Returning to the Motherland as a Ferenji girl

Images by Melat Matusala

Words by Melat Matusala

April 14th 2022

Two years after having to cancel my trip due to the Covid-19 pandemic, I finally managed to make it back. It had been eighteen years since I last visited Ethiopia, my country of birth and a place that remains at the core of my identity. I was 16 when I last visited, life was somewhat simpler, I had just started college and I had my whole life mapped out: what I was going to do, who I was going to be. Now, I was returning as an adult with a slightly different life than the one I had planned but much wiser and eager to reconnect with my culture. I felt nervous – over the past eighteen years, my memory of Ethiopia had become increasingly hazy and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Landing in Addis Ababa (the capital city of Ethiopia), a sense of calmness came over me. Leaving the airport, seeing the crowds of people huddled around, waiting for their friends and family, women dressed in traditional habesha kemis and all holding the same bouquet of colourful roses; I was overcome with joy. For a large part of my life, I felt like I had lost myself and it had taken me a long time to come to terms with this and discover who I really was. I had started to heal in the past couple of years but returning home felt like that last piece of the puzzle. I couldn’t believe I had finally made it home and I knew I was about to embark on a very special journey.

I was excited to bask in the culture of communal ceremonies. The daily church prayers, which were heard all day and sometimes waking you up in the mornings, and to experience the hustle and bustle of the busy city. People would congregate in the streets desperately trying to fight their way onto the overpacked blue taxi buses. I was also looking forward to visiting the countless churches in Addis, and I couldn’t wait to smell Etean (a traditional frankincense from an aromatic tree resin. Found in the Boswellia tree, which is only grown in Eastern Africa, Southern Arabia, and India).

I’ve never felt more proud to be Ethiopian, this is where I come from and I am one of them. As I went around visiting relatives and family friends, I was met with intrigued and fascinated stares along with whispers of people calling me “Ferenji”, meaning English Foreigner in Amharic (official language of Ethiopia), some even debating what ethnicity I was. Although I consider myself a fluent speaker of Amharic I could barely get words out without people making fun of my accent and my mispronounced words. I felt self conscious that I looked different, no thanks to my contrasting aesthetic and absence of traditional attire but my different accent too. This was the part of coming home I hadn’t really prepared for. 

It was only a few days into my trip when I began to realise the upsetting truth, that the people here didn’t seem to perceive or acknowledge that I was one of them. In the UK I was accustomed to being asked:

“Where are you originally from?”

“What is your ethnicity?”

“Where were your parents born?”

“Are you mixed?”

“Indian, Brazilian, Moroccan?” 

I always proudly answered Ethiopian. But now, I started to feel a little lost. I had to ask myself: where do I really belong? I was never considered British, but in this moment I came to the understanding that my people, my home, the place that birthed me didn’t recognise me as belonging here either. 

Every morning as I got ready to leave for the day, our amused house keeper would ask “Are you going to leave the house with your shoulders and arms out?”. I was only in a standard vest top, what I thought would be the acceptable choice from my overpacked suitcase of cut out dresses and crop tops. So, in my attempt to fit in, I tried to dress like everyone else, long dresses, loose trousers, and covered my hair with a Netela (a traditional handmade linen scarf worn by the women in Ethiopia). However, no matter how I dressed, I couldn't escape being pointed out as the ferenji. It felt like I was somewhat of a celebrity to the local people. Every time I was out, I would be hounded and this made me feel really uncomfortable. 

After two weeks, I felt utterly suffocated. I was desperate for my sense of freedom and without anyone to relate to, I felt isolated. At this point, all I wanted was to soak in my experience of being back in peace but between my over protective family and the intrusive public, trying to be normal and fit in felt impossible. 

It was half way through my three-week stay when I finally accepted that there was no real freedom for me to explore the city independently. Instead, I relished in enjoying spending time with my family. Locals would gather around eating and drinking fresh coffee endlessly. They would tell me stories about how rebellious my mum was as a teenager (she’d steal my uncle's sweaters and record players just to give my dad) and although I wasn't the first grandchild, they would tell me how excited the family was when I was born. I heard stories of being so spoiled by my grandmother that she’d let me ruin her coffee ceremonies by throwing all her sinis (traditional Ethiopian coffee cups which come in small tulip shapes) down the stairs just because I’d wanted to. I'd also quiz them about their younger years and what it was like growing up in Addis. Some of my most cherished evenings were the ones that were most simple, staying up doing my aunt's hair and taking photos of her, my cousin and I hysterically laughing at my aunties bickering and goofing around all night trying out Snapchat filters on them. 

The few times I was allowed out alone (as long as I was accompanied by my little cousin) I was able to connect with incredible creatives in Addis, such as the Kushineta Skateboard collective who invited me to their first in-store event. Kushnita was founded by a group of young skateboarders, who produce skateboards, streetwear and provide skate lessons to children in the community. Another little boutique I visited was called Hanabet. This time, I was sent with a family friend who drove me and insisted on waiting for me outside whilst I met the store owners who showed me around and talked me through their amazing pieces. The short time I spent meeting people from Addis Ababa’s creative scene, not only left me feeling inspired and proud but also free and in that moment I felt like I was accepted – I fitted in. 

Despite my challenges to fit in, it was an incredibly special trip which allowed me to experience my culture in ways I’d never had before. I left feeling even more proud to be Ethiopian, and with a huge appetite to learn more about my history and help the young communities out there. 

 The thing that really stood out for me was as a nation, how kind, polite and caring towards each other everyone was, regardless of their age, religion or ethnicity. Everyone treated each other with the utmost respect and courtesy, it felt as though everyone in Addis was one huge family. For example, whenever food or coffee was served, neighbours were regularly called over to join. If you saw someone you knew whilst eating, even if you were in a restaurant, you’d immediately insist they join you or feed them a bite (called Gursha). The elderly were also held with the highest regard, young children would always give way to the elderly, help them cross the road, or carry their shopping for them. My aunts and uncles would often rely on the young kids from their neighbourhood to come over and fix things around the house – there was a comforting sense of trust within the Ethiopian community. 

Then where was the religion (predominantly Orthodox Tewahedo Church). Faith wasn’t a choice for the people of Ethiopia but a way of life, it was part of the culture and the daily traditions, from fasting every Wednesday and Friday, to daily prayers and visits to church, and countless religious days throughout the year. It keeps them going,  believing that no matter what they endure things will be okay because they have God. The strength of their faith is like no other and it was shared even with the Muslim community – there is a mutual respect. Whilst I was there, Ramadan was coming to an end and it was beautiful to see the Christians wishing their Muslim counter-parts ‘Eid Mubarak’.

I now recognise my experience of isolation is something many of the diaspora community face whenever they return to the “motherland”. I hope with regular trips back, perhaps I will become more familiar to the people of Addis, or maybe I will just be more prepared for what to expect. Until then, I will navigate through life being the ethnically ambiguous girl in the world and the Ferenji girl in Ethiopia.