I will be 29 on June 19th. Officially a geezer. Older than dirt? Not yet.

I am not much of birthday-celebrating-type guy, but this year, I would like my birthday mean something different. I’m donating my birthday to charity:water— an organization dedicated to giving people access to clean water. They have had a tremendous success over the last three years and have drilled 1017 water wells in Ethiopia alone giving 455,711 people access to clean water.

But, instead of citing more statistics or show you charts about how dire the situation is, I thought I’d tell you a little bit about my dad and his water well drilling rig.

Here is the setup: rewind 14 years. We were in Ethiopia and I was only 15.

One evening, my dad came home rushing to sit on the family dinner table. Much to my mom’s chagrin, this was a normal occurrence in our household. It usually meant, he has something in his mind and he wants to sketch out while it’s still fresh in his mind. Drafts man by training, he tends to explain things in straight lines and circles than words.

But that night, it was one of those ‘aha‘ moments. After bowing his head over things he was sketching on pieces of paper for hours, he rose and resolutely said I will build a water well drilling rig. Driving to another meeting earlier that day, he has seen a water well drilling machine somewhere on the road for the first time and the sight had inspired his wonder.

As he did many times before, when there was a shortage of soap or food in Ethiopia, he saw himself as the guy who would build machines to solve these problems. He was the first person to build a dough mixer, soap machine, satellite dish, etc.. in Ethiopia. 

You see, for his technical mind, building a water well drilling rig was the next logical step. He said to himself, Ethiopia needs clean water. He was the guy who will build the machine in Ethiopia that can bring clean water from beneath the ground by communities for whom water or the scarcity of water meant life or death.

He had to see the rig in reality, tonight. As many in his generation, he is an impatient and relentless man earning his nick name from his friends “endeT ad’ro” loosely translated as “I want it yesterday”.

So, off he went. Over the next four years, he sketched, built, cut, demolished, consulted, went abroad, erected, tore it back, got pissed, got happy, grew older, depleted his resources, almost gave up, went abroad again and again and again…

…and then, on a faithful afternoon in 1999, his rig successfully drilled 40 meters and the clean water came gushing out of the earth into in the air. I have never seen my dad that happy!

He finally figured an elegant solution. His proved himself yet again that his dream of giving access to clean water to those in need was technically solvable.

Now, as my dad tried to do then, charity:water is tackling the same problem at a larger scale.

So, my friends, as I turn another year in my life and grow some more grey hair, I ask you one thing: Would you to be kind enough to join me in reliving this memory by donating $29 to my campaign at charity:water?

It will mean clean water to those families who are in desperate need.

And, it will mean the world to me.

Because, water is life!

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Sama aka nettle was used as a weapon of choice for disciplining kids in some areas back home.  It grew everywhere back home and I would think it is for the most part considered a useless weed until a child misbehaves and the parent goes out looking for it.

Sometimes the mischievous child who got Sama beating at home would try to share the experience with a classmate that s/he bullies at school.  The leaves are covered with tiny stinging hairs that produce stinging pain which causes itching and skin irritation that is more memorable than a simple spanking, but probably less abusive than any beating you got as a child.  I also had heard some people back home used Sama to make a gomen kind of wot with it.

Nettle use has been reinvented in the US of A.  I go to some of the restaurants here in Cali that gets written about on the local newspaper to try their food and also glance at the menus of the ones I don’t get to eat at.  The popular and sometimes main ingredient in some of these newer restaurants has become nettle. It is being made into soup, salad, entrée dishes, pizza topping and tea and has become the spinach of top chefs. Apparently nettle has medicinal values too.

It has been used in dishes at French restaurants and I am sure in a whole lot of other countries as traditional food before making its way to California tables.  I was just not able to find information why it is becoming popular here.  While I was looking up for information why it became so trendy,

I run into information that was very interesting like the annual World Nettle Eating Championship in England that started in the 80s to resolve a dispute between local farmers over who had the longest nettles.  I would like to know why nettle is hip now and how else it was used back home. If you happen to know how Sama was cooked, please share the recipe.

It still retains water from winter. Tulips are sprouting. Neighbors have started lingering around mail boxes longer than required .The Nosy one’s are updating the loners on who in the neighborhood got divorced, who had hip replacement done, whose son is graduating this summer, who is contemplating the biggest garage sale ever and the sorts.

Every year my elderly neighbor comes up to me and after a brief catch up swears that this will be his last dreadful winter in this sleepy snowy town before he moves  to Florida. Don’t we all wish…?

It seems that the grand entrance of spring motivates us to look fit. My long black winter coat with its flattering cut is neatly folded and stored in the basement. I endearingly call in “gebena shefagne.” It somewhat makes me look leaner than I am. But, alas spring comes along and reveals the true rolls I acquired during those long winter evenings. Soon people will also fulfill their duties of going bare. It is only fair .After all the trees were bare all winter long.

For me spring is largely a season of revival and awakening, a season to detoxify spiritually and physically, a season to give-up ,a season to repent, a season to regret , a season to rejoice in a newly resurrected promising future.

Somber thoughts aside, I gleefully say “welcome bright colors.” And I boldly say “bring on the bugs” because a night sky full of fire flies is worth all the sharp mosquito bites I will suffer .I take it my blood is the sweetest around .Wow …. Nature, warm and accessible simply makes me happy.

photo source

The smell of yerga chaffe fills my nose and I am taken by the rich seductiveness of its scent. It takes me to Lake Tana, to the buna farmers, and back again to where I am now. Where am I? I am sitting in my boyfriend’s family’s house after dinner and witnessing the famous coffee ceremony. I am amazed as the incense swirls into the air, as the roasted coffee smell wafts into the apartment’s atmosphere, and the beauty of it all.

If only life was as simple as sipping a small porcelain cup of coffee…

I am a woman. I am a feminist. I am an American and more specifically…Black American. My mother has Southern roots in South Carolina and Georgia and my father is a racial “mut” (as he likes to call himself). Being Black American and entering the habesha world has been interesting and sometimes frustrating.

Since a young girl, I was introduced to many of the different cultures within Ethiopia and Eritrea through my father who had a love affair with the continent of Africa before my conception. He, being a man of philosophy and theology, was interested in Ethiopia as one of the birthplaces of ancient Christianity. I learned about the different peoples of Africa and fell in love with a handful of countries. Ethiopia and Eritrea have always been in my top five. My father explained how the people of Ethiopia and Eritrea were compassionate and good people. And they are.

However, I was not prepared for the tightly knit nature of the habesha culture. When I met and fell in love with a habesha man, I was not ready for the frustration that would ensue. I was not ready for the remarks from habesha women that were along the lines “why did I take a good one?” because my boyfriend had a great paying job. I was not ready for the disgusted stares that would come from the habesha community as we walked down the U street corridor.

I would come home at night and ponder how some members of the habesha community could be so against one brown person loving another brown person. I wasn’t angry, but frustrated. I knew about the pride of the people. I knew they were never colonized and I knew they thought they were the most beautiful people in the world. I wasn’t against their views, matter of fact, I was attracted to my boyfriend because he was beautiful inside and out. The attitudes persisted…

However, the stares and the comments did not prepare me for what was brewing at home between us. Culture is our very own eyeglasses – our lens – that we don’t take off. We use them to see the world and it is always the right prescription because it is ours. It is what we know – it is our tape that replays every second in our lives. As me and my boyfriend looked at each other with our own lens, we discovered our own shortcomings and our cultural definitions which were hard to exchange or challenge.

I was a feminist and I had problems accepting the perceptions and roles of some women in Ethiopia and Eritrea. He had concerns with the American woman and the individualistic nature of most Americans. Although he didn’t believe the stereotypes of Black Americans, I am sure it was in his subconscious mind. I would call him African – he would say “I am habesha.”

I would tell him that those countries were in Africa and he would say “we were told that we were different, but I know that we are in Africa.” I told him that racism abounds although Obama was elected. He didn’t believe me. He thought that Washington DC was a mirror for the rest of this great land called the United States. These minor cultural misunderstandings would continue into our relationship and force us to go deeper and challenge us to think broader and in a more real sense. However, it came to a head one chilly day in 2009.

My boyfriend walked outside of a grocery store and it happened. What Black Americans know and never forget….that it lives…and it rears its head in the nastiest of ways sometimes. My habesha boyfriend walked out of the grocery store and mistakenly walked behind a car that was trying to pull out of a parking spot. The enraged driver said “Nigger!!!!” He came home and told me the story and said “but I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t a nigger, I’m habesha.” I shook my head and let it drop into my hands in pure frustration.

What he didn’t understand at the time was the complexity of color, class, and race. He didn’t understand that in the eyes of the “other,” he was now one of us. He had become Black American and he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how he could be confused with Black American.

He didn’t understand that in America, it wasn’t if you were Amhara, Gurage, or Tigre – it was if you were black, white, brown, or yellow.  He couldn’t understand that in Washington DC where the habesha community was strong, people would know he was from Ethiopia or Eritrea, but the farther south he would go; the more he would morph into a Black person and what that would mean.

He no longer was habesha, he was a Black person that would be stared at in expensive restaurants, pondered over because of his expensive clothes, and would be discriminated against like us (Black Americans, that is). He had no idea that his skin color that could do so much good in his own country would challenge him in another.

Two years later, we are still pondering these same issues and thinking about marriage. We wonder what our children will face. What will the children of a black woman and a habesha man face? As they try to learn Amharic and English – hand dancing and Eskista, among it all – we hope they will realize that they are just people. We are all one in the same.

Elle B.

If you are like me… and like most people drinking coffee is an integral part of your daily routine. Be it one cup or five cups most of us drink at least once a day.

The few people I know that do not drink coffee; I call them decaffeinaterians, annoy me! I drink coffee first thing in the morning; and most of the time I don’t stop drinking till about early afternoon. I know that maybe a bit too much but my current office doesn’t have free coffee and I am been forced to decrease the input in my coffee.

The few days I am too tired or too behind schedule to brew my morning coffee… I pick it up from 7-11 or Starbuc {I say starbuc not Star Bucks).

Let’s get to the point of this post. I am sure most of you like Macchiatos Ethiopian style. For example, most Ethiopians haven’t had Cafe Americano before they left Ethiopia. Americano is the regular hot water drip coffee we buy in the US. The prevalence of American style coffee throughout the world is well I don’t know and I couldn’t find the details via Google.

I have had many types of coffees, including the ever popular Ethiopian style brewing as seen on bernos’ buna tee. I love the Turkish style infusion; I had the privilege of enjoying some 11 years ago when I had it at middle-eastern friends place. Cerve pronounced ‘Jez-veh’ is used to boil powdered beans and let tell settle before drinking.

A recent ‘fancy’ French restaurant served me coffee made with French press. I think it makes some really refined coffee, but the key to the French coffee is the freshness of the roast. Here in the US almost everyone buys roasted coffee, only a few of us do grind our coffee ourselves.

My favorite type of coffee has to be the Ethiopian style Macchiato, and no barista from Italy can make me the Macchiato the way I like. Ethiopian baristas since the days of Kebele 23 coffee shop have been making it the way; I started to drink between the ages of 8-11. Pictured scene above, enjoying my Macchiato at Dama Coffee & Bakery!

There is the pure Espresso, and there is the popular Cappuccino but the Caffè Macchiato is the middle ground and it’s the best. Caffè Macchiato is stained Espresso, the reason was according to how wiki describes it:

for the baristas to show the serving waiters the difference between an espresso and an espresso with a little milk in it; the latter was marked.”

the perfect ratio

There is a new trend; I haven’t seen this as Starbucks or any major chains but in a two city shops, one in the north side of Manhattan and in a small Shop in DC. They call it Latte macchiato but it’s basically a half a shot large Cappuccino. Not to be confused with a Misto or Café Au Lait, which is my sister’s favorite at Star Bucks, which is the Americano over milk.

The perfect Macchiato is not stained; it’s not dropped like the Portuguese. Its two tablespoons of at milk, and foam till it covers every surface of the serving dish.

There was a fantastic article of how the ratio of Espresso changes with the choice of serving paper cups at Starbucks.

A short and ‘Tall’ get one shot while a ‘Venti’ gets two shots of Espresso. Thus a ‘Venti’ is stronger that a Tall. A ‘Short’ which also comes with one shot is the strongest. A macchiato comes stained and bitter. I now have devised the best way to order a Macchiato at Star Bucks.

A short cappuccino has a 1 to 3 ratio; the latter being the steamed milk. Want you want to do is get to the 2 to 1 ration; you want twice the amount of Espresso to the milk to get to as close to the Ethiopian style as possible.

A Short double shot dry Cappuccino will get you 50/50. If you order it with extra foam or with room then the space needed will be fulfilled by the amount of steamed milk, and thus arriving to the perfectly blended Ethiopian style Macchiato.

If you have been reading bernos for a while, then you will know that the bernos readers helped name a midget; a baby that is.

My sister had another baby boy today. Betam interesting. Eventually all these babies that all you people are having will be adults. It’s amazing!

Congratulations to my sister, I guess! I must say I don’t beleive in having babies for sociopolitical reasons, which I don’t want to get into right now.

Right now it’s champagne time, because I am an uncle again for the 4th time in less than 3 years.

Wowzer’s the power life!

On October 12, 2008 I will ‘turn the page’ on my life — from the twenties to the thirties.

I have never thought of myself as a man, I always think of myself as a boy, although I probably have been a man by socially acceptable standards from the last ten years — and possibly more.

Really accomplished people have done so much by the age thirty both personally and professionally; there are senators, CEO’s and professors. Most men my age, throughout the world have families of their own.

My life should not technically be compared by societal standards ideally, but you can never escape the measurement of a person’s success.

We are all prone to measure how we are doing, financially and socially because apparently that is where happiness comes from.

I don’t have to be a millionaire to be happy, but I would like to be able to take care of my needs, and for the most part I can.

I don’t have to be a relationship or married to be happy, and I am not unhappy, but I would like to have some of my relationships with woman last more than a couple of months.

I at thirty, technically at twenty nine still do not have the slightest urge to have children — I suspect I will never really want to. I assume there might be a girl one day, who will say if you are really not planning to have kids or get married I don’t want to waste my time.

It’s happened, and I tell her right away, because there is not point in waiting six months of her valuable time before she knows the truth.

I was unhappy, about my work, I am a ‘creative’ and a creative is managed differently from a regular Joe— you have to give me some space to think and get my juices flow to my brain — sometimes it doesn’t flow and that is the 101.

I was sitting in front of human resources recruiter, who said to me that she was really tired of hiring creative’s because you never know what you are going to get. Yes we are special we need freedom and space.

But I am finally at a point in my life where I can choose to work where I want to per se, and that is one huge accomplishment for me — although I would like to be self employed one day.

I have good friends, they are not perfect but they are mine.

On woman, I love Ethiopian women and will always do — most of the time I am disappointed because of the lack of integrity I see in the many women I meet.

Every once in a while I meet women that are normal with no major hangups, and I like most of my male friends of the same age group generally do not give the benefit of the doubt prior to getting to know their female counterparts.

I noticed that, i was like that in the past few months and it’s somewhat safe, but sad not to be able to trust women easily. I suppose all of us, including those that can be trusted have to pay for the crimes of the few that can not be trusted.

A picture sent to me in one of those forwards from people I kinda know.

A girl Chibo’ying somewhere in Colorado for Meskel.  Meskel or Demera is religious holiday commemorating the discovery of the True Cross by Queen Elen.

The Meskel celebration includes the burning of a large bonfire, or Demera, based on the belief that Queen Eleni had a revelation in a dream. She was told that the she shall make a bonfire and that the smoke would show her where the true cross was buried. So she ordered the people of Jerusalem to bring wood and make a huge pile. After adding frankincense to it the bonfire was lit and the smoke rose high up to the sky and returned to the ground, exactly to the spot where the Cross had been buried.

Via Wiki

There is a saying that football (soccer) is the beautiful game in the world. But after watching the extreme violence and brutality of football fans in the movie “The Football Factory,” I was left to wonder if that saying was an irony.

This movie unfolds the dark world of British Hooligan culture thats replete with booze, drugs, sex and barbaric bare knuckle fights. Had it not been for the comedic nature of the movie, the gore and savagery in it would have been unbearable.

The main star of the movie, Danny Dyer has recently released a set of documentaries titled “The Real Football Factories.” In this documentary, he goes to the major football firms and interviews the members. For them, a couple of beers, some lines and few minutes of brawl sounds like a healthy British past time.

That is when compared to the very recent documentaries released by the same person entitled “The Real Football Factories – International.” This is where everything from the fans exuberant passion to the violence takes a gruesome turn. Guns and knifes are wielded in exchange for punches and death is a very common occurrence during big derbies.

One of the episodes that really struck me was the one on the Hooligan culture of the Balkans. A very sad story about the football firms in the former Yugoslavia whose members not only fought on the terraces but carried weapons and went to full blown war with each other. It was scary to see how hate could run so deep and unrestrained nationalism could lead to ethnic genocide.

The Real Football Factories International (Part 1)

The Real Football Factories International (Part 2)

The Real Football Factories International (Part 3)

The rest seen below.

• Part 4
• Part 5
• Part 6

The Official FIFA world cup is approaching the 100 year mark since its beginning in 1930 in Uruguay.

It took forty years before the world saw an African country participate in the world cup. Morocco became the first country to qualify in 1970’s Mexico City world cup. The team lost in the first round to Peru; 3 – 0, but at least they made it to the stage.

20 more years passed before an African Team went past the first round.

It was in my lifetime in Italy 1990; I like many African kids from the entire world watched as Roger Milla of Cameroon substituted in the second half to steal the ball from the long haired Colombian goalie and score the goal that sealed the deal for the African team to go to the Quarter Finals. Cameroon eventually lost to England 3-2, but this was the moment.

The moment from which, I like my friends and all African Kids I suspect, switched from idolizing the Diego Maradonas, Lothar Matthäus, and Ruud Gullits to the Roger Milla’s and the Jay-Jay Okocha’s.

It will be another twenty years to 2010 before we witness another first. South Africa to host the World-Cup; I hope to make to the mother land to catch sight of this with my own eyes.

And Optimistically it wont takes another 20 years before we see an African team take the trophy home.

When I was 22, which was 6 years ago I read a book called Quarter Life Crises. Although I don’t remember which one, it was true stories of young twenty something’s that committed suicide or other atrocities on themselves based on stress caused by life after college.

Student loans and perplexity on the purpose of life or career were one of the major causes of this “quarter life crises,” according to the book. I don’t remember why I chose to read that book; it probably was because either someone recommended it or was given to me as a gift.

At any rate, what I read reinforced my conviction on the “nurture” aspect of the nature vs. nurture debate. Especially Sigmund Freud’s postulation that emotional problems are traceable to forgotten psychic traumas created in early life.

Though that is negative, it applies to positives as well, as in human being a product of their environment. What I found is that people steer their life intentionally or unintentional towards a certain direction; and their environment plays a role.

We say things like ‘he is very black, she is very Ethiopian, they are pan-africanist,’ and ‘he is very hip-hop.’ The fact is that these descriptions are somewhat accurate descriptions on a variety of character traits.

Personally, although the environment during my teenage years didn’t allow me to be as Ethiopian as I am, there would have been a point in my life where I chose to steer my life towards it.

The only time a personality trait is unattractive is when a person forces themselves to be a certain way even though they inheritably are not that.

We’ve mentioned this before a la Marcus Garvey’s quote;

A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.”

I was at a bookstore recently when I saw a cover of this book. So powerful the imagery, the connotation the feeling stirred with me. I reflected upon the black power, I thought about a photo I had seen long ago when two African American Olympians raised their hands in the Black Power Salute.

I love dabo very much, that is why I prefer to get a sandwich to a plated meal.

I eat a sandwich at least five a week I think, whether it’s a philly cheese steak, to a chicken pesto with roasted red pepper in olive bread panini. They have one called the Manhattan in Georgetown; I used to eat daily when I had worked nearby.

Grilled roast beef, fresh spinach, bacon and cheddar cheese on a French baguette with a touch of house dressing”

The dressing comes on the side, and you pour it on, before you eat, spinach with hot cheddar who would have thought. But it’s actually the baguette that I love, soaking it hot cheddar cheese and spinach and dressing, it’s actually my sister who got one for me some 13 years ago.

The whole family loves food, and they fight to say who found what. Anyone can find a fancy restaurant, but can you find a 5 dollar sandwich you don’t mind eating everyday?

In college, I used to get ambasha and eat it for two days. All I have to do is boil water in the microwave put the earl grey tea bag and I had lunch and dinner.

The roommate asked what it was, and I told him that it’s Ethiopian Bread. How can you just eat bread, he couldn’t understand the difference between ambasha and ‘just bread.’

Not to mention the fact that he tried to correct me,’ that its not Ethiopian Bread?‘You see to them, you know ferenjoch, Ethiopian Bread is actually Injera.

You know that thing you scoop the sauce with, ohh I love Ethiopian Bread.“

Some put it on a bed and take a picture! That is Ethiopian Bread art.

That is not our bread homeboy; that is injera, and there is no word for it in English, so you have to say injera or make a new word up. Ethiopian Bread is dabo; and we have different types of dabos.

We have dabo qolo,‘ that was a joke,’ but really we have Ambasha, Ebist, Buhe Dabo called Mul Mul, doro dabo, hibisti, birkuta, qita better than pita, Defo Dabo which is actually baked in Koba leaves; whatchu know about that ferenj?

Oh ya so I love all breads, I grew up dunking bread in tea. That was breakfast on weekdays. We saved the fir fir, che chebsa, genfo minamin for the weekends.

But the French know it best; I am talking about the baguette. A good fresh baguette is scrumptious and works with virtually anything. There was no Injera in Orange County, well where I was at in the summer of 2001. Ya, we ate kitfo with a baguette.

Everyday

We ate good everyday, I cooked everyday, I went to the grocery store everyday. And everyday I got fresh ingredients, fresh basil, fresh rosemary, fresh meat, but mostly a freshly baked baguette.

I went to bakery inside the grocery, and I would ask for one tall baguette and pay 1.19$ and go. It was so good there is a line after five. Everyday I would ask cashier for a baguette and she would ask I want anything else. I would say no and leave.

Anything else? anything else? anything else”

Oh faAkin Annoyin!, she asked everyone, by the time you reach the front of the line you have heard it seven times. I was fed up and so one I told her, “you know I come here everyday and everyday you ask me ‘if there is anything else?…’ well nothing else!”

My hope was she would never ask me that again. I went to get the daily bread the next day, and I could see her looking up with her peripheral vision, oh boy was she ready!

I knew she would stop and I couldn’t help but smile and walk up to her and ask for her for the baguette! You know what she asks me…

Will that be all?

I love my mother. She’s a strong and loving person. But sometimes she is unbearable. As long as I can remember I have translated things, filled out forms, and made phone calls on behalf of my mother.

Although never discussed it was always assumed anything that involved speaking English would be handled by me. Oh I should note my mother speaks English well enough to get whatever she needs done. In fact I’ve seen her do it and been amazed!

Recently, I find myself frustrated by the list of things my mom has for me to do. My day is already full with the crap that I have to get done without anything else added. Also, it’s bad enough she asks me to do things at the most inopportune times, but then complains if it is not done to her liking. I believe beggars can’t be choosers; you want it done differently…do it yourself!

Of course I can’t say this to my mother, or so I thought. I uttered these very words this past weekend. I was annoyed and frustrated.

I am tired of being a fulltime secretary for tedious things. Furthermore, the one that irritates me the most is when I’m volunteered to do things without my knowledge for other people!! This is my mother, “Oh, weey Mittu tadergewalech.” Or “Your child is not doing well in school? Ok Mittu will tutor him, Mittu will write you the letter, Mittu will take you to work, DMv, airport…Mittu will do this or that…”

BEQA!!! No more!!! Mittu is no longer available.

There is no concern what so ever for my time or for what I might have going on…nothing.

The more I think about it, it doesn’t make sense. Why is it my mother has lived in the U.S. longer than I have, yet I’m the one who handles most of her dealings? I’m not the only one either. My friends and I spend hours complaining about this very thing. I have a friend whose mother refuses to get an oil change on her own. So not only does my friend has to get the oil change but also has to remember when the oil change needs to get done.

My other friend’s mother refuses to pay the bills…instead she makes her write out the checks and mail them. These are things they are very much capable of doing. In fact doing it will give them independence; they don’t have to wait on anyone to get it done for them.

I understand our parents needing some help now and then. But to be completely dependent on your children is ridiculous. Additionally, it’s the entitlement that they feel; since I am the daughter then it is my responsibility. It’s ridiculous. Why don’t our parents want to be independent and do things for themselves?

There is a sense of belongingness between certain groups; a generality that nobody could deny… the attraction of similar matters in a commune.

At work it’s with your department or sub department, in life it’s with ones family or friends or acquaintances.

Belongingness is a food chain of sort that starts with being human and breaks down into millions of networks. There is your college network, your city network, you kindergarten network, you gym network, etc.

People within these networks gravitate to each other in different levels. For example in the US some of us work in an environment dominated with Caucasians. If there is another black male somewhere in the building and he happens to pass by me, he will say hello, nod, or acknowledge in one form or another.

The further away we are from one of our core networks; the gravity of attraction is higher. Last year a fellow Ethiopian networkee acquaintance of mine moved to the suburbs of Seoul (S. Koreo) to be an English teacher. After a few weeks she happened to go to a local bar in the area where she was living at and she saw another networkee.

She claimed that she ran to him and hugged him and said

beqa Ethiopiawi Yelele’bet bota yelem, aydel?”

Nice nice, I could relate to what she was talking about. Just like when I ran into an Abesha waitress in the boonies somewhere Missouri some 6 years ago. I’m lying, she was a mud wrestler in a semi strip bar. Nonetheless I related and was excited.

People are products of their environments

Another generality which is somewhat undeniable. Our childhood casts us & our experiences shape us. In the end our chief network is the one that comes from the most our childhood. And thus we migrate to those that are like us.

The Apex consists of our humanity; our race, our orgin, our gender, and so on and so on. We are human, we are black, we are afirican, we are immigrants, and so on and so on.

Simultaneously there are other networks that overlap those networks and merge into other networks. Musicians relate to other musicians, Computer techies with nerds and Mothers with mothers. You get the jist, all human bonds can be correlated to or within some sort of overlapping networks.

I know an Ethiopian Filmmaker in LA that hangs out in Hollywood. The fact that he is a filmmaker is an important aspect of his life and accordingly shapes his social interactions.

All of us are members of dozens of networks concurrently and taxonomy that is most important to us we reinforce. For some it’s their family and for some it’s their classmates from their private schools in Addis, for others it’s their love for music, or alcohol or their profession, and so on.

The fact you are reading this article attests to your interest in the Ethiopian expats network.

Over the last couple of years, I have met a lot of young Ethiopian women, because you know I am interested in them; maybe because I am in the age where I am looking for the one. Maybe I am looking for someone whose networks overlap many of my networks.

Whois Network?

The questions; do my friends have to be in the Ethiopian? Do we all have to marry in the Ethiopian network? Can it be the Abesha network or the black network or a liberal network or an immigrant’s network?

In my opinion, we gravitate to those that are like us. White people are friends with other white people, black people marry black people. Musicians socialize with other musicians. Ethiopians gravitate with and to Ethiopians.

More questions; should we stay within our network? Should expand our horizons? Should we date white people? Should we go to any church?

Well, I think there is a thin line; ‘an open-mind and stupid are in the same direction.’ Do I force myself to socialize with white conservative religious republicans just because I want to be open-minded? No

Do I occasionally go out with my coworkers? Sure I do!

Do I date Asians just because ideally race shouldn’t matter? No

For me personally, I judge a person ability to relate to me based on the core networks that are most important to me. Yes, an Ethiopian, an African, an artist, a music lover, a liberal, a black person, an immigrant, a democrat, most of all a realist and an optimist.

Should a persons disinterest for interaction with non-ethiopians be looked are the lack of ability to venture out to different markets? Definitely not, its a preference, a choice of networks.

Should we mingle or date or marry outside the Ethiopian network? Sure we could, its just you would want the person to have a genuine interest in who you are, and where you come from. A white person can possibly understand what it means to be black, the question is can he/she feel it… I don’t think so.. I feel the same applies for an immigrant, an African, and most of all an Ethiopian.

Be ideal! Try not to judge a person by there color of their skin or by their orgin, ye sidamo lij can be as cool as or cooler than ye’bole lij!

But be real! People from the same networks just understand each other better!

I went to a wedding or was it a child’s birthday party? I kinda got confused the phone call I received was an invitation to a 4 year old birthday. Upon arrival, I asked myself did I misunderstand is this really a wedding?

What’s with some Ethio parents giving their children a birthday party in an all out wedding style? If it’s a child’s birthday party then shouldn’t more children be invited? If it’s a child’s birthday party shouldn’t it start early instead of 4pm?

If it’s a child’s birthday party why are they serving alcohol? If it’s a child’s birthday party why are they inviting more adults who have no children? If it’s a child’s birthday party why are they serving kurte? If it’s a child’s birthday party why is there music for adult style dancing? If it’s a child’s birthday party then why is the ending time 1am?

All these questions I ask myself whenever I’m invited to a child’s birthday party. I don’t have children but I somehow have fallen into these invitation lists. I went to one recently and yes I took lots and lots of pictures of the grand buffet prepared for the adults and the tiny table for the kids.

The kids were being served a once frozen and recently micro waved chicken nuggets, chips, and hot dogs. Their beverage consisted of juicy drinks. Entertainment was….well one tired looking, almost ready for retirement, clown who wants to practice painting faces for fun and get paid in the process. Well it’s all good for a child’s birthday party right?

Wrong….look over across the room and you find a grand buffet set up for a full course consisting of doro wat, kitfo, kurte, gomen, salata, etc. Oh and let us not forget the full bar. It started at 4pm and ended after 1am. By around 7pm the adults were laughing and having a good time. Yes I enjoyed myself very much and for a second didn’t even notice the birthday boy.

Cake cutting for who again? There were two cakes one from a special European bakery and had rum in it and the mom announced this is only for the adults. Huh? Then one small chocolate like cake from a local bakery for the kids with way too much icing and didn’t look appealing at all. I didn’t get it but then it was not my child’s birthday party so I shut up and enjoyed it.

I wonder do they invite more adults to get more gifts or are they using their child’s special day as an excuse to let loose and have a good time?

There were about 10 kids versus about 40 adults. If they invite me I will go but I have always wondered….hmmmm….don’t you think a child’s birthday party should be filled with kids, fun, and activities for the kids?

Growing up I was always afraid of the dark and I remember one night I was so scared because my sweet ehet decided to tell me they’re coming after me, but she didn’t say who they were. I imagined the leboch or geboch coming to take me away from my happy home.

What is a girl to do but run, more like I tippy toed with power into my parents bedroom and woke up my emaye, crying actually sobbing. She was startled and said, “wey, afer leblalesh men honshibegn?” I told her they were coming to get me and my sis saw them.

My mom was clearly upset and told me to get into bed with her. Oh how wonderful it was to be snuggled up against emaye the whole night and the bad people couldn’t touch me. Ohhhh and my poor sis was all alone in the bedroom, that’s what she gets. I wanted to say, nanananana mom will kick your butt but I fell fast asleep, like an infant.

The next morning, my instigating sweet ehet, got in big trouble for scaring me the night before. Because she always loved putting the fear of God into people, she saw getting in trouble as an encouragement and she got in trouble all the time. Even our older brothers were scared of her. Whew what power she had in that household. Who dare mess with her! Our father always thought us to fight for what’s ours and never back down.

Being the only two girls in a house dominated by boys, that meant a lot. The only problem was my sister had enough bravery for the both of us. Only she can mess with me but God forbid one of our brothers tried to even touch the hair on my head, she came out huffing and puffing and waiting to hear ‘Toro’ to go charging at them.

That morning my mom explained to me, “mariam eYalech manem aynekashem, zare Tewat anegag’erat eshi eTbeQatalew belaGnalech” So I got my mom and Mariam on the payroll, how you like me now! That confidence didn’t last, my sis had another plan up her sleeve…that afternoon she asked me, “did the bad people get you last night?” Ha, if she only knew the people I got working for me. So I told her about my new found silent partner, Mariam, who is working hard to protect me. She said, “anche Qil, mariam motalech eko” and she goes on telling me how silly I was to believe it and that mom only said that because she’s sick and tired of me running to her all the time with tears.

If I went to my dad he would kill her so I went to mom to lesson the blow. The terror started all over again. Now who do I believe…..I love my sis for the good memories and I love my mother and father for teaching their two girls to fight for what’s theirs.

What is memorable childhood story?

We are bombarded with charity organizations asking for our support. Bernos receives dozens of emails from different institutions or individuals to help support them in different forms.

Getting a charity organization up and running is a daunting and frustrating task. Sometimes individuals running these institutions do not understand that the frustration is not just on them but on us, the Ethiopians that are asked to help them.

Even the most generous and sympathetic person has to say “No” sometimes. Not only do we have to support charitable organizations but also our selves, as most of us are besieged in our personal and family lives.

Donating to a cause can very rewarding experience but choosing one is a task that shouldn’t be taken lightly as we all want to know that our charitable are making a difference. There ways to minimize and hone in to a certain association when decided who to give. There are a few qualifications a charitable organization needs to implement in order for me to believe in it.

Let’s take the obvious out; the best charity to give to is one that you have decided is doing work you think is important. The next measures in no particular order are:

1. One that knows exactly what it wants to accomplish.
2. One that has a dedicated management, one that documents your gift and as well us gives information about its accomplishments.
3. One that gives updates and or memorabilia so that the rewarding experience is extended.

With that said, I wanted to share a recent introduction to an organization while attending a certain event.

We were told a story of how Yohannes Gebregeorgis a children’s librarian at the San Francisco Public Library and American author Jane Kurtz who grew up in Ethiopia met and decided to partake on a project geared towards bringing literacy to Ethiopia. A beautiful story (details) of that touched me and all those that heard it.

One of their missions was to write and publish the story of Kilu Mammo bilingually in English and Amharic. I am sure most of you are familiar with the Kilu Mammo’s predicament. The story brilliantly illustrated by Bogale Belachew is now available for us online so it could continue to be retold for expatriate children. The best part is that the money is donated towards developments of certain projects.

Of which Ethiopian reads’ first projects was to build a Shola Children's Library.

…has over 20,000 books donated ….The library originally opened in the basement of Yohannes' house then expanded to fill the whole building with additional tents set up in the yard to make space for all the children who come.  Over 40,000 visits have been made to the library since its opening in April of 2003" #

They were swarmed kids wanting to read some books! Never realized how the curiosity of a child is impeded by the lack of a book to read. Did you?

You don’t need to support this undertaking; you have to. If you are broke send some books. Buy the book. You have a paypal right, send a few bugs. If nothing else pass the word! Send the link to Ethiopia Reads to everyone you know. Just just do something!

Buchela is not her dog, it’s her baby. Her name is Yemi and she recently moved to China with her infant buchela. I don't know if there is a man around, I think their might be. Apparently, she is Ethiopian American from San Francisco.

I don't know yet why she moved to China since her full time job is taking care of the buchela; let me know when you figure it out! She recently turned 33. The buchela doesn't look Ethiopian at all, I think he maybe keles.

Anyways, I have been following her activities for about a month now, and I am hooked. She cooked her Wot in a Wok, sounds familiar!

What the hell is this buchela going to do today? its genna eko!

Yemi is a great blogger… she is very personal, writes in short wonderful sentences. She is consistent, brief and creates value in her topic. Go on read, participate and free grazers graze!

Aba woldiye gedel gebu biye!
Shiskerekeru bedem tenekeru!
Shiskerekeru bedem tenekeru!
Achuldra achuldra! Achuldra achuldra!

He would tap my back consequently with the beat of the song that he is singing. I never knew the meaning but it was engaging and witty. Who is Aba woldye? And why the hell are we singing about him?

That was my grandfather; he could answer any question I ever asked him. He knows everything, so why didn’t I ever ask him the meaning of the song?

Actually I feel the same way about all the songs from our childhood; how come the jib is in the gedel and why is after our Qit? Seriously need the answer, still do!

The songs of our childhood, oh the very many songs! I never really thought about the number of songs we knew?

Ere lijoch lijoch!
eneChawet beTam!
kengedeh lijenet temeleso Aymetam!

mT’s, I wish I had believed it at the time. I would have played harder. I would have had notepads to write all the songs down.

I was never acquainted with a man named Seleshi Demissie; better known as singer & artist Gash Abera Molla who embarked on a "crusade to rid Addis Ababa of trash and to preserve cultural heritage by restoring monuments and beautifying the city by planting palm trees." Podcasted are few songs that reminded me of the good old days. Abish-Geleba, which has parts of the lyrics from what my grandfather used to sing to me; Chereka Dimbuloqa; and Che Belew which happens to be my favorite from the album.

Gash Abera Molla is a genius with the Krar as you will hear! Put your speakers up and Che belew ere che belew…. I don’t know what Che is but for some reason I just want to Che Che Che!

A friend asked me to go out with him. He was meeting a couple of ladies for a drink. The drink happened to be dinner, and since I already had dinner, I ordered my favorite; Chivas straight that is.

After one [drink] the conversation turned, I passionately started to explain what's wrong with Ethiopia. I backed up my data with some stats and how population control is the key, minamin.

We were laughing, but I was the only one talking. Beqa people need to stop having kids; Birth control condoms! One per couple is enough! Get a condom! After pill whatever it takes. Heck, vasectomy is reversible!

If you can’t get a babysitter, don’t come out, it’s probably a good sign that you didn’t need to have a baby in the first place. I am tired of this Abesha’s bringing their little midgets to weddings or plays or comedy shows. Little midgets crying and running around, I can’t concentrate. On my wedding no one under 18 is allowed to come. Bring your ID’s! I don’t care if in Ethiopia you are 20!

Shit, I plan not to have any kids, because everyone else in my family had more than their quotas. Ye’derg gize sugar was supplied by controlled dististribution; by rationing or as they say sekuar be'ration eko nuew Hulet makia bicha! That was good population control. A household was only allowed a certain amount of sugar; perhaps that explains why Ethiopians have sugar fixation. I hate getting coffee 7 eleven because it takes like 12 packets for me to have enough.

After all that one of the ladies I was having drinks with tells me that she has two kids. Are you fuken serious? Yes, she is married with two kids! Wow, well at least she can afford a babysitter or something. It’s midnight isn’t it? Maybe I should have been embarrassed but I wasn’t! I just took it as sign that I’m really getting old that I’m socializing with married folks with kids.

Well good— for— youuu! Lij belejenet nuew!

So everyone I know wants me to help them name their babies. I’ve already named two of them little midgets, why not make it even and go for three! Yap, I’m going to be an uncle yet again to a beautiful little boy midgets. I only give baby shower gifts every other midjet. But name him, I sure will.

So a Pazione from Seattle gave me a call the other day, oh nice so I had to email him back to ask him the meaning. You see I need to name a midget, something with a geez twist, something unique yet Ethiopian. Ya, something just as nice as my name, or at least give it a shot.

If I end up using the name, I’ll buy you a Bernos T-shirt ! Forgive the pejorative term, I seriously do love kids.

I have never been able to replicate the feeling. I have never been able to sleep that way. No 200 dollar down comforter could ever replace the comfort  ye’Emiyes Gabi gave me. Oh and the Tara, woy Taraw. The old brown Tara, that was the key.

Yes, the key to the sound; the sound you hear when it’s raining; when it’s raining on the old brown leaky Tara!

If only I could replicate that sound, then maybe I could get some sleep.

After many, many years I finally made a decision to do what my parents have begged me to do every time they visit. No it's not marriage, and I'm not having a baby but travel to Ethiopia. Year after year I had an excuse from — I have too much responsibility at work to I am just not ready to take the time off. The reality was I was terrified, mortified, and scared out of my skirt. Why? I had no idea. I didn't have any horrible memories to re-live, or any debt to settle it was just out right fear. There is nothing to fear but fear itself!

The day finally came when I purchased my ticket and I knew — it was too late to turn back now, I believe, I believe I'm boarding the plane. No refunds and no transfer of passengers name was clearly printed under the terms and conditions. The only thing that gave me comfort was that my sweet brother agreed to accompany me on this travel of a lifetime because he's just like that, sweet as a honeycomb.

I couldn't eat anything, or sleep the day before the trip. My brother assured me, "it's a long flight, you'll have plenty of time to sleep". God, I hope he's right, I mean he's almost always right, but what if he's wrong today after all he's only human. I wanted a net to catch the butterflies in my stomach and set them free, they must be suffocating by now God knows I am.

It's on baby…The boarding began on none other than Ethiopian Airlines, with the handsome pilots and the well dressed hostessoch. What pride I felt but dang why are the butterflies having a block party ene hode wuste? Boarding was easy but getting a drink, of any alcoholic beverage, to help me pass out was a little tricky because the flight must first take off per the FAA Airline regulations. Dangit we have to get that changed.

The drama…I knew after a while, when I viewed the monitor in front of me, it was too late to holler help! Another darn FAA regulation. We were clearly out of the continental US of A bye, bye. So I did what sometimes works for me, I had a little pep talk with my inner-self "set your ass down and enjoy the flight" and took a short nap. The nap kind of worked but waking up was a bitch. It took me at least 5-10 seconds before my eyes could focus then I grabbed my brother and asked him "where the hell am I?" He looked at me as if I lost my mind. He said, "are you serious, you need a real drink, girl don't wake me up again until we get there" then he laughed ha/ha. I didn't find it too funny but we talked about other things and I got distracted. What a sweet brother I tell you, one in a million.

Yene Ethiopia…I would like to say I now know that I have always had a place to call my real home and wonderful relatives I never knew about. From the moment I arrived at the Bole Airport I can smell it in the air – pure love from my Ethiopia! I knew that my heart and soul have finally taken a deep breath of real life.

I was finally back home!

As the tears ran down my face and my heart was grinning at me with every beat, I thought to myself, oh what a feeling! I observed the looks and interactions of my Ethiopians and I realized exactly what I have been missing in my life: I missed the kind smiles. I missed the heartfelt greetings. I missed the love one gives from the heart. I missed the fresh air. I missed Amarenga being spoken all around me and written on signs and buildings. I missed the cars with the big license plates. I missed the poor man/woman, the rich man/woman, the policeman, and the strangers in the streets. I missed the big beautiful churches. I missed the injera, dabo, fanta, kolo, kurte and kitfo. I missed merkato. My home away from home, what I missed out on by not growing up in Addis. I love you my Ethiopia!

Podcasted Hager by Neway Debebe 

Do you see those kids? They were orphaned by AIDS.  Every Year in Ethiopian about 3 quarters of a million kids under the age of fifteen are orphaned by AIDS. It is estimated that there are 2.5 million AIDS orphans in Ethiopia and increasing at a rapid rate.

Without digressing too much into my personal feelings and the politics associated with donations and donor states, people have finally realized after and around 2002 that there needs to be major rethinking on how we globally view AIDS orphans. The word “Alarming” is not big enough to describe the expected situation.

Subsequently those kids up there in the picture, not only are they orphans but also living with HIV. An organization called Artists for Charity, which I’m part of, adopted 12 kids rented a house is caring for them in Addis Ababa

To think a child is born, followed by lose of parent(s) and then to have to deal with the agony of living HIV is not only disheartening but also bleak. A person with HIV can live a long life with proper care; AIDS orphans' in Ethiopia are not.

Many charities have budgets, proposals and documentation on how one dollar can make a difference so that they can approach major donors. Yes, Artists for Charity is doing all that. Soon small money will come so that these 12 kids can sustain there current situation; meaning nursing, food, medication, and a roof among many other necessities.

I know most of you get hit up for donations from every direction. Life is not easy; you are not only supporting yourself but also are family members in Ethiopia. I know I’m struggling myself.

I am writing not to ask for donation or even a small amount, I’m asking for minute, tiny, miniscule, and diminutive, bequest.  For example a live-in nurse who has experience with the medication and care needed for child living with HIV will only cost 120$ a month. This nurse also teaches all 12 of them the intricacies of the medication and etc.

Can we Bernos raise enough for 2 months nursing care?  And maybe we might be giving Masresha (15), Getahun (eight), Mekdes (who is def eight), Tsegay Mariam (11), Tigist (9) Addisu (13), Semira (12), Eden (12), Samirawit (14), Fresow (11), Kidist (9), and GebreKidan (11) See them here.

In a nutshell, these kids situation is month to month and till we figure out a permanent resolution for their needs, I would like to make it my personal responsibility to raise 250$ dollars before September 9th so that the nurse could continue to care for them for at least two months.

On average there are 100 unique and 500 visitors on this blog daily. If 1% of the visitors gave 5$ for the next two week, we have enough not only for two month but for a year. But we don’t need that much. We need only 250$ please hit the donate button and give 1-5$ it will take you two minutes. After you do please make a comment of how much you donated. Once Sept 9 hits I’ll personally match what we are able to raise. If your contributions doesnt total 125$ then I will adjoin the deficient amount to reach the goals.

You can make a difference! This kids will have nurse.

Please no excuses, its only five dollars and 2 minutes! And no pity, these kids are probably happier than you. I saw a video of Mekdes (8) she is always smiling and dancing around even though she knows that she is def as well as HIV positive and both her parents have passed away. Hence, DO YOU CARE? 

Of the five human senses, the one with the longest memory is the sense of smell followed by hearing. Clark Richert, my painting instructor from the college years told me that he used to spray his painting with oddest perfume in order to strike a chord in the memory of viewers. After some research, studies’correlating senses and long term memory were rarer than a Peaguet in America.

As I stepped in to the elevator with a room full of ladies, the combination of perfumes was nauseating. Yet one distinct smell was poignant, and I remembered a certain someone who I haven’t seen or thought about in a decade. Thus all the proof needed to validate the theory.

Ah memory, such a wonderful thing!

A POW after being released from imprisonment for thirty five years did an interview for one of newspaper. How did he do it? How was he able not to lose hope? He said he reminiscent through his childhood over and over till he regained all his memories. He claimed all the way to that point where he was sucking his mother’s nipples. Go figure!

Devoid digressing, I heard the Begena. That sound, amazing! I hark back to a great deal. As the saying goes, Dawitim be’Begena… There are two versions, Dawit used the Begena to sooth King Sual’s nerves when he had insomnia or strictly religious Dawit praised god beBegena.

You don't know where the feeling comes from but an aura of deep spiritual meditation pervades the performer and his environment when a Begena is played” –Alemu Aga

Indeed it’s soothing. So I reminiscence the dreaded Abiy Tsome and Kedase I was strongly encouraged to participate in. I realize now that I miss being devoid of meat for two months and finally waking up to an early morning feast off to all the Doro my minuscule tummy could handle. What do you remember?

Buhe Belu Ho

YamelaTa Ho

Kibe Kebute Ho

Enday’Ne’Ta Ho

Well so, Buhe Met’To Hede; while combing through the musical archive for an appropriate song, non other than Mulatu Astatqe’s Assiyo Bellema jumps out.

What is Buhe? 

Buhe, an old custom similar to the Western Halloween in practice, falls on Nehasse 13 (21 August). As the rains are still streaming down at the time, the celebration is undertaken not by sensible adults or good little girls, but by rough and rude small boys. The clergy refer to it as Debre Tabor.

Buhe may mean "bread" or "dough," and on the eve of this feast the bread dough is set in each home for baking the following day. When night falls, between 10 to 40 boys, all following their chosen leader (awraj), jump up and down and sing repetitive, often ribald songs at doorways until some of the dough is handed round.

The prettiest part of the festival is on the eve, when hundreds of chibos (bunches of dried twigs) are lit outside each dwelling and everyone, including women and little girls, gather round the flickering fires. The habit of lighting torches is sometimes said to originate from the story of the Lost Children who wandered away and were found by torch-light and given bread to eat.

Extracted from Ethiopian Airlines Selamta Magazine