Rammy Mohamed Narrator

Ayano Jiru Interviewer

November 14, 2016 Saint Paul, Minnesota

Interview conducted in English

Rammy Mohamed -RM Ayano Jiru -AJ

AJ: I’m Ayano Jiru recording for the Minnesota Historical Society Oromo Oral History Project. Today is November 14, 2016, and we are in the city of Saint Paul. I’m here with Rammy Mohamed who is a very active member of the Oromo community of Minnesota. She held leadership in youth and women, and also in the man-dominated Oromo Sports Federation in North America [OSFNA]. Rammy is also a founding member of the Oromo Media Network. Rammy is a professional fashion designer and business owner of Kena Events. Rammy, welcome to the interview.

RM: Thank you. Thanks for having me.

AJ: To begin our interview, let me ask you this question off hand. Where were you born?

RM: I was born in Kolfee, in the capital city of Oromia, in Finfinne [Addis Ababa].

AJ: Kolfee, the capital city of Oromia, Finfinne.

RM: Yes.

AJ: Is Kolfee a neighborhood in Finfinne?

RM: It’s like a sub-neighborhood. In Oromia, a lot of places are named after people. So it’s like a city. It’s called Kolfee. I was born in the house. I was not fortunate enough to be born in a hospital—which is a common thing.

AJ: It is a very common thing.

RM: I was born in 1987.

AJ: Ah, 1987. You’re not the only one. I was born at home, too, not a hospital.

RM: Yeah? A very common thing. And it was the month of Ramadan.

AJ: Oh, lucky you.

RM: Yeah. So I was born in the month of Ramadan.

AJ: Were your parents born in Kolfee and Finfinne as well?

RM: No. You know what? To this day it’s a mystery to me exactly what city my dad was born in. But he was the first generation to live in the city. So he lived in Finfinne as well. My mother, I believe she was also born in Finfinne as well. But I was brought up by my grandmother, who was born in Sendafa, which is the Shewa region in Oromia. So she raised me.

AJ: Sendafa, is that a city or is that a village?

RM: Well, it used to be about two or three hours away from the capital city of Finfinne. But now, with the whole Master Plan [Ethiopian government’s controversial plan to expand the capital city] and what’s going on, that’s actually one of the cities they were trying to make into the capital city.

AJ: Master Plan. The Master Plan is a current event, and we’re going to make a reminder to get back to the Master Plan.

RM: Absolutely. Growing up, I’ve visited, and it used to be very rural, very small farming, in the countryside in Shewa. It was beautiful. In my head, to this day, I just remember the greenery. After getting the main road, we used to take like a horse ride and mule actually—a mule ride to where her family used to be. I remember when I was younger.

AJ: You get to ride a mule from the big city of Finfinne to the countryside.

RM: No. Actually, we would take the bus from Finfinne to Sendafa, but the bus drops you off like on the street because buses can’t go toward the hills.

AJ: Yeah, in the countryside.

RM: So then right there, the mule and the family member would wait for you, and you would get off there and then your journey begins with the mule starting from there to the house. So then when you want to go back home to the city, you would do the same thing. You would get on the mule to the bus stop, [chuckles] and then you’d take the bus.

AJ: Very interesting, very interesting.

RM: I do remember that. It’s funny, but I do have a very clear, vivid memory of that.

AJ: In Sendafa or in Kolfee, were your parents educated there?

RM: My dad was educated. He actually did get a university degree, and he was a businessman. He owned his own business. He used to sell coffee. He was in the coffee business.

AJ: Coffee merchant.

RM: Yeah. I’m not sure what the level of education my mother has gone for. I believe she has gotten her high school diploma. From what I’ve heard, she worked for my dad. My dad owned a business where they sell different grains and he owned the store, and my mom worked there with him as well.

AJ: And their business is in the capital city, Finfinne.

RM: In Finfinne, yeah.

AJ: Wonderful. How many siblings do you have?

RM: There are three boys, and I have two sisters.

AJ: All of them born in Finfinne?

RM: All of us were born in Finfinne, yeah.

AJ: How was growing up like in Finfinne?

RM: I loved it. I was one of the most fortunate families. We had TV—black and white TV. I still remember. At some point, right before we left the country, we even had a fridge. So we were your typical Oromo city kids. I loved my city. I watched TV every weekend.

AJ: Lucky you.

RM: During the day, there’s nothing on TV. There’s only one channel.

AJ: What’s on TV in Ethiopia? Like what kind of… Is it America programming or Ethiopian?

RM: It’s Ethiopian programming. It’s dominated with the Amharic language. But every weekend, there’s a program called Dhanga, and it’s an Oromo program—growing up. Whether you spoke Oromo or you didn’t speak Oromo, you wanted to wait for Dhanga because they had the funniest drama on TV and characters. If you’re lucky enough, you could stay up past midnight so you can watch American movies. Also on Sunday mornings, there’s about a half an hour kids’ program, where they would broadcast cartoon movies—Disney movies like Pinocchio and Pocahontas and The Jungle Book, all translated in the Amharic language. They would only show about ten minutes. So like that one-hour movie or two-hour movie would last for weeks. So I first watched Pinocchio and Pocahontas when I was young and back home.

AJ: It took me a few years to understand those in America, after I came to America.

RM: Me too! It’s so funny. I’m like, “Wait a minute! That’s not…” Especially Pocahontas. I remember when I left, they were playing Aladdin, and I wanted to be that stupid Jasmine so bad. I was jealous of her.

AJ: Those TV shows in Ethiopia, were they interpreted into Oromo or were they in English?

RM: Never in Oromo. It was never in Oromo. There was not actually a program for kids on TV in the Oromo language, but they had it in Amharic for a kids program. But they had a radio program called Qophii Ijolee [children's program] for kids in the radio. But we weren’t much of a radio people when you had TV.

AJ: Exactly. [Chuckles.]

RM: That Amharic language definitely dominated the city kind of living. You barely hear Afaan Oromoo [Oromo language] on the national television unless it’s the news, and then you would have to wait for the Amharic to be done, and then the Tigray is finished, then the Oromo is the last. It’s second to last actually. It would be the Oromo, and then the English program is at the end. There is news in English as well that they broadcast.

AJ: So what language did you guys use in Finfinne?

RM: My first language—it’s unfortunate. It’s one of those things I wish I could go back and change. My first language, unfortunately, is Amharic. But my second language is Afaan Oromoo. My family spoke Amharic for businesses and living in the city. But the main language that’s spoken amongst my grandmother and my older aunts was Afaan Oromoo. We always knew that we were Oromo, but unlike a lot of the Oromo kids in my generation who were born in more of the countryside, we were sheltered and protected from the politics or from what was really happening in the country because we lived in the city, and my family worked diligently to protect us from it. So we were the protected generation in a way. But my aunts—I believe my aunt was in prison for five years, and she got away and snuck out to Djibouti and then she was able to migrate. Two sisters, actually, two of my aunts. One went to Italy, and the other one went to Europe and from Europe she came here. She migrated here.

AJ: Were they in prison for politics or…

RM: Yeah. The funny thing is—it’s amazing—I learned the history of my aunts and what they went through once I came here and when I got to Kenya. In 1998, we at that point didn’t know why we were leaving back home—like our comfortable life. But we were quickly snatched, and we came to Kenya without really understanding. We were young enough to [not] really comprehend exactly what was going on. But we were young enough to come, and later on we found out exactly what was going on.

What I found out was my aunt, my youngest aunt—who now lives in Atlanta, who is a business owner, very successful—she was also the first generation that grew up in Finfinne, and she was what you would call a messenger. She would get letters. She was young. A lot of people say I’m like her—very outspoken, bubbly personality—and nobody would ever expect her being

4 involved in politics. So she played a huge instrumental role in the college scene, where she was sneaking letters and secret meetings to what now we know as the OLF [Oromo Liberation Front, nationalist organization].

AJ: She was like a spy.

RM: She was. She would pass on notes to a lot of the political activists that were in school at that time. Letters would come from like Jima University and Haramaya University. It would make it to Finfinne University, and the letter would go to her. She was the main lady. And then her sister, her older sister—my aunt—who currently lives in Minnesota, was in prison over five years. She was an activist as well. She was caught, I believe. She’s not the most expressive.

AJ: I’m going to make a note about your aunts and about the political process that lead you to leave Oromia eventually. But I want to get back to your childhood life in Finfinne again. During that childhood life, you mentioned about if you could take back about learning Oromo over the Amharic at a young age. What I’m seeing from many Oromo youth and Oromo children that were born in the capital city, Finfinne, or the ones that were moved there at such a young age, they struggle to learn Oromo. But they are very fluent, they are like an expert in Amharic. Do you know, can you touch on that, why that is like that?

RM: First and foremost, I think a lot of times when you’re a parent, you tend to want to protect your kids from being picked on or seen different. So I one hundred percent believe that parents wanted us to get the best education. We were in this school system where it’s Amharic dominated.

AJ: You mean, like, discrimination against Oromos?

RM: You know, I can’t personally say I have witnessed it. I just remember one occasion where I was outside playing, and a local Oromo farmer… Every Thursday is a market day, and there were about four or five Oromo farmers. They were running behind their donkeys full of stuff, going toward a market, and one of my childhood friends was saying, “Galla, galla, galla.” [Galla is a derogatory term for Oromos.] So it was like a song. So then I was like, “Oh, if she’s saying it, then I’m going to say it.” So I was like, “Galla, galla,” and I started saying that. Then I came to our house. It was lunchtime, so you would be called. Like, “Hey, come eat lunch.” My grandmother would say, “Kottu nyadhuu [come and eat].” So I stepped in the house, and I washed my hands to eat lunch, and I was like, “Galla,” because the song was stuck in my head. At this point, she called me to come and eat, and my grandmother was praying. And I was right next to her, saying that. I remember her just smacking me so hard, and my ears go, “ennnnnnn.” She really smacked me really hard. And I was upset. I was like, “Why on earth would my grandma hit me?”

AJ: You didn’t know what a galla is?

RM: I didn’t know what it meant. So galla, it’s a derogatory term that’s used for an Oromo person. It’s equivalent to nigger. So my grandmother—I think I have some of her personality now, where when you’re mad, you can’t express yourself. She said, “Do you know what you just

5 said?” And she said to me, she taught me what it meant. “You’re an Oromo, that’s an insult. If you ever hear anybody saying that, hit them upside the head.” So the following day, again, everything was normal, and my friend starts saying it, and I hit her really hard. [Both chuckle.] I was violent towards my friend, and I said, “Don’t ever say that word again,” and that it was offensive.

So I think that’s protected and the language is so dominated. I felt like there is no sympathy toward kids who are born in Finfinne. It’s unfortunate that we don’t speak our language, and I hate that. I fought to learn Afaan Oromoo and to break it. But it’s a language. It’s unfortunate that it’s my first language, but it’s a language that I learned and a means of communication. I say “unfortunate” because I would have loved that Afaan Oromoo was a little bit—for me—being superior or being my native language, my first language. But I embrace it.

AJ: Did you go to school too?

RM: In Finfinne?

AJ: In Finfinne.

RM: Yeah.

AJ: What was that school experience like?

RM: School was fun. I was one of the… Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the Ethiopian education system is modeled after the British system, so there is ranking. I was ranked number one.

AJ: Yeah. Did the teacher read it out in class?

RM: Yeah. But it’s based on your tests. So first grader, if you’re a first grader, then based on your test score and your attendance and so forth, you are number one. I was number one.

AJ: Does it motivate you? Me and my brother, we were in the same grade.

RM: Oh, nobody messed with me because…

AJ: You were number one.

RM: Out of all my family, my younger siblings at the time, I was number one. That meant when I got my report card, I got cake, which was a big deal, and a bottle of Fanta or Mirinda [soft drinks]. It was rewarding. It was awesome. I ranked number one in my first and second grade. Third grade, on the other hand, I was in second place. But education, I don’t know…

AJ: How many kids were in your class?

RM: Oh my God!

AJ: It was sixty-four for mine.

RM: Really!

AJ: I remember because I was ranked number fourteen. I remember it. My brother was ranked twenty-one, and he got so upset. The following year he ranked seven, and luckily I still ranked fourteen. Nothing changed for me.

RM: Nothing changed. You were like constant.

AJ: Yeah.

RM: I believe there were 151 first graders that I remember, because I was one out of 151. Then that continued. I think it was like we were between 151 and 150, somewhere like that. But what happened in third grade was I ranked second place, and that was like a punch in the stomach. [Both chuckle.]

AJ: Second is good.

RM: No! Being a second is like the first loser.

AJ: [Chuckles.] Nobody remembers second place, not like the first place.

RM: Nobody remembers, yeah. Education and my childhood was fun. I was like every other young kid in Finfinne. It didn’t matter if you were Oromo—at that time, I didn’t know the difference.

AJ: Third grade is when you…

RM: Third grade, I got second place.

AJ: Did you go into fourth grade or the process to America began?

RM: Fourth grade, I went to fourth grade for like a day or two. And then we were quickly—we moved to Kenya. Yeah. I lived in Kenya. Our process of coming to America started then.

AJ: When you look back to the times that you were in Ethiopia and you were going to leave Ethiopia, what is life like for Oromos in Ethiopia at the time? Like politically, how the country was. Like people like your aunt or your relatives.

RM: Nobody talked about politics. Nobody trusted one another to sit and have a political discussion as we do here.

AJ: Nobody trusted anybody.

RM: No. You know, one thing I do remember was years later—I believe as close to as in 2009— I remembered something, and I talked to one of my family members about back home. Because when I was younger, my cousin—he would be my second cousin, so my dad’s first cousin, his name is Cala—every two weeks or three weeks, this guy, he’s like deadly beaten. He lives in the Sendafa area. He’s either deadly beaten and we go to visit him in the hospital. I had no idea. I just thought he was a troublemaker. And then I remember once he was in Kaliti, that infamous prison.

AJ: The infamous prison.

RM: And the way I remember it is because my aunt made lunch for him, and we took the lunch for him to the prison, because you can take lunch to them.

AJ: Yes, yes, I remember taking it for my father too.

RM: The funny thing is you have to taste it in front of the guard. So I remembered my aunt like digging through the buddena [Oromo flatbread, or injera] and feeding me to show him that there’s no poison in it or whatever. And that she had to go through her hands and open the food to show him there’s no weapon in there. I didn’t know in that age why.

AJ: We always say the guards wanted to eat it for themselves.

RM: I didn’t get it. I know we tried it for them.

AJ: [Chuckles.] I remember doing that.

RM: Years later, in my twenties, I asked about it, and they said, “Yeah.” You know, it made sense. This guy was a college student, and he was asking some questions, and he was a threat to the government, so they were correcting him—so to speak. Another point that I do remember was, again, my cousin Cala, he and another aunt of ours were in Kotobe.

AJ: Kotobe, what is Kotobe? A place?

RM: Kotobe is… It’s a place. Kotobe is between Finfinne and Sendafa. It’s kind of in the border, it’s in the middle. It’s not too far from Finfinne, it’s not too far from Sendafa. My aunt has a house there, and Cala was living there. So there’s the main house, and then she has about four guest rooms within the compound. I was old enough at this time to be able to hold a broom or fix a pillow, and my obsession making things pretty really started at a young age. I decided to make his bed. I remember fixing his pillow, and then I saw this really pretty flower that’s like handmade. It’s a hand-embroidered really pretty flower I saw. And I was like, “Oh, why would he hide it?” So I took it out. He was not happy with me, and he covered it up. I didn’t know what it was. But then now, fast forward in 1999, I saw the same flower everywhere in Kenya, and that was the Oromo flag.

AJ: I see. You have to really, really hide it.

RM: Yeah. I mean, I didn’t get why.

AJ: When I was little, when we washed Oromo shirt flags, the shirts with Oromo flags on them, we’d flip them inside out.

RM: And then hang them?

AJ: So that nobody who works for the government can see. When they’re hung or when you wear them, you have to flip it inside out.

RM: Yeah. Those are like the two political-related memories that I know. My aunt and my cousin.

AJ: Your aunt and your cousin, Cala. Do you have any personal experience of the Ethiopian government oppression of people, other than your relatives?

RM: No. We were sheltered—meaning we went to school, we came home, and no one is allowed to get outside. So there were minimal interactions, even with neighbors and such.

AJ: How was your family affected by this, financially…

RM: Financially, I had aunts that were in the Arab countries that were working their butt off. So we weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. We always had food on our table, and we were always clothed, and they did everything in their power to take care of us. I know my dad lost his business. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t raised with my mother and father. I lost my father at a younger age, so I didn’t know financially. But I know they’ve lost their business, and his brothers have lost their businesses. Their businesses have been taken away by the government. But we just know that that’s a normal thing—when the government takes your business. But I didn’t know reasons to why.

AJ: Now let’s shift our conversation toward the immigration process to America.

RM: Oh, jeez. That was fun, to say the least.

AJ: [Chuckles.] How did you leave Oromia?

RM: I remember, one morning, early in the morning…

AJ: Yeah, that’s how it always starts. We left early in the morning too.

RM: We were like, “We’re leaving.” I don’t think the sun was out, and the chickens were not making noise—nothing. It was dark out. We weren’t supposed to show the neighbors that we were leaving or tell the neighbors we were going.

AJ: Why was that?

RM: I had no idea. I was like, “No?” You don’t tell anything to neighbors. You don’t tell your business. You don’t tell them where you’re going.

AJ: Who did you leave with? Who left at that point?

RM: My aunt, my siblings, and my cousins.

AJ: Your aunt—the one that was in political involvement or another one?

RM: No. That one, I’ve never met her. She left before I was born. That was like eleven, twelve years before.

AJ: How old were you at the time?

RM: I was nine, going on ten.

AJ: Yeah, I was the same.

RM: Yeah. When you’re an Oromo family, when you’re in whatever age…

AJ: They don’t tell you anything.

RM: Until the time, you’re on a need-to-know basis. You don’t ask questions. You just do. You do what you’re told. So we came to Kenya. When we came to Kenya, I hated it there too. You know, [chuckles] it sounds funny now, but I loved buddena. I grew up with my grandmother, and I loved buddena. In the morning the routine is that before you go to school, you have tea and you eat bread. No, I didn’t eat bread. I ate buddena with my grandmother. So I ate buddena for lunch and I ate buddena for breakfast and buddena for dinner. The sauce is different, the bread is the same. Sometimes I’d just eat the bread and the tea together. I love buddena to this day.

So when we got to the Moyale border, they bought spaghetti. And I said, “What is this? I’m not eating this! I want buddena.” And they said… My cousin’s dad actually traveled with us to the border to kind of protect us.

AJ: To the Moyale border, right?

RM: So he worked his butt off to get us buddena. That area isn’t familiar, isn’t too dependent on buddena as much as people from the city. So he said, “This might be the last time you eat buddena,” and I cried.

AJ: [Chuckles.] You’ve got to have your buddena.

RM: Yeah. That was the most vivid thing. Then we came to Kenya, and we lived there for a while. And in 1998, we heard that, “Oh, we’re going to America.” I said, “Yeah?” They said, “Yeah, we’re going to be going to America,” and we started our process. You know, it was a typical African life. I didn’t think it was going to happen until I was in the plane.

AJ: Where did the plane take you? The plane took you guys to America?

RM: Yeah. [Chuckles.] Funny story. When we got to Moyale [chuckles]—I tell this story and to this day I laugh—they said that we were taking a plane from Moyale to Nairobi. Well, I was expecting what I had been seeing on TV—like the big, big airplane. No, we got on this really tiny, like cargo.

AJ: Was it guarded by the military, too, over there?

RM: Yeah. We passed that, thank God. I don’t remember exactly. It was quite dark when we went across the border.

AJ: Yeah. Did you guys have to pay bribes.

RM: Yeah. Like I said, my cousin’s dad took care of that. I don’t remember exactly, but I know it was like, “Go, go, go, go, go,” and us just crossing the border and we were in Kenya.

AJ: I remember at that spot they strip-searched us and took all of our money.

RM: Oh, jeez.

AJ: Yeah. My father and my brother broke down and cried.

RM: Yeah. Whatever he did was he was the one smart man. Anyway, we crossed the border. The great thing is my aunt that happened to be in America at that time sent us money, so we had money. But when we landed in this so-called airport—there was no landing strip, there is no takeoff. It’s just in the middle of this dry jungle there is a plane. This tiny plane, and there are two families. My family and there was another family there. So he grabbed all of our luggage first and put the luggage on top of one another, and that was the seat.

AJ: That’s exactly what they did…

RM: I said, “Excuse me, that’s not what I saw on TV. Where is the real, you know, double-o- seven?”

AJ: The real plane.

RM: Yeah. He said, “If you’re fat, go in first. And you’re skinny…” So like a fat person on one side to balance the plane. So then we get in the plane. It was shaking, and I remember my aunt and my older cousins were making du’a, which means like a prayer. You know, “God save us.” That was an interesting one.

AJ: Exactly. I have the same memory of that little plane.

RM: Yeah. So when they say, “We’re going to America,” and we finally got our paperwork to come to America, I thought we were getting on that plane.

AJ: Yeah. [Chuckles.]

RM: So when it wasn’t, I was quite excited.

AJ: Now, can you describe what was in Ethiopia when you left? Like that neighborhood, either in Sendafa or…

RM: I can tell, in Finfinne, like the area where my grandmother lived was close to Merkato.

AJ: Merkato is the big marketplace. The well-known marketplace.

RM: Yes. So we didn’t live too far from there. It’s a quiet neighborhood. We lived about, maybe—not even ten—a five minutes’ walk from Addis Katama University, which is right by Merkato. A lot of people know it as Muzika Bete [Music House]. That’s where they sell lots— the famous cassette place. And otobis tara wucii [bus station], which is all where you get your buses to go to different countryside areas. So we lived kind of in that. During the day, quite hectic, and then in the evening it’s kind of quiet. I lived in a quiet neighborhood. We had two churches and two mosques within walking distance. When it was time for Muslim prayer, you hear the adhan [Muslim call to worship], and then when it’s the time for the Christians, you hear the loud bell. They also have… They say things. [Hums.]

AJ: Like the church songs.

RM: Yeah. It’s different than…

AJ: The one in America.

RM: Yeah. It’s way different. I have no idea what those people were saying.

AJ: It comes early in the morning, and it goes on and on.

RM: It goes on and on and on. Growing up, that neighborhood was cool. What I did like about my neighborhood or that society in my neighborhood was the respect. I don’t know if it was respect. More of like the relationship that the Muslims and Christians had.

AJ: They had a good relationship, the Muslims and the Christians?

RM: They had, like, you know the old cat and the old dog? They both know that they can’t stand each other, but they’re old enough that they can’t really do much. So they’re just like, “Er. Er.” But I used to sneak into the church and go in with my Christian friends. They would give you bread every Sunday, like on your tongue, saying it’s Jesus’s… I think they do it here too. I forget what it’s called. I can’t think of the word.

AJ: With the wine with the Jesus…

RM: Yeah, pretty much. So they had the wine and bread, and I would go and get the bread and then try the wine, and then I’m like, “Ha-ha, I am Muslim, I’m a Muslim!” And then I’d run out. [Chuckles.] I used to do that a lot.

AJ: [Chuckles.] You’ll get in trouble for that after life.

RM: Yeah, but I was a kid. [Both laugh.]

AJ: As a kid you might get away.

RM: It’s so funny. I remember that. I used to go and say that.

AJ: What about the immigration life in Kenya before you left? Can you describe the immigration life in Kenya?

RM: Oh God. Immigration life in Kenya sucked. I mean, it was really bad.

AJ: What was the food like? What kind of housing and food did you guys have?

RM: Gross. It was gross. Everything was watered down. There was a two bedroom. It was about six guys and about six girls and about four adults. We have a limited amount of money, and life was tough in Kenya. I mean, I grew up pampered.

AJ: We were nine people in a two bedroom too.

RM: Yeah! You know, and then somehow, someway, somebody that doesn’t have family joined us too. Two people, I believe. So living and sleeping arrangements were quite interesting. But one of the things about my family is we’re very creative, I’ve noticed. So we had one area only where girls slept, and one area where the boys slept. And we lived like that. But what I do remember about Kenya was how much I hated it.

And also the police there were very, very… They used to harass people. I remember things got really bad. My aunt that was in America actually came to visit us, and she was like, “Yeah, this is refugee life. Just hang on until you get to America or until something happens.” The day she came… You know, she was sleeping. We were so excited to see her. In the middle of the night— maybe this is like 3:00 a.m.—we get this loud banging on the door.

AJ: Loud banging on the door, yeah.

RM: And it was the cops. They said, “We’re going to arrest everybody.” And so my aunt was just like, “I’m an American citizen,” and she flashes her passport. He tells her, “Okay, nothing happens to you, but I take the rest of them.” And so my aunt has to bribe and give them money. They said, “Okay, we’ll leave the girls, and we’ll take the guys.” They took the guys—my brothers and my uncle and my cousins. They took them away. Then my aunt has to go and pay

13 lots and lots of money. We were lucky enough that she was there. But that was scary. Those people were not friendly. They had guns.

AJ: I remember one time when they came and took my uncle.

RM: Jeez.

AJ: We had to give them our monthly supplement—what we eat for a whole month we gave to the police.

RM: Yes! Exactly. That’s what happened to a lot of families in our neighborhood. We used to pray and pray and pray, and say, “Allah, protect us from those things.” But I think the night that she came, she had lots of luggage, and I don’t know who snitched on us or who saw her walking in. But prior to that, a lot of the natives of Kenya lived around us, so we stood out like a sore thumb, I think. And then at that same time, it helped us a lot. But we did notice that they were not attacking the Somalis. Somalis were very strong because they would beat up the police, I’ve heard. I’ve never seen it, but…

AJ: There were constant brawls between the Somalis and the Kenyan residents and the Kenyan police. We used to see that quite often.

RM: It was crazy.

AJ: What was the neighborhood you stayed in, in Nairobi?

RM: I was in Pangani.

AJ: Pangani. I was a little bit far away, it must be, then. I was in Eastleigh.

RM: You were in Eastleigh. I only went to Eastleigh twice. Eastleigh was about, what? A twenty minutes walk.

AJ: Something like that, yeah.

RM: We lived in Pangani, and we were lucky. I believe there is a masjid [mosque] around there, and my brothers are a little bit spiritual. No, I didn’t get to go to Eastleigh. We lived in Pangani.

AJ: How long did you stay in Kenya?

RM: Almost a year.

AJ: Almost a year. You guys would go back and forth between Immigration—go over there?

RM: Oh, jeez. Yeah.

AJ: Get the interview, come back, go back.

RM: Oh God. Yeah. It was a lot.

AJ: A long process.

RM: It was a long process.

AJ: Eventually, how did you prepare for your trip to the US after that one-year wait?

RM: Oh my God. I remember they said, “Hey, you guys are going,” and we’re like, “Oh my God! I can’t believe it happened.” I got my hair braided with cowry shells sewed into my hair— so fancy. And then our neighbor lady—she’s an Indian lady—and she sewed me a sari, like a little pants and a shirt. It was fancy.

AJ: Lucky you.

RM: Yeah. I was quite dressed up when I came.

AJ: Who all came with you when you immigrated to the United States?

RM: My two sisters, my two cousins, my aunt… About four cousins, then my sisters and my aunt.

AJ: Did you leave any family behind or relatives in Kenya?

RM: I did. I left my three brothers. All my brothers were in Kenya for a long time. Actually, they ended up staying for ten years.

AJ: When you guys flew out of Kenya, where did you guys land in America?

RM: Oh my God. We first landed in New York.

AJ: New York.

RM: I just remember vividly. I was like, “I can’t believe I’m here.” In New York, we spent the night, and then early in the morning we took a flight from New York to Minnesota.

AJ: Minnesota was your original destination from Kenya?

RM: Yeah. From Kenya, we went to Amsterdam. We landed in Amsterdam, and transit from Amsterdam to New York, and from New York to Minnesota.

AJ: How come Minnesota?

RM: My aunt lived here.

AJ: Ah, the connection was Minnesota.

RM: Yeah. My aunt lived here twenty years before I got here.

AJ: And what year was that when you guys came to Minnesota?

RM: April 27, 1999. April 26, 1999, we were in New York. And April 27, 1999, I reached Minnesota. Yeah.

AJ: When you arrived in Minnesota, what was…

RM: It was nice. I loved it. I first got in, and I was so excited to see my aunt, who I have never met before because she left before I was born—the country.

AJ: How was life like for new immigrants in Minnesota?

RM: It was hard. But my aunt lived in the Cedar-Riverside building [in Minneapolis] when it used to be fancy. There were barely any Somalis in 1999. It was a lot of Koreans and college students.

I remember we were going under the Washington Avenue Bridge, and I said, “Auntie, what does that say?” And she said, “Oh, this is the University of Minnesota.” And I said, “One day, I’m going to go there.” And she laughed.

AJ: Did you speak English in Kenya, or did you get to learn English before you came?

RM: No! Nothing.

AJ: How was it like learning English here in Minnesota when you arrived?

RM: Strange. I was like, “Why are these people speaking…” I feel like they speak with their nose. [Both chuckle.] Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now. It was hard. It’s difficult because I have a bubbly personality, I’m very outspoken, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t able to communicate. I met some Oromo friends who were here…

AJ: This is 1999?

RM: This is 1999. We registered in school, and I started in school.

AJ: What grade? What grade did you start in Minnesota?

RM: I started with fifth grade.

AJ: Fifth grade. You left in fourth grade—when you left back home was fourth grade?

RM: Yes. No! I started sixth grade.

AJ: Sixth grade?

RM: Yeah.

AJ: You enrolled in ESL [English as a Second Language], then?

RM: Yes. I was at Anne Sullivan [Middle School] in the south side of Minneapolis. I was at Anne Sullivan, and it was interesting.

AJ: How was it connecting with Oromos here? Was it easy or hard?

RM: It was hard, because, first of all, the majority of them came a little earlier than I did. So I met a couple of them in school, and I was super excited. None of them spoke Amharic. So they’re like, “Oh, you’re Amhara.” I’m like, “No, I’m not. I’m Oromo.” They’re like, “No, you’re Amhara.” I said, “No, I’m not. I’m Oromo.”

AJ: So they have full pride when they come to America.

RM: Yeah. So, you know, prior to me arriving to Minnesota, my aunt’s brother-in-law, who happened to live with us at the time, was talking politics, and I said, “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen anybody being beat up or killed. Why are you making those things up? I’ve never seen that happen in Finfinne. You’re such a liar. Why would anybody kill us? Why? Because we’re Oromo?” Like I just couldn’t comprehend. So he actually had this album. His name is Abdulahi. Actually, he worked with Amnesty International, and wrote a book and documented whatever happened in his neighborhood, and he took tons of photos.

He had this album he sleeps with. So I was in charge of cleaning. When I was in Kenya, it was one of my duties. I was a little mischievous, too, so I one day snuck out and took his album and looked at the pictures. And there were some very gruesome photos. So I started asking questions. I was about ten. I said, “Why do you have these pictures? Why are the Oromos like this?” So I was able to get a little background of what was happening, in the most watered down way. He felt I was young enough not to know every detail. But he invoked my interest. So I was quite interested. Then it got interrupted because I came to the United States, and then all of a sudden these girls were calling me names that I didn’t appreciate. You know? I can be Oromo and not speak Afaan Oromoo.

But, well, priority number one for me was, “I need to learn this language. Otherwise it seems like I can’t talk to anybody.” Then I have little, little exposure to diversity, so I’ve never seen a white person. I’ve seen a white person in Finfinne, when I was in Finfinne once, and I was amazed. I was like, “What’s wrong with their skin? Why are they so white?” There was an accident when I was younger. I think when I lived with my mom, I dumped water on my skin, so some portion of my thighs were discolored and white. And I said, “Oh my God. Did God punish them and rain hot water on these people that their face is white?” I learned that when I was younger. They said, “No, no, no. They’re from Europe. They’re Europeans, and they have lighter skin.” So I remember there was a guy named Tommy in my class, and I’ve never shaken a white person’s

17 hand before. He sat next to me. He was really nice to me on the bus. I felt like touching his skin, so I went and touched his skin. [Both chuckle.]

AJ: Was it normal, like black people’s skin?

RM: It was so strange. Like I’m sure I’ve had an opposite interaction with my college roommate, who was from Wisconsin and never touched a black person’s skin before. So she said, “Can I touch your skin, because I’ve never touched black skin before?” So I said okay to her because I did that to Tommy years ago. I touched his skin like that. It was strange. It was like, “Wow. They’re different. They look so different.”

Then I moved, right at the end of the summer. So April, May, end of June, school ended, and we also moved to the east side of Saint Paul in the McKnight Neighborhood. I was enrolled in the Battlecreek Middle School, and I was a seventh grader. That’s where I learned English. According to my uncle—I don’t remember very much—but one day I woke up and I was speaking English. I don’t remember—I can’t really tell you exactly when.

AJ: Me too. I cannot pinpoint exactly…

RM: Exactly what date. But I do remember an incident in class, and then all of a sudden this language I’m not familiar with was like, “Blah,” coming out.

AJ: When you’re young, it really just takes about a year, and then you just know.

RM: Not even. I don’t think it took me a year. That’s the thing. What I said about my uncle—he was like, “It was quick.” [Snaps fingers.] The funny thing is I’ve seen people, I’ve paid attention very much when Americans spoke English or whatever. They didn’t have an accent, and where I would have interactions with East Africans who would have this thick accent, and my mission was like, “Oh, crap. I cannot sound like that.” You know, with this thick accent and then stand out from my classmates and be picked on and so on and so forth. So when I learned English, I didn’t have an accent. I would have an accent for some words that were like… There were just some words I’m not familiar with and would just roll out wrong because you just don’t know how to use your tongue properly at that time. But besides that, I didn’t have an accent. So transitioning between being an Oromo and an American was a nice smooth sail for me.

But I can’t say that about the writing and the reading portion. I personally struggled. But I kept good grades. In seventh grade I took ESL Level 1. Then by the second time… When I started, I only knew the alphabet. Like I can recognize some. By the middle of seventh grade, I was in Level 2. I test out. That is because when we first moved here, my aunt… I have three aunts. I have two aunts that live in Minnesota, one that lives in Atlanta. The one that lived here, she was an engineer. She was one of the first Ethiopian engineers, female engineers, that graduated.

AJ: She got a good pathway for you. A role model.

RM: But she wasn’t able to practice. To this day, she didn’t tell me exactly what were the reasons. One of the issues that I think we Oromos struggle with is not expressing ourselves. But

18 they want you to learn. They say, “Don’t be like me. Go to school.” They don’t say, “I went to do this, x, y, and z. And here is where I failed and here is what I excelled on.” But they don’t tend to express what happened, but they just push you to be successful. So she refused to buy a TV for us. So we didn’t have TV the first four years in America.

AJ: Wow. What was her reason?

RM: She said, “You have to hit the books hard.”

AJ: Hit the books hard. You did hit the books hard, though.

RM: I did. So did my sisters. When I got to high school, they had this thing called book reports. If you read twenty-five books, you get these cool stickers. So these charts and you put stickers.

AJ: Yep. I remember those.

RM: And you did the book report. I remember vividly, my sister and I, on Saturday mornings or Sunday mornings, we would be sitting in one area and just rotating throughout the house reading books. We had designated homework day, and we would come home, we would eat, and we would do homework.

AJ: Would you say that paid off, because you’ve been successful in the youth organization, you’ve been successful in the women’s organization, you were also successful with the Oromo Sports Federation [OSFNA], and also you were one of the founding members of the Oromo Media Network? Your education and your readings and your English literature as a whole helped you in all of these. Would you say that?

RM: Absolutely. And I think I would read and book characters… And from an early age, my family didn’t like the idea of me being in art school or learning art because they’re typical African parents. Success was measured by being a doctor, being a lawyer. Oh God, not even a lawyer.

AJ: But you took your own route, your own very unique route.

RM: I did.

AJ: Can you describe the challenges and the experiences you had in becoming a fashion designer and having your own event business, Kena Events? Can you describe these too?

RM: Yeah. You know, I liked school a lot. Earlier, in the early ages, I knew being a nurse or a doctor wasn’t my thing because I don’t like blood and I don’t like seeing people suffer. But I do like to work with my hands, and I consider magazines and dissect fashion. And then I think what changed me for a long time was when I did this program in high school. It’s called an urban journalism program, where I even explored journalism. What used to make me happy was the day that I’m in my arts classes. I took Art IB [International Baccalaureate Program].

I think I started finding myself and who I am as a person in the ninth grade. In ninth grade I took civics class, and so I learned how the American government and the structure of government work. I was like, “Crap. How do we apply this to Oromo stuff?” Then I would go to Oromo events, and I would see things not being organized and little things. As in our flyers were done in pen. You know, that kind of bothered me. Visuals. Anything artistic was always grabbing my attention. I always suppressed it because it was not acceptable. It did not pay bills or it did not get you anywhere. But my happiest moments in high school, I would say, would be in my art class. I competed. I did Art IB, and I did masks throughout that were inspired by different countries, where I made like 3D and I experimented with paint and materials. That was the happiest. But I suppressed it a long time until my mid-twenties, where I studied accounting, and I was working in the accounting field. I was just fat and miserable. I said, “I have to do something that I want to do.”

From taking a bunch of business classes, because I was so good at event planning, because I did very well in organizing—whether it was an Oromo youth leadership conference and Guyyaa Gototaa [Oromo Veterans Day], which means like Veterans Day, where I was just doing colorful things. Little things as rearranging the tables differently, and having flowers on the tables, and not using our flag as our tablecloth, but using an actually table cloth and let the flag be hanging like a flag. So a lot of visuals or how things were displayed. People start noticing it, the days that I would organize. So then event planning—like weddings, I would make Oromo dresses, making it modern. That was just the happiest moment. And from taking business classes, I said, “How do I…” I read books, and it’s always a success of somebody. But then I read this book called Outliers [Outliers: The Story of Success, by Malcolm Gladwell].

AJ: Oh, yeah. I read that too.

RM: That stupid book—so I call it. I would recommend that book for every young human being. That book, I read it and it was just like it was bugging me. I got the concept, and I was like, “How do I, what do I do?”

AJ: How do you realize how you can be an outlier yourself?

RM: Yeah. What does that mean? What does that mean in my life? And I noticed, I said, “I’m very, very good at what I do.” So then I started investigating. I was in business school. What had I been learning in business school? Failure is not an option. I was like, “Well, it’s not a crime not to say that I’ve tried something and not—failed. I do own my own business that I’m really good at, so how do I make this a fulltime thing?” So I decided to go back to school and pursue my dream. And at the same time, looking at it from the business side… During this time as well, reading this book, I also read another book. It’s called Reclaim Your Heart by Yasmin Mogahed, which I recommend. It’s an Islamic book. I’m a Muslim. Being a young Oromo American, I am—you and I—we have a special place because we came at such a young age we can’t quite relate to people back home, but we can’t really relate to kids in America either. So somewhere between…

AJ: We have to do extra thinking to find our sense of belonging in many communities.

RM: Exactly. I said, “I can’t really say I’m fully American,” like a typical American person of a younger age at that time, when I was eighteen or nineteen. I said, “I can’t really say my people are not struggling, and I’m going to go party.” Because there was this weight of my people and giving back. And I always tell, “Okay, how do I build a bridge?” There is my Oromo identity, there is my American identity, where I fricking love to read books, but then at the same time, I like to go to coffee shops and hang out with my friends, go to the movies.

AJ: We will explore more into Oromo culture and Oromo people here in Minnesota. Before we can make the shift to Oromo culture and people in Minnesota, what was your first impression of the United States? Has this impression changed over time?

RM: What African child did not imagine to come to America?

AJ: What was America like?

RM: Heaven!

AJ: Yeah, heaven. What about now?

RM: Heaven!

AJ: Yeah? [Chuckles.]

RM: I think you go through stages with that. My early age before I came I said heaven, and now at this age I said close to heaven, because you have a country where you come from nowhere and you can be someone. I think no country is perfect, but I think America comes very close.

AJ: Yeah, for sure. A lot of people feel that way.

RM: I just never get this whole people complaining, because then I look at where were we from?

AJ: Yeah, where else can you go that is better?

RM: Nowhere. Oh my God. Nowhere. Not even this utopia of Africa that seems like it’s stuck in a lot of people’s heads. Then why don’t you go back to it? You know what I mean? So America, it’s my country. It’s my home. As much as I said I’m Oromo, this is my home. I have lived here longer. I relate to people here a lot more. But I think I bring a new definition or a new spice to America because I think Oromos, we bring something to the American life.

AJ: For sure. Now let’s focus on Oromo culture and Oromo people in Minnesota.

RM: Okay.

AJ: Tell me about Oromos in Minnesota.

RM: I think Oromos in Minnesota are much better than they were, let’s say, five years ago.

AJ: Are they more awake now or more of their youth are graduated from high schools and colleges? They can read and write better?

RM: I believe we’re communicating better with the outside world. I think we are using the tools we’ve learned in school to reach out, whether it’s for advocacy or even for personal growth. I’ve seen a lot more of our generation doing that. But I think that if you look at American history in general, that is what a typical migrating people that come, the first generation, go through—what the first generation of Americans, European Americans have gone through. But I think what I wish for our people is that we have learned from the mistakes of the European Americans, where, yeah, they’re European Americans, but we just don’t know what part of Europe they’re from because there are tons of countries in Europe. So maybe not forgetting our roots and our culture. But I think our generation is exceptionally doing very well. I think we could do better, but I think we’re doing much better than expected.

AJ: For instance, I think earlier in our conversation you even mentioned when you came to Minnesota, you struggled a little bit to connect with other Oromos because they all kind of spoke Oromo and you didn’t speak Oromo. In what ways have the Oromos maintained their culture? For instance, maintaining language and things like that? You yourself now speak Oromo pretty well. You learned Oromo. How do we maintain our culture in Minnesota, the Oromos in Minnesota?

RM: Like I was briefly mentioning earlier, I said you have to want to. But I think what makes me and you a little different, like I said earlier, was the sense of responsibility we felt at such a young age. And not feeling belonging to both sides kind of gave you that thing that says, “Oh, shit. I have to learn about my language.” Or, “I have to at least—to say I’m Oromo—I should speak the language a little bit better.” But more than anything, for me personally, I said, “Okay, what’s holding me back from not learning?” It was very important to me that I learn the language. I was made fun of. I have an Oromo elite that sent me a personal email that said that I just joined Oromo camp, what I knew about Oromo… So I don’t know. Some people feel—I think it’s in every culture—that you feel superior because you spoke the language and you’re very well versed in the language and the culture. I’m not going to let that hold me back.

AJ: In Minnesota, are Oromos more assimilating to the American culture or upholding our own cultures? Or is there pressure to assimilate into the American culture for the Oromos?

RM: Yes. Absolutely. Especially in high school. Oh my goodness. I was almost a victim of that.

AJ: How?

RM: I think… Let me tell you something. Middle schoolers and high schoolers, that age, that twelve to seventeen, is a very rough age. It’s universal.

AJ: It’s like if you don’t pick up that hip-hop culture, you get picked on?

RM: It’s not even the hip-hop culture. I think that’s when you really learn being mean and just vicious. So if you don’t know who you are or if you don’t have like a stronger person or have no confidence, you could easily get lost. I have seen that amongst our youth, and even amongst the Somali youth and so on and so forth. It’s just not an Oromo thing. It’s an immigrant thing a lot of times. And then it’s a youth thing. It’s a universal. It’s a tough age. I think that’s when family or being close to community comes in handy. And family letting the youth be involved in youth programs and building that identity—then I think that will shield you from it. But it’s inevitable to go through that stage. I think it’s how do you prepare Oromo youth or how do we prepare ourselves or install that confidence of identity so that can protect you.

AJ: For sure. What are Oromo doing to preserve their culture and language for these youth?

RM: It’s funny. It’s been a year or a year and a half since I haven’t been actively enrolled in the Oromo community. But I belong in a group called adoyee [common name for women’s social clubs]. It’s a women’s group, where we get together. We empower one another, we are there for each other for events. So, for example, one of our friends had a baby, so we went out of our way and learned the traditional songs of what Oromo ladies would sing. And one of our friends got married, and we learned the songs that you would sing in the house. So we actively try to implement and use the Oromo culture to do the practices for birth and for weddings. And then also to be there for one another. Just like every other community, we also face a lot of issues in our community, such as domestic violence, which is a taboo in our culture. So how do we bring it and talk about it? So I took a class with Ramsey County on being an advocate for domestic violence and then bringing that to that. And women’s health. We do like self-examining for breast cancer, so we brought some professional to come and train our girls. And also business development. So how do we start a business? So that’s how I’m involved in the women’s aspect. And then for the youth, I’m always trying to find a creative way to get our kids engaged culturally, but also to work with other communities.

AJ: For sure. Can you describe some of these community places, like restaurants, cafes, malls, mosques, churches, and community centers that help in preserving Oromo culture and Oromo youth?

RM: I just cannot give enough credit to OYA [Oromo Youth Association]. Man.

AJ: They have, then, up and down years?

RM: They should be. And OSU [Oromo Student Union], the Oromo student association. Man, that changed my life. My goodness. And a little bit of curiosity. Thank God now there’s tons of books available that you can read. But I think OYA changed a lot of us. And now I look at some of the youth, and I am just like, “Whoa.” And they are getting creative every year. Man. I used to think we were the most creative people on earth until you’ve seen Magartu [famous OYA dancer and choreographer] and what she does with dances. So I think OYA.

And then I’m a Muslim American. I’m a Muslim Oromo American. To me, there is nothing spiritual like asking God, praying to God in my native language. I feel like that’s super spiritual. So I go to the Masjid Tawfiq [Oromo mosque in Minneapolis]. I go to Towhid [Islamic center in

Saint Paul] once in awhile, but Tawfiq mainly. Just especially in the month of Ramadan when we are praying, I have to pray at Tawfiq. I’m a Muslim, and I can pray at any masjid. I tend to go to Masjid Al-Huda [Islamic community center in Minneapolis] for my everyday because it’s a motivational and it’s in English. But there’s nothing for me like that deep spiritual when I’m standing next to another Oromo Muslim and we are praying in our language to God, the one God we worship. It is just… I don’t know how to tell you. Ramadan, I have to be there. It’s just very powerful and very uplifting.

In terms of food, I think we go through a lot of ups and downs with restaurants. But I like Katar, and I love going to Shabelle—again with mixed feelings with that because it’s mainly male- dominated areas. But I still like to go into a store and I hear people speaking Afaan Oromoo all around me. It’s kind of cool. Yeah.

AJ: Speaking of male-dominated, you also served on the Oromo Soccer Federation [OSFNA].

RM: Boy, I did.

AJ: Now, that is male-dominated.

RM: It’s funny because three years prior to that, we wrote this nice letter, hoping to get in, and thanks to you and Dula Hassan [Oromo Sports Federation President, 2014-2015], who gave me an opportunity to show, I was honored to be the first Oromo woman to serve in a male- dominated—twenty years male-dominated—federation. I like to think I brought a little color. [Chuckles.]

AJ: For sure, for sure, you did.

RM: Then I think it’s you guys willing to let me do my coloring. I think we gave a good example of what women can do, right?

AJ: For sure. So you would say Oromos have plenty of social institutions, like OSFNA, the mosques, and the churches, to move what the culture and the people need?

RM: Absolutely. From every direction.

AJ: What about on business? How are Oromos doing with their businesses? Are they successful with businesses? Are there struggles?

RM: There are. There are those who are flourishing, actually. They’re doing wonderful. Such as the transportation business, one guy in particular—Mr. Tasho. He’s amazing. He’s an amazing businessman. I think there are Oromo people that are growing. Like Shabelle, for example. But I think throughout, one thing I do notice is there is room for improvement, maybe perhaps, in the presentation. Because I come from the art side now, I think we lack presentation. But I think we’re getting there. We’re not as strong as the Somali community or the Hmong community yet, but I think we are such a young community in America. We’re just marking our twenty years, so I think that within that twenty years, it was a slow growth, but I think it’s a slow and strong

24 growth versus very high and hit the curve. I think our growth is very, very slow, but very, very strong. I think that’s what I notice.

AJ: For sure. Now that we are at the end of our interview, could you summarize what you think of Oromos in Minnesota right now? How are they right now at this moment in Minnesota— Oromos?

RM: At this point I think there is—earlier we mentioned a little bit about the Master Plan. When I sit back and think about that, I said, “Holy Cow.” I say shout out to Oromo Media Network. Shout out to all of my colleagues that worked day in and day out to start that organization. I sacrificed two years of my life to get it started. But we did that so that there was a voice for our people. Finally the diaspora community is understanding that and that we are moving toward to advocate the proper way, to speak for our people, to lobby for our people, to not necessarily go and live in Oromia per se, but I think… There was just a conference the other day in Atlanta, a leadership conference that happened, which never happens. It was a leadership conference for the diaspora. Oromos were saying, “Okay, so you are an American now. How do you give back, or how do you become a voice?”

I think Oromos are in a very beautiful start up, and I just pray to God and I pray to Allah that we continue to do what we do, because change is coming. I don’t doubt it. And qeerroo [youth], the youth in Oromia, are paying with their life. They’re showing strength, and we just have to support them. It’s such a perfect time in our life to say I’m so proud to be Oromo American. Just so proud.

AJ: For sure. What do you think Oromos in Minnesota will be like twenty years from now? You said how Oromos are right now, but in twenty years from now, how do you think Oromos will be doing politically, economically…

RM: I think very well, and I hope that we get involved in local politics and that we are actually growing in business. I want to see more Oromo entrepreneurs. Like I said, getting involved in local things. I feel like a lot of times we are so concentrated about the Oromo community so much that we don’t venture out and serve the larger community. I myself belong to the Young Democrats of Minnesota. So I want to take an active role in this city, in this state that gave me an opportunity to flourish, and give back not just to the Oromo community but my community— Saint Paul in general. So I’ll make sure my business stays in Saint Paul. Yeah, definitely being involved in the local government. Not in the leadership for sure—I’m not a politician. But I think serving the community at large. It’s what I want to see Oromos in.

AJ: Do you think right now Oromos are expanding, taking their roots strongly, and in twenty years from now they will expand that roots?

RM: Roots in… Like cultural?

AJ: Meaning like their establishment here in Minnesota. You were saying they’re having a lot of businesses, a lot of businesses succeeding.

RM: It’s strong.

AJ: And in twenty years…

RM: It will spread.

AJ: You hope it will spread, it will be much stronger.

RM: It will be a lot stronger. I’ve seen a change in two years, let alone the next twenty years. God willing and I live that far, inshallah [God willing], to see that.

AJ: Now that we’re at the end of our interview, is there anything you would like to add?

RM: What I would like to add? I cannot stress how accepting, how welcoming, my neighbors and my fellow community of Americans have been to me and to my family. I am 5 foot 1 inch, black, hijabi, which means I wear a traditional Islamic scarf.

AJ: How is life as an Oromo Muslim in Minnesota?

RM: Tough sometimes, but very welcoming. Some people, they know the second I open my mouth, and they can relate to me. They have been nothing but kind, contrary to what you hear on Fox News.

AJ: There is this complaint from the Oromo side often that since the Somalis too much are out on the mainstream media or the mainstream communities, that Oromo Muslims are taken for Somali Muslims.

RM: All the time.

AJ: All the time?

RM: Oh my God. Today alone, I showed at Minnesota Fashion Week. So imagine, Minnesota Fashion Week, as a modest designer, is a big honor. But I was mistaken as a Somali. The lady asked me, “How does it feel to be the first Somali American to design?” I said, “I’m not Somali.” She’s like, “Oh?” I said, “No, I’m Oromo.” She said, “What?” And I said, “I’m Oromo.” And then, of course, you have to go and give the ten-minute speech on how you’re not Somali nor Ethiopian.

AJ: In high school soccer, the referee, in the middle of the game, we were standing in the middle of the field and he asked me how long ago I came from Somalia. [Chuckles.] So far we’re passing for Somali. Hopefully in twenty years from today, the world knows Oromo and they won’t confuse us in twenty years from today.

RM: Yeah. In some professions, Americans distinctly know, “Oh, you must be Oromo,” because of our character and the way we carry ourselves. Culturally, we’re very different from Somalis. I think that initial look, because of the scarf and because of our skin similarities, you get added up

26 to it, but I think by character, by cultural gestures, that you get identified as non-Somali. But that takes time.

AJ: Rammy Mohamed, thank you very much.

RM: Oh my God, thank you so much!

AJ: We will end our interview here.

RM: Yay!

AJ: We had a wonderful long conversation.

RM: I did too.

AJ: Thank you so much.

RM: In twenty years, hopefully I look as good as I do now. [Chuckles.]

AJ: And hopefully in twenty years we are free, the Oromos are free.

RM: That’s not a question in my mind. I think it might happen sooner than you think.