Threads Lay Bare

The day I have been dreading for the past four years has finally come. I waited too long. I knew this day was coming, and yet I did nothing to change its course.

My grandmother died last weekend. A woman that I feel indescribably connected to but only met once. She is the bearer of my sorted family secrets.  She is a woman who could melt me with a smile.  She represents life in a world of different circumstances. My existence is directly dependent on the decisions she made so many years ago. Decisions that I have never had the chance to understand.

Shrouded in a mysterious sequence of events, my mom was raised in the care of her uncle. Fortunately for her, he subsequently became successful, enabling my mother a world of opportunities that would have been unattainable otherwise. I understand her (and everyone’s, for that matter) admiration of him.  He was incredibly successful because of his visionary entrepreneurial spirit and diligent work ethic. Even now he serves as an inspiration for his grandchildren that never had the opportunity to meet him.  He was idolized by everyone, but especially by my mother. She was daddy’s girl. Without him, my mother would have never left Gondar. Without him, she would have never met my father in the United States. Without him, I would cease to exist. I am profoundly aware that I owe everything to him, in a very literal sense.

All the same, I feel like the silvery threads holding the legitimacy of my heritage together are fraying at the edges, bearing too much weight for such delicate strands. As I try to repair the damage, I carefully avoid the splitting ends, afraid that even the slightest tug may destroy the whole fabric.

I first met my biological grandmother in 2010, a year after my mother died. There was something beautifully touching and piercingly sad about the discovery of my lost grandmother hidden in a small town tucked away in the highlands of Ethiopia. Only aware of her existence a few years prior, I was surprised to see photos tracking the progression of my childhood lining her walls amongst those of her other grandchildren. Unable to understand her words, I understood her eyes. She was overcome with emotion. Never expecting to see us (my sister and myself) in person, she was grateful to meet her lost American grandchildren. Overwhelmed by the situation, I didn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of the visit, unaware that it would change the course of my life.

I felt as if something was coming together. Unaware of my impending identity search, I felt at ease in her presence. Smiling and unable to take her eyes off of me, she told me that I looked like my mother, a compliment that stripped at fresh wounds and nearly brought me to tears. Words that I would never forget.

Sipping on hot tea, my eyes poured over every inch of her small-overcrowded living room. I wanted to remember every detail: every picture, every smell, and every crack in the wall. In silence, I tried to intellectually and emotionally process her existence.  I wasn’t ready to leave her that afternoon. I just discovered a world that I never knew existed and hadn’t yet figured out where I fit in. Although I was reluctant to go, I didn’t know then that it would be my first, and only, opportunity to meet her.

While I am incredibly grateful for my family, I can’t help but feel like something is missing. I feel like I am missing a link that grounds me somewhere, that makes me belong somewhere. I am hovering by thin threads trying to find where gravity will ground me. And the questions keep coming: How was my mother given over to her uncle? What happened all of those years ago? How did my mother feel when she found out?

Upon our first meeting, I was inspired. I vowed to come back and see my grandmother. I would learn Amharic and get to know her, understand her story as a means to understanding mine. I needed to hear her perspective on how she was separated from my mother, an event that forever complicated and confused my identity and existence.  Meeting her solidified my need to go back to discover my roots.

In 2012, I moved to Ethiopia and began learning Amharic. Going back to Gondar was the goal, the payoff to all of the self-doubt, hard work, risks, and uncertainties. The closer I moved towards my goal the more I was terrified of finding out the truth. If she rejected my mother, then was she in effect rejecting me? Already insecure about my legitimacy as an Ethiopian, I postponed visiting Gondar. I waited. Excuses are plentiful when you want them. My Amharic isn’t advanced enough. I’m too busy. I’ll go after the rainy season. It’s too expensive. In my timidity, I waited, hoping for the perfect opportunity to fall in my lap.

But perfection doesn’t exist, and I waited too long. Now she is gone, buried in those same mountains with all of the stories that I never heard. Conversely, I think about all of the stories I will never tell her. Just as I will never know her, she will never know me. I waited too long, and all the while I feel those thin threads splitting around me.

Majesty In The Mountains

The seemingly endless contrasts are part of what make Tigray beautiful. As I drive away from Mekelle, the regional capital, I am mesmerized by the rustic harsh landscapes juxtaposed with the beautifully paved roads and wide boulevards, clearly the results of urban planning that was superimposed on the town. The university-town feel is peppered with bookstores throughout the growing metropolis as we pass ‘City of Knowledge’ placards.

From the road on the way to Gheralta

Most notable is the stark difference in topography. Even in the middle of rainy season, Tigray is brown. There are no more lush trees sitting amongst the tall grass flowing in the wind. Those images are replaced by rocks. A lot of rocks. Everywhere. Rocks are used to build houses, construct roads, and even to provide a catchment for runoff water to prevent soil erosion. 

Uninterrupted mountains of rock guided our entire three-hour journey to our final destination: Gheralta Ridge. This area is renown for its numerous ancient rock-hewn churches that are so old that my mind refuses to grasp what it means to stand in the same building that others stood in over 1,600 years ago.  The churches withstood centuries of religious and political conquests due to their isolation, tucked away in the mountains. While some churches were not so fortunate and were burned by a Jewish Queen in the 6^th century, a few were so well hidden that they remained illusive during those turbulent times and are still intact. 

The church is hidden beyond the clouds

Adequately warned on the physicality needed to reach some of the remote churches, I insist on seeing the most sequestered churches. The first church is Abuna Yemata Guh. As I start the trek towards the mountains and perilous looking cliffs, the church is completely hidden from view. In fact, the church is only visible until you are literally climbing over an ancient tomb that has hundreds of bodies nestled in its crevices at the foot of the church.  But that is getting ahead of myself. From the main land, all I can see are large phallic pillars, where my alleged destination awaits.

Led by a local guide, we leisurely discuss the secular and non-secular history of the region. Before we reach the mountain, we walk through the sparsely populated village. Despite being two months into the rainy season, the fields are brown with no signs of emerging life. Reassured that the rains come later in the north, people continue to farm.

By the time we reach the bottom of the mountain, our crew has nearly tripled in size. Two elders perched under an old mangled olive tree stop us to collect payment. Forgetting the money in the car, the old man lets us pass but let it be known, across language barriers, that he is expecting payment upon our return.

Contingent-permission-granted we begin to climb. The clouds hang ominously low, obscuring the mountaintops. Our guides are clearly trying to restrain themselves from skipping up the rocks to preserve the quickly wavering dignity of their guests as they slowly and clumsily crawl up the rocks.

The last section up the mountain requires us to take off our shoes. Thankful for having some experience rock climbing, I feel fairly comfortable navigating the small foot and finger holes. My companion, however, did not have the benefit of experience.

Slowly inching up the mountain, I stop to take notice of a small rectangular opening in the side of the rock. I was nonchalantly informed that this is one of several tombs housed in the rock cliff. The open tomb is discreetly marked with a small cross engraved next to the entrance.  Astonished that people would carry their dead loved ones up this treacherous mountain, where only a few inches of stone are the only space granted. I stood incredulously behind the group while everyone continued the careful task of climbing the mountain to the real destination. I later learned that not only were dead people transported up the mountain, but newborn babies as well. As proof, I sat inside the small cave adjacent from the church that was designated solely for baptisms. The Lion King’s Circle of Life played on a loop in my head.

View from the church entrance

At the foot of the church's entrance, I look down at several birds flying graciously below us. I have a new understanding of the phrase ‘a birds eye view’.  Taking a moment to take in the scene from this incredible vista, I try not to think about how precariously we are perched on old rocks while small pebbles break off and fall into the abyss below us as we shift positions. The view is stunning. It is hard for my eyes to capture the magnitude of our position. 

Our history lesson transforms into a modern account of how the church is used in contemporary times. The church still holds service every Sunday. They even have midnight mass on holidays. My mind again tries to imagine the same climb without the advantage of sunlight and a baby on my back. It seems incredibly reckless, but religion has always been a dangerous pursuit.

This church, like all religious constructions, contain secrets that are centuries old.  It is full of stories and legends that have been transformed and re-birthed over hundreds, perhaps thousands, of interpretations and years. I will respect its sacredness and reserve those secrets for those who are courageous enough to hear the story in person from the Gheralta Ridge mountaintops.