The corridor of Ayder Referral Hospital reeked of despair. I sat there, my back against the cold wall, as Adem Kahsay unraveled his sorrow. He was only 35, yet life had carved its merciless story into his face. Two days ago, he and his 11-year-old son had staggered into Mekelle after a brutal nine-day trek, traversing the jagged wilderness of Qelaqil, Hirmi, and beyond. Hunger and thirst clung to them like shadows, and just kilometers from the city, his boy collapsed. Adem carried him on his shoulders for hours, desperation in every step, before the emergency room doors swallowed the boy whole.
Inside, chaos ruled. The air was heavy with cries of agony and death. Nurses darted through blood-streaked hallways, weaving between stretchers bearing broken bodies and fading hopes. Ambulance sirens wailed relentlessly, their echoes entwined with the muffled sobs of those mourning at the mortuary. The hospital’s neglected state was a testament to a nation at war—bandages and bloodied cotton lay discarded in corners, and many staff had yet to return. It was a battlefield of its own, and amidst it all, Adem sat beside me, clutching the weight of his tragedies.
We had met seven years ago, under brighter skies. Adem, then a jovial driver in Gondar, had given me and my companions a lift from the airport. His kindness stayed with me, as did his business card. But his life was upended in 2015 when his ethnicity painted a target on his back. Gondar had turned on its Tigrean neighbors in a frenzy of violence. On a busy street, Adem was dragged from his car by a mob, beaten, robbed, and left bleeding as his minibus burned. No one intervened—not even the police. He barely survived, fleeing to Shire with his wife and two children, leaving behind everything but his scars.
Now, years later, his pain had only deepened. His lips quivered as he spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of grief. “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t find a place to call home, a place to live in peace.”
I feared asking about his wife and 3-year-old daughter, but he saw my hesitation. His words came haltingly, laden with sorrow. “When we were deported to Shire, I thought it was the end. We rebuilt from nothing, but then this war came. They shelled our home. My wife and daughter… they didn’t survive.”
He paused, his body trembling as he described the horrors he had seen. Streets littered with bodies, businesses reduced to ash, neighbors slaughtered. “Fresh bodies piled onto chariots,” he murmured, his voice breaking. I couldn’t respond. My tears fell silently as I placed a hand on his shoulder.
The doctor emerged, thrusting a prescription into my hands. I rushed from pharmacy to pharmacy, only to return empty-handed. Back in the emergency room, Adem’s son lay curled on the bed, barely breathing. The boy’s fragile chest rose faintly, tethered to life by a glucose drip. Despite their exhaustion, the few doctors present worked tirelessly to save him.
That night, we sat on the cold floor, talking until dawn. Adem recounted the nightmares of his shattered world—his home, once a sanctuary, now a graveyard. Two weeks ago, he had been playing with his family in their warm home. Now he sat beside me, hollowed by loss, his son fighting to stay alive.
Three months ago, he had called me, his voice brimming with hope. He had scraped together a loan and purchased a new minibus to rebuild his life. But the war found him again. Eritrean soldiers ripped him from his seat, beat him mercilessly, and stole the bus. His voice trembled as he asked me the question that haunted him: “Where can we go? Is there a place we can live in peace?”
I had no answers. “I don’t know, Adem,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “You can choose a friend, but not a neighbor. This is our home, even if it feels like it no longer wants us.” My words hung in the air, fragile and meaningless.