Childhood in Lalibela during the 1980s-1990s

Reflecting on Lalibela Through the Experience of Kidanemariam Woldegiorgis AYALEW

I was born in Lalibela in the early 1980s, into a well-off merchant family. My parents had a modern outlook on family and education, likely influenced by their frequent trips to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. During that period, Lalibela was a village named Kedemt, with no more than 4,000 residents. Presently, the town has grown to over 50,000 inhabitants, divided into 4 kebeles. Social connections were tightly-knit within this community. Neighbors, often friends or relatives, displayed strong solidarity. For instance, whenever my mother went to the market, she would ask a neighbor to keep an eye on us. We were all familiar with one another, and I developed some of my closest friendships with my classmates. Today, with Lalibela's population surge, the sense of anonymity found in large cities is occasionally felt.

Before starting primary school, children attended religious school to learn how to read and understand liturgical books written in Ge'ez. Some continued their education in religious schools, while others, like myself, attended the only "modern" primary school available in Lalibela at the time. Nonetheless, we all gathered on weekends for catechism, known as Sembat temert bet.

Turning seven marked a significant moment in a child's life, as it was the age when fasting became obligatory. Subsequently, we embraced various religious customs: fasting in August (known as the fast of the youth), wearing fasting attire, and participating in communion. However, after communion, we had to remain silent at home, unable to join our friends in play. As a boy, I often accompanied my father to church, sometimes dozing off at his feet during the service.

Our daily routines, paths, and interactions revolved around the church. For example, my route to school always took me past the churches. The church complex, with its caves and galleries, served as our playground after catechism classes or during religious festivals, despite being scolded by priests and guardians for "trampling on the angels." We primarily engaged in war games, reflecting the war-torn context of Ethiopia during our upbringing. We crafted sticks, set up makeshift camps, and launched attacks, sometimes against youths from neighboring villages. I still bear scars from those days. When we crossed the line, the older women found ways to discipline us.

Apart from interactions with female family members, there were few shared spaces, and relationships between men and women were complicated. At the time, military garrisons were stationed in Lalibela. To protect their daughters from harassment by soldiers, families kept them indoors unless they were dressed negligently. Girls were mostly occupied with household chores. In my family, however, boys were also responsible for chores like fetching wood or water. Nevertheless, there were communal meeting spots beyond the home: school, the well or river, and of course, the church.

Each religious festival had its own set of customs. As a child, my favorite was Timkat because we received new clothes, a rare occurrence in affluent families, happening only two or three times a year. I distinctly remember receiving pants akin to those of Michael Jackson and shorts similar to those of Ronaldo. During the five-day month of Pagume, we would go to the river to sing, dance, and bathe. To celebrate the new year, we went door-to-door in groups, singing or offering flowers to neighbors, and in return received coins or bread.

Christmas was an especially poignant celebration. Pilgrims traveled on foot from various regions, including Tigray. They sang, and we followed them to listen. Their songs remain etched in my memory. Christmas was a time of jubilation in Lalibela; we dashed from one church to another, from one part of the city to another, to witness the songs and dances. We welcomed pilgrims to our table. Nowadays, many pilgrims arrive from Addis Ababa by plane.

Religious festivals provided the perfect opportunity for young men to express affection toward young women. During Timkat, women went to church and were permitted to stay overnight. Older girls, confident enough to challenge their family's authority, seized this opportunity for clandestine romantic encounters at the base of the churches. Legend has it that during Timkat, a lovesick boy would throw a lime at the girl he fancied. If she picked it up and smelled it, she accepted his advances. That's how courtship unfolded back then. However, we had to be discreet to avoid the wrath of an overly protective brother. During the month of Tsgie, between early October and early November, commemorating the Holy Family's flight to Egypt, Lalibela boys could arrange meetings with their love interests, gathering at the church entrance.

One week in August was dedicated to women, known as Ashendie. During this time, women had the freedom to dress up, wear makeup, and style their hair. They formed groups of thirteen, with one chosen as the leader. Women danced and sang, receiving money in return. Ashendie still exists today but in the form of a festival.

All these childhood memories are sweet but also tinged with fear, linked to the war.

The Lalibela of my childhood is very different from the one my children discover. Lalibela is now a modern and touristic city. While it remains a living heritage, access to the churches, for example, is controlled, and they are enclosed by a fence. Children are no longer allowed to play there as they did before. Instead of attending religious school, children now go to kindergarten. Whereas we used to fetch wood and water as children, this is no longer necessary as most houses are now supplied with water and electricity. While we used to see the world and our opportunities through school, today children envision their future through tourists coming from all corners of the globe.