I am struggling to adjust myself to things here. Among my most difficult challenges is the question of keeping time.

AJ: Like timing?

NO: Yes. Being on time. [Laughing.]

AJ: Some here have assigned something called “black time” for us. Even after twenty years here, they would say, “He would arrive on ‘black time.’” [Laughing.]

NO: Okay.

AJ: How about with respect to language? You speak decent English. Is it because you have studied a lot in your own country?

NO: I was educated in my country. Moreover, for political ends, I used to listen to different radio programs. However, it gets mixed up for me sometimes! In the mornings, I would listen to the English programs of the BBC and VOA [Voice of America]. BBC Network Africa was another one. I would listen to different things. I would also watch films. Regardless, how they teach [English] back home and the education was not that much—unless one helped himself. The accents were different from each other! Our accent is inclined towards the British accent. However, it is largely a local accent, and however much you studied there, it will be all new for them here. Anyway, I have been trying to improve. When I came here, I was having difficulty pronouncing even [the word] water.

AJ: How do you say it now?

NO: I would say w-a-t-e-r. What do I know!

AJ: You still say w-a-t-e-r? [Laughing.]

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NO: I improved it to saying wa-te-r, and people would still not understand me. [Laughing.] I said, “This is amazing,” and I am still trying to improve upon it. I want to improve even more and also learn the culture here properly and master it all in a short time. I want to pursue my PhD education. To apply to this effect, I am studying for the GRE [Graduate Record Examinations] and the like.

AJ: Unless you studied hard, it is hard.

NO: It is hard, yes.

AJ: A lot of people fail to pursue graduate education failing to do well in the GRE, LSAT [Law School Admission Test] for law school, and MCAT [Medical College Admission Test] for medical school. These things are very hard.

NO: I will pass, God willing.

AJ: I am sure you would study it all and pass this year.

NO: I will pass.

AJ: You arrived in America in 2013, and you have been here for three years now. Did you find the America you had yearned for and the one you found the same or different?

NO: I found it vastly different. Didn’t we think this was where you just collect money without effort? [Laughing.] We used to think people who lived here were all rich. We used to think that there was lots of free money here. Upon hearing that somebody made $2,000 a month, we immediately changed it to birr [Ethiopian currency], our local currency. If you multiplied that by twenty, it means 40,000 in Ethiopian birr. [Laughing.] “Oh, 40,000,” we used to say with wonder!

AJ: So how did you find it when you came to America? How did you land a job?

NO: Once here, things can be difficult. Whatever you do, including the healthcare and what not, are all different from what we had originally thought. After arriving here, we found out that nothing comes without great effort. We learned that contrary to our thought, not all people are knowledgeable, not all are propertied. However, sometimes if you strived! On another point, we used to think that the economy was totally held by whites. Once here, we learned that if you worked hard, you could enter anywhere, which was contrary to our belief there.

Had my mind not been preoccupied with activism, I have confidence that I can succeed in any field of endeavor. Whatever I put my mind on, be it making money, be it going into business, be it education, I believe I will be successful in it. But I have also learned that there is nothing that can be achieved in this country easily without hard work. If you do not strive, there are people without homes, the homeless. Back home if you had a car, it was automatically assumed that that person was rich. Here having or not having a car is not such a big deal. [Laughing.] What we had

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thought there and what we found here are of different categories. We used to think of here with our preconceived ideas from there. Even after coming here, on some issues we think in terms of the culture from there. That isn’t right. When it comes to action, it is imperative to act here as one needs to act here.

AJ: What do non-Oromo populations here know about the Oromo? Are there things that you say they should have known about the Oromo?

NO: What they know is the word Ethiopia. Perhaps they know that there is a country called Ethiopia in the Horn of Africa. I don’t think they know the Oromo, for the most part. Maybe here they may know the Oromo as Oromo. However, when it comes to knowing that the Oromo are the largest population in that country, that that country would not be able to survive without them and that it is us that helped that country survive let alone anything else, that even the name Ethiopia is the name the Greeks used to refer to this people—they don’t know. That everything that had been written about Ethiopia during the ancient times was all about this people—about Cush! The black people the Greeks were referring to were the people of Cush.

AJ: Is the word Ethiopia not the same as black in the dictionary?

NO: Yes. That is not all. If you studied closely, this word Ethiopia is originally the same as the word Cush. The Greeks referred to the Cushites with this name. The Cushites referred to themselves with this name. The people whom the Greeks referred to as black or the burnt face people were the Cushites who lived around Egypt, the black pharaohs. Those people lived south of Egypt. From there they migrated down to Nubia, Meroe, and the like. The Nubian civilization was by the Cushitic people. The people whom they called Ethiopians in the ancient times, those people are the Oromo. Historically it is its name. Three thousand years ago, the people who used to live in Yemen, the people called the Habashite [Amhara], migrated to the Horn of Africa. After being in the Horn of Africa for over two thousand years, just one hundred years ago— when the British colonized the Sudan, when the Italians occupied the Somali, and when the French occupied this area—these lands were in the hands of the Habashite kings, mostly the handiwork of Habasha kings. Then the Habashas, which are not Ethiopians actually, found this name in the Bible. They found the name is interesting, and when they saw this mentioning of a blessed nation, they appropriated this name for them and became more Ethiopian than us. [Laughing.] Actually the name refers to the Cushites. Even though the name is imposed upon us, the name originally belonged to us. We reject it because it is imposed on us. The written history of five thousand years, the history of three thousand years, until the nineteen hundreds, all belonged to the Cushites. From among the Cushites, the Oromo are the greatest people.

AJ: We should have been known to the non-Oromo as such, but we are not. Moving on, what are the views on this of the Qubee Generation youth and our elders?

NO: The difference between the Qubee Generation and the other people came about from the fact that the Qubee Generation is taught in its own language [Afaan Oromoo]. Because it is steeped in Oromo culture, mentally it is free and has a great deal of self-confidence. The other people—as you saw in the book entitled the Pedagogy of the Oppressed, a people under subordination first hates itself. It abandons its own identity, and accepts its servitude and ceases

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to believe in the equality and humanity of all. The greatest job of the oppressor is that— imprinting this in people’s minds so that people would accept their inferiority. And this was what has been done to our people during the last one hundred years. So that you hate and undermine all that is yours—so that you hate yourself. If possible, after hating yourself, you want to change yourself and become like them. The oppressed themselves try to oppress each other. I think this has inflicted great harms on our elders. What was done to their minds has harmed them. The Qubee Generation is to some extent free from this. This is the difference that exists between the two.

AJ: With regard to those of us who are in the diaspora—for example, in Minnesota—do you think we can continue to live according to our culture?

NO: One obligation that needs to be met is that everything needs to be connected to our roots, connected to our foundational values. It is better if we keep on improving and building on those. Whatever we do needs to have some kind if philosophical bases. What we do must be connected to the foundational Oromo philosophy of origin. It means we take this as a foundation and build upon it. Our roots—like the gadaa system [traditional Oromo sociopolitical system] and the like.

AJ: Do these foundational things exist today? Are the Oromo being mobilized by this culture?

NO: It does exist. In many places it does. What I mean by this is this. For example, the gadaa is a system of governance. It is a system of government that was also mixed up with religion in the past. Did you understand? The reason why it is a mode of government is because the person who is chosen as abba gadaa [Oromo supreme leader] is the head of state, not the head of religion. If there was a war, he is the one who would declare war. He has his ministers of war, finance, and judiciary, and under him he has counselors who advise him on things like the law. It is a system of government. The gadaa is a mode of governance. It is the state. Being the state, the religion that it has was the same religion of waqeffanna. There was the qaalluu [traditional spiritual leader]. As was the case with other states, there was a relationship between the state and religion among the Oromo as well.

What we need to do is leave out the mix-up with religion if we want to use gadaa as a system of government and take cardinal values and the main principles, like the transfer of state power every eight years, the ideas of society being divided into five parties and those groups taking turns in assuming leadership. My idea is to take the main principles and capitalize on them. Taking the constructive and fundamental aspects of the culture is vitally important for the strength and development of our people. If you have no foundations, you are floating in the air. You take what is foundational and build upon it. You improve upon it. Taking those values that are foundational and fundamental will build your morale and will help you organize and help build you up. What is yours will build your spirits. Hence, this is very important.

AJ: How do you compare the people here versus those still in the homeland with respect to being guided by this culture?

NO: Those at home are going back to their roots. The people are not engaged in just the struggle for rights. They are also going to their roots during the struggle. The two struggles follow each

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other. Many of the peoples in Africa started changing their names during the decolonization struggle. Someone who was previously named Henry became Muzungu or changed to Mobuto. Mobutu Sese Seko’s [president of Zaire, 1965-1997] previous name was Joseph Désire. Why do you think that was? Had we not looked down upon us, ours is not less than theirs, you see? When you do that, you are revolutionizing everything. The people back home are just doing that. Our identity is not less than any other identity, be it in name, be it in language, be it in culture. In whatever they do, they are marching back to their roots, to the foundations. People are also revolutionizing the culture. This means there is a revolution going on back home. On everything! This is why it is winning and getting nearer and nearer to achieving its freedom. The diaspora is, however, not there. Far from it!

AJ: Why is it far from it? What made the diaspora to be far from it?

NO: First of all, the diaspora has some freedom. It is not experiencing oppression from the [government]. Secondly, where it lives, it lives in isolation from the others. I feel as if it has developed some culture of its own creation. On all matters, it goes extreme. The people back home operate by asking themselves, “What can we achieve? What can we not achieve?” Because they are experiencing oppression, they keep their unity and rally together in unity. To achieve its rights, it wants to pay the sacrifices demanded by different alternative means of action.

Let me remind you what you had said to me once just as an example. “Where do you belong? You go to this meeting, that meeting,” and you asked, “Where is your position?” The reason why I go to all places is because that is the prevailing view in the country, back home. Whoever it is, so long as it is Oromo, we don’t care which one—that is what the people back home would say. They don’t care which group. As far as we are concerned, we are all one group. The means don’t matter. Only the end matters. The end justifies the means—this is what the people back home believe.

AJ: How about this idea of taking the diaspora community as something extreme?

NO: The diaspora community, like they do in religion, is divided politically as well, saying, “I belong here. I belong there.” The reason why is because there is no force that is beating it down from the head.

AJ: Diaspora politics is like that?

NO: No, diaspora politics is not like that. They act based on their national interest. The country in which we live, an advanced country, what keeps them united is something called the national interest. When there are minor political differences, they are united when it comes to the national interest. We, our diaspora, I don’t think has identified the national interest of the Oromo. We have to build on that. Meaning, we have to ask, “What is Oromo national interest?” and start thinking along those lines. If we did that, we would have been united! You understand? At the expense of the national interest of the Oromo, we go our separate ways following minor interests. Small groups here and there and people form small sects and go their separate ways. If you look at it in terms of religion, you realize some are going extreme. Those things… Some

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things cannot be achieved by following self-interest. If I could fly in the air like a bird, wouldn’t I love it? However, can I do it? [Laughing.]

AJ: You cannot. [Laughing.]

NO: Sometimes, even if it is not that much, you need to think of what is achievable, what can be achieved in the short-run, what can be achieved in the long-run. It is important to separate these things and act accordingly. However, the diaspora is not there in this regard. It blindly pursues what is not achievable and becomes extreme in its claims. [Laughing.] Did you understand?

AJ: Now we have approached towards the end of our interview. Overall, how do the Oromo in Minnesota appear to you?

NO: As far as I am concerned, the Oromo in Minnesota are a great people. They have their roots, they have culture. Since I have not been here for long, I don’t know about it as much as you do. However, to the extent I am able to see, it is a people who love their country.

However, when it comes to being involved in the affairs of our country, where we were born, when it comes to participating in what is going on inside the country, as far as I witnessed, they are not participating commensurate with their size. I think there are reservations. It could be because of losing hope—hopelessness. Maybe they are saying to themselves, “We tried so many things and failed.” In addition, it doesn’t have the impact it should have here where they are currently. It is not playing the role it could play here as do the . To my knowledge, it is not organized. Even if we forget our country, I don’t see people exploiting the opportunities that are here by organizing themselves as much as necessary and actively taking part in things. If we improve on those points, I think this is a great community. Being a great community, it has lots to improve, and if it did so, it can achieve a whole lot of things.

AJ: Twenty years from now, how would it look like in terms of achieving those things?

NO: If we organize each other today, if we teach our children our language and culture and make sure they don’t forget their identity… When it is not organized, the Oromo [community] has been losing its identity by assimilating to neighboring peoples—even though it has successfully assimilated numerous peoples into its fold. Moreover, it easily adapts to the cultures of adjacent areas. It aggressively takes the cultures of others as its own. It also embraces otherness. It blends with other peoples and easily loses its identity. Likewise, as things stand today, if Muslims blend with the Somalis and Christians blend with other peoples and fragment itself, losing its coherence, twenty years from now some will have blended with others—the kids forgetting their language and culture and losing their identity as to become African Americans. I mean, we are still African Americans. But we have a language of our own, we have a culture of our own, we have our foundations intact. In that sense we are different. Besides, we just arrived in the Americas.

However, if we attempt to organize each other, attempt coming together, we can preserve our culture and language. In that way, their children and their children’s children will at least know their language to a certain extent and will maintain their link to the homeland. They can keep

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their affinity to each other here and become strong. A strong community, a community whose identity is protected along with it, a community that can be a hope and inspiration for the people at home, could be born within the next twenty years. The question therefore is whether and how much the current generation teaches their kids their language, how much they teach their history, how much would they respect and build and strengthen each other without having to abandon their roots. How much it would produce great individuals from its midst will determine whether it is possible to organize a transformative community within the next twenty years. Otherwise it could disintegrate and become a weak community where its children now lost their identity, which would mean it, too, has lost its identity.

AJ: We will conclude our interview here. Do you have anything to add at this point? What would you like to say that was left unsaid?

NO: The Oromo community is a peace-loving community. It is a community that wants to grow and prosper. Had it not been forced to leave its country for lack of these opportunities… It is such a clean-hearted community, a community that believes in hard work, a community that does not harbor any form of extremism! Once here, it has to learn the culture of the country in which it lives at present. It has to organize itself, without abandoning its roots and while building on it. And my message is for us all to work hard like you and do great things.

AJ: I am done on my end. The interview with Nagessa Oddo concluded here. Thank you, Nagessa!

NO: Be blessed.

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