A New “Tizita”

As I sit in front of my computer and prepare to write this piece about the 2010 Callaloo Conference in Addis Ababa, the first thing that comes to mind is the song, “Tizita.” “Tizita” is one of Ethiopia’s most popular songs, an anthem to nostalgia and longing, and it is also the Amharic word for memory. It seems that nearly every singer has adapted it to his/her own style and over the years it has outlasted any authorial claim. I am not sure if most people today know who wrote the song and when. It belongs to Ethiopia and I imagine that in every version of “Tizita,” the singer is giving the song back and extending a hand for the next musician. It has been taken across oceans and seas as Ethiopians have migrated to other countries to become part of a growing and vibrant diaspora. In those moments when I’ve missed Ethiopia, when it’s felt like the oceans separating me from my first home have expanded and become much too large, I instinctively begin to hum “Tizita,” then invariably find one of the many versions of the song that I possess, and put it on. Tizita. Memory.

I went to Addis Ababa in the summer of 2010 for the annual Callaloo Conference, “(Black) Movements: Poetics and Praxis,” and for the first time, I went not as a daughter or niece or cousin, but as a writer amongst some of America’s most creative and innovative minds. I listened to scholars, artists, and writers deliberate about Pan-Africanism, identity, definitions of home, and what it means to be academics and artists in the world. Those talks—which began with a single premise, then seemed to bloom and encompass so much more than I thought possible—were thrilling for me, enlightening and challenging. Through the eyes of other conference participants, I was witness to a different side of Ethiopia than the one I usually saw when I was with family: one of a constantly evolving wealth of ideas and literature, photography and film. The last night of the conference, I was one of the members of the last panel, and the conversations enveloped and connected other topics raised in previous days, pulling subjects forward and stretching the boundaries between art and academics. It would have been enough just to be a part of this wonderful event and its culmination. That would have given me much to talk about when I returned to the United States. But then one particular man, an audience member, stood up after what many thought had been the last comment of the night.

He stood up to speak after a few particular comments questioning the necessity or wisdom of writing about Ethiopia’s darker past, about its revolution in recent history. This revolution, which began in 1974 and wiped out almost an entire generation of Ethiopians, was the topic of my novel Beneath the Lion’s Gaze, and it was for this reason that I had been invited to participate at the 2010 Callaloo Conference. There had been more than one comment made that writers from Ethiopia should focus more on Ethiopia’s rich history rather than its violent past. There was no significant purpose in dredging up unpleasant memories, particularly when there are so many stories of courage, talent, and culture in our country. This was not a new argument. I had heard it before from Ethiopians at home and abroad. This man came forward just as the last comment—one which contained this same argument—concluded and he walked quickly to the microphone. There were a few audience members who would have preferred to go home; it had been a long day and the rush hour traffic outside was building. But he stepped forward and began to speak.

Tentatively, with barely contained emotion, he spoke of his experiences during that devastating revolution of 1974. The room fell silent. A torrential rain pour earlier that afternoon had made it impossible to hear each other and I was listening closely for tell-tale signs of another onset of...