A man passes by a destroyed tank (T-72) on the main street of Edaga Hamus, in the Tigray region of Ethiopia, on June 5, 2021. Image by Yan Boechat/VOA on Wikimedia Commons (Public domain).

By Haftu Hindeya Gebremeskel, an associate professor at Mekelle University in Tigray, Ethiopia.

On November 2, people in Tigray, Ethiopia, will mark two years since the civil war in the region officially ended. On this date in 2022, my region’s leading party, the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), signed the Pretoria Peace Agreement with the Ethiopian government, which the United Nations considered a “critical first step” towards ending the brutal war. 

On that day, as every day, I will look at an old pair of shoes I keep on my stairs at home. The ripped and worn shoes are a reminder of the two hellish years of war we endured. These shoes carried me when the federal government and its allies blockaded Tigray and put us under siege. Between 2020 and 2022, about 600,000 Tigrayans died as a result of senseless and reckless actions‚ and 2.5 million were internally displaced by the fighting.

I keep them because when I look at my shoes, I remember the unbearable suffering we endured together. It seems to me that these shoes can talk. They tell the memories I cannot bear to verbalise myself. But the world needs to hear what happened to us, because it feels like everyone has forgotten Tigray.  

I bought my new shoes just before the war erupted on November 4, 2020. That evening, our lives took a drastic turn. Within weeks, people from every corner of Tigray were flooding into our capital, Mekelle.

The government began a campaign of hatred against Tigrayans. The Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed said the TPLF were “invasive weeds” that “must be uprooted in a manner that will never grow again.” Fellow politicians and allies echoed these sentiments, using slurs like “weeds,” “cancer,” “rats,” and “terrorists” to describe us. The government incited ordinary citizens to humiliate, attack, rob, and even kill hardworking Tigrayan people. Thousands lost their jobs, had their businesses looted and shuttered, and were imprisoned or killed. Tigrayans were hunted everywhere — in their homes, offices, along roadsides, in taxis — targeted simply for their identity. Those who could fled to Mekelle or sought safety outside Ethiopia.

As people arrived in Mekelle with nothing, residents had to come together to provide what help we could. Meeting and coordinating efforts was challenging because of frequent airstrikes targeting civilians in broad daylight, yet we persevered in supporting our sisters and brothers. Civil organizations made ongoing announcements on Radio FM Mekelle, encouraging us to support one another and sharing information about donation sites.

During this time, my shoes stayed with me as I gave away all my other pairs of shoes to those in need. Almost all of our family’s clothing was donated to support those affected. Despite fear, shock, and a relentless determination, we didn’t hesitate to help those who once had more than us.

My shoes endured a lot. My friend Abenet and I walked roughly 16 km (10 miles) a day across the city. With no money and a complete halt in transport services due to fuel shortages, we had little choice.

We often visited friends working in NGOs, hoping they might relay messages to our families outside the region or country, as these were the only places with limited internet access. Unfortunately, many were reluctant to help. Some asked for money or favors, while others seemed to have lost hope. A few treated us with indifference or harshness. 

My shoes. Photo by Haftu Hindeya Gebremeskel, used with permission.

Whenever I look at my shoes, they bring back specific memories. One day, while wandering the streets of Mekelle, I ran into a friend who inquired about my sister’s wellbeing. This filled me with worry, as just a day before the signing of the Pretoria Agreement, my hometown, Mekhoni in Raya, had been heavily bombarded. I later found out that my sister’s home, a civilian building with no ties to any military target, was destroyed. Sadly, this was a common occurrence in nearly every town across Tigray during the brutal, bloody war.

Hearing this devastating news shocked me to my core. The Ethiopian government had blocked all communications, so I couldn’t call or arrange an immediate visit because of the lack of transport. I returned home, consumed with worry for my dear sister — it was perhaps the hardest walk of my life.

When I arrived, I found that my younger brother had come from our hometown to reassure me. He shared that our sister had been at our mother’s house when her home was destroyed. Relief flooded through me.

Another time, I looked at my shoes, and they seemed to carry memories of the rapes, as if they had absorbed my conversations during the war and stored them away. I remember walking with Abenet, telling him about a report published by Amnesty International in 2021, which focused on sexual violence. 

What happened to the women of Tigray was beyond comprehension. Soldiers acted with barbarity — gang-raping Tigrayan women and leaving used condoms, razors, and other harmful objects in their bodies. They targeted children and pregnant women, subjecting them to sexual slavery, mutilation, and other forms of torture. These predators harassed them with ethnic slurs and death threats. Rape and sexual violence were wielded as weapons of war, intended to degrade and dehumanize Tigrayan women and girls, leaving lasting physical and psychological scars. According to regional authorities, at least 120,000 women were raped in Tigray during the conflict.

There were other dark memories my shoes could recall, like a day in August 2021, when I watched the news and saw images of Tigrayan bodies floating down the Tekeze River. It was a cruel reminder of the depths of our enemies’ brutality.

Children suffered profoundly. They were separated from their loved ones, and the savage Eritrean army cut off their joints while they were alive. Airstrikes killed many mothers and children in broad daylight in the markets of Adidaero, Alamata, Togoga, and at a kindergarten in Mekelle, to name a few. 

The war was gruesome, and its atrocities impacted the hearts and minds of ordinary people around the world. Yet, I believe it didn’t move powerful nations — the US, UK, and other Western countries—deeply enough. These nations, which pride themselves on defending human rights, knew what happened in Tigray, but they took no meaningful action to help us.

Even now, we have the peace agreement, but we are not at peace. Two years on, almost one million people are still unable to return to their homes. We cannot rebuild our scarred agricultural land, or bombed towns and villages, because Tigray is also experiencing the worst drought for 40 years. Food security levels in almost the entire region are at crisis and emergency levels. About 1.84 million Tigrayan children have been out of school for three consecutive years. Despite efforts made, only below half of those children are back to their severely devastated schools. And 80 percent of teachers surveyed showed signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, indicating the severe psychological toll the war has taken on them, according to a report.

I think to myself, as I look at my shoes, time passes, and these times bring us lessons we learned the hard way. The Tigray war must be documented. Those with writing skills must tirelessly document our harrowing stories so that our children can avoid repeating the same mistakes.