I thought leaving Tigray would help me breathe. As a graduate student in America, surrounded by intellectuals and immersed in a world so vastly different, I expected some relief from the relentless thoughts of home. Yet, even in this safe, unfamiliar environment, I feel displaced. I came directly from war—a place where every moment demanded survival—to a world that seems oblivious to that reality.
Attempting to cope, I tried to sever ties with home temporarily. I deleted social media, avoided calls with family, and poured myself into my studies. But it wasn’t possible. My days here mirror the chaos I felt in Tigray, and my nights are consumed by haunting dreams of home. Occasionally, I give in—scrolling through all info platforms or making hesitant calls back. When that wasn’t enough, I met a few close friends who shared this feeling in Boston, and we talked about the pain together. It’s these fleeting connections that got me through the last semester.
When school breaks come, I long to reconnect, to speak to my family and my friends, and to reach out to Hiwot, Simret, Beriha, and Letay (not their real names) — survivors of sexual violence [whose stories I interviewed for my research in “She heals we heal” project]. Their strength lingers in my heart. I want to tell them that I think of them every day, even when I’m silent, and to ask how they are surviving. But I already know. I saw it all when I was there just four months ago. Everyone I talk to has similar feelings. And it’s getting worse.
We are not just survivors of genocide of mass killings, rapes, and starvation inflicted because of our Tigrayan identity. We are survivors of betrayal. The so-called “Pretoria Peace Agreement,” signed in November 2022 under the endorsement of the African Union (AU), the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), and the Ethiopian government, promised to end the war and bring peace to a devastated region. Yet it is nothing more than a facade, a cruel silence of our pain.
The agreement didn’t address the root causes of the war, nor did it hold the perpetrators accountable. Instead, it silenced the guns while leaving all our scars untouched. Those responsible for unimaginable atrocities — rape, starvation, and genocide — continue to walk free, inspired by the absence of justice and recognition.
The most painful truth? The world has moved on from the war against Tigray. Our suffering is buried beneath the noise of other crises. My people are forgotten. As a result of the government’s atrocities, forty percent of Tigrayans live in tents1, displaced with nothing but memories of home. Our younger generation is desperate to escape, terrified of reliving the horrors of war. My sisters who were brutally raped carry their scars, both visible and invisible. The everyday heroes who fought to protect us are living within their wounds and trying to suppress their aspiration for an independent Tigray. The silence is deafening, and it becomes a stark reminder of how easily humanity forgets what it once promised “never again.”
When I call home and speak with survivors of sexual violence, with my family and friends, I hear a recurring phrase:
“Do we even have a life to ask about? During the war, we were dying by gunfire, it was quick. But now we are dying slowly, every day, with uncertainty. We live in constant fear of war. During the war, we were killed quickly. Now, it’s a slow death.”
What happened to us was genocide. But now, we don’t even have a word for our suffering. And the most painful part is that it is our politicians—our so-called leaders—who are responsible. These are the people we thought cared about us. Yet we have started to believe that only our genocidaires can save us by removing these leaders. We are surrendering to our killers.
The betrayal cuts deeper when it comes from your own leaders rather than your enemies. After the Pretoria Agreement, the Tigray leadership, led by the TPLF party, fractured into two opposing factions, vying for control of the region at the expense of countless young lives. Instead of uniting to address the suffering of our people, they prioritized their power struggles over the responsibility of alleviating the pain of our people. While mothers mourn their children and families starve on the streets, these leaders engage in power struggles, ignoring the cries of our people.
Even the Tegaru diaspora, once the lifeline of Tigray’s struggle, is breaking under the weight of this hopelessness. I’ve spoken with friends abroad who once reassured me: “Stay strong; we are here for you.” Now, their voices tremble with anger and despair. They feel betrayed by Tigrayan leaders, and their hope, once so steadfast, is fading. They too feel powerless and disconnected.
Within this whole situation, I struggle to even use the word ‘aftermath.’ Aftermath implies that something has ended, that there is a resolution, a return to something that resembles normal, a hope for the future. But how can I call this aftermath when there is no closure? When the guns are silent, but fear screams in every heart? When the blockade is lifted, but aid is withheld, stolen, or inaccessible? When survival itself feels like a fragile privilege? When our mothers and children are still dying because of hunger and malnutrition? When people take their own lives because they can no longer bear their stress and pain?
Even here in Boston, in safety, I am haunted by these questions. My dreams are violent. I see myself kidnapped and assaulted, over and over. And when I wake, the ache of my people’s suffering follows me into the daylight.
Even our songs have changed. During the genocide, our songs carried a stubborn hope, a belief in revival. Now, they are mournful, reflecting a pain that has forgotten how to hope. The youth flee—not for opportunity, but to escape the suffocating uncertainty of each day.
Listening to these stories makes me reflect on how genocide is a poison that spreads invisibly even when the most obvious violence is stayed. Despair from genocide takes root in the silence of justice delayed. The lack of accountability feeds impunity, prolonging the suffering. I question myself constantly: How can I fight for justice when my people are still living as beggars pleading for their bread every day? How can I advocate for rehabilitation when survival is an ongoing battle? How can I speak of hope when the youth see none?
When asked how Tigray is, a close friend answered me with his powerful message,
“If Tigray were a person, she would feel like Albert Camus described:
The true horror of existence is not the fear of death, but the fear of life. It is the fear of waking up each day to face the same struggles, the same disappointments, the same pain. It is the fear that nothing will ever change, that you are trapped in a cycle of suffering that you cannot escape. And in that fear, there is a desperation, a longing for something, anything, to break the monotony, to bring meaning to the endless repetition of day.’”
Even as I write this, the weight of hopelessness feels suffocating, bearing scars they might not heal; fighting battles we did not choose, and enduring a silence we should never have to carry. I cannot say if we will break free from this cycle or if hope will rise again soon. But one thing is certain, our pain will not be forgotten, and our resistance will echo louder than the silence dictates upon us.
