I remember when I was a boy the furthest I moved for the first time away from our village, Shaboo, near Goba/Bale in Oromoland was when I went with my parents to the shrine of Sheik Hussein in Dirre about120 kilometres to the east. I had always yearned to get away from the tedious routine of our village, especially after learning the Quran by heart became a must dictatorially. Till then I enjoyed reciting Qur’an and even relaxed doing it without compulsion. My mother had bitter arguments about it with my Qur’an teacher and my father on my account a number of times.
Of course I was able to escape the forced drill and get away from it all at times by staying away in Gulchoo, a village some thirty kilometres away, with my maternal relatives. Here the picture was different. Qur’an was taught in extremely friendly manner, and learning by heart was not necessary except for a few verses necessary for prayers. There I floated on air and felt on top of the world, becoming one of the best at reciting the Qura’an . From every household came delicious dishes for breakfast after morning prayers in the mosque. We interacted with adults who enjoyed cracking decent jokes, making us all laugh.
I remember even though I was absolutely welcome in Gulchoo I did not stay there for long and had to go back to my mother who missed me badly as I was her only child. Certainly my father was angry at me for staying away but said nothing. So no one tried to placate him. Around that time, the journey to the shrine was for me like a luxury cruise in European context, which is for some people the holiday of a lifetime, even though we made use of mules and donkeys as means of transport.
The panoramic landscape with continually moving horizon filled me with almost painful nostalgia for the new and the endless. I enjoyed it so much I wished it went on for ever. As we moved on, we met groups of fellow travellers, many on foot, most of them with subdued excitement. We had a number of rests each day along the road, followed by a flurry of energetic movements forward.
I remember at the sunset we left the road to settle for the night, making fire in the open to take our evening meals. Nomadic instinct was awakened in me with its constant change of pastures. It was like a never ending feast. Soon I was the first to fall asleep exhausted till dawn when I heard the muezzin admonishing worshippers not to sleep. I must have felt overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Some forms of religious ardour get on my nerves at times to this day.
My exultant moods had their ups and downs, however, for another reason. I could not find someone to tell what I felt at the time. But the nostalgia for the new and the endless remained with me all along ever since though I did not think much about it. In the course of my life, I have been able to trace it back to my own heart and realized that the world outside me is part of me whatever it is. This does not mean I feel this automatically and constantly. Yet when I really feel it, it is a blessing. I forget everything including politics altogether. In this sense all my articles in bariisa.com are nothing but a drop in the ocean and have no significance whatsoever. When I started this paper I wanted to say something else but my memory transplanted me in another dimension which I welcome.