Monday 17 February 2025
The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary by Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian extremist, is considered a pivotal moment in history that escalated tensions and eventually led to the first world war. However, the assassination alone was not sufficient to cause the war; Europe was already politically volatile, with militarism, [hostile] alliances, and border disputes exacerbating the situation. The assassination merely acted as a spark that ignited a larger, pre-existing conflict.
Echoing the political atmosphere of Europe before the first world war, Ethiopian and Oromo politics were intensifying daily, marked by disputes and radical disagreements between different factions. In such a volatile environment, Hachallu Hundessa’s assassination acted as a coup de grâce, detonating what was already a ticking time bomb.
Following Hachallu’s assassination, the government launched a spree of arrests and killings targeting the Oromo people, which consequently pushed thousands of young people to start an armed resistance against the state. It also created a wide schism between Oromo elites and the general population. This incident remains one of the most heartbreaking events in the Oromo people’s recent history, and I do not believe they have recovered from it to this day.
I was a student at Columbia University when I was first introduced to Hachallu’s music. I savoured his songs during most of my train rides to and from campus. Even in the library, where I spent hours studying and working on strategies for nonviolent resistance, his songs—particularly “Oromo Tiya” [My Oromia] and “Maasaan Gama”—motivated me.
I was listening to “Maasaan Gama” on my way from New York to Washington for an interview with Al Jazeera. It was during that interview that I first uttered the controversial statement, “Oromo first.” In retrospect, I believe it was that song that put me in the mood to express such thoughts.
I, too, was later imprisoned because of this assassination. Yet, for me, the loss of a long-time companion and comrade during the worst days of the struggle hurt me far more than imprisonment.
Around that time, during the rise of the “Oromo first” campaign, Ilyas Ibsa informed me that Hachallu was coming to America. He also told me about a planned concert, titled “Oromiya Tiya,” and we agreed on how it can help us in our attempts to rise awareness within Oromo communities in North America. The concert, which included, besides Hachallu, artists such as Jambo Jote, Abush Zeleke, and Nugusu Tamrat, was planned as a tour across various states.
In many cities, “Oromo first” meetings took place during the day, while the Oromiya Tiya concert complimented them at night with songs that evoked nationalist sentiments, significantly contributing to the campaign’s objectives of raising the collective self-esteem of the Oromo diaspora. My comrades and I in the campaign avoided attending the concerts, while the artists refrained from joining the meetings to ensure they wouldn’t face problems upon returning home.
My wife, Arfasse, and I had the opportunity to talk to the artists in depth when they visited us in New York. During our long discussions, I came to know more about Hachallu. He was smart, mature, and a decisive nationalist. One could never be bored in his company. Once, during a dinner in a restaurant with rotating dining rooms, Hachallu was engrossed in conversation and didn’t initially notice the rotation. When the conversation paused, he looked out the window and said, “Am I getting dizzy, or is the room really rotating?” We all laughed.
While he was in America, Hachallu and I discussed the Oromo resistance at length. Fearing harm might come to him if he returned to Ethiopia, I suggested he stay. But he boldly replied: “Both my life and death will be among my people. Let alone me, even you will come home soon.” When he went back, it was during a period of political tension in Ethiopia, yet we remained in touch via telephone.
Once, when our people in the Somali region were displaced, he called me in great distress, saying he was heading to Harar with assistance for the displaced. Though I tried to convince him otherwise, fearing he might be targeted on the way, he went anyway.
Hachallu later called me to share that he had been invited to perform at the event in Millennium Hall celebrating the reforms. He asked me what type of songs I thought would be appropriate for such an event. We discussed at length songs that could reflect the current stage of the struggle and what would the next chapter be. A few days later, he sent me the lyrics of a song written in the style of a War-song.
After reading the lyrics, I told him that performing the song might lead to his destruction. He replied: “Leave that to me. Just tell me how you see the form and structure.” I gave him some notes, and we discussed it extensively. He performed the song as planned, planting fear in the enemies while touching the hearts of the Oromo people.
The significance of Hachallu’s song on that day went beyond uplifting the morale of the people who had gathered there. The song officially declared a shift in the narrative of Oromo struggle. For a long time, the history of Oromo resistance had primarily focused on challenging the Ethiopian state concentrated in Arat Kilo.
In other words, the Oromo people saw themselves beyond the confines of Arat Kilo, rejecting the idea of enduring oppression from any state. They recognized that if they could not secure their rights within the existing framework, they would have to build their own sovereign state free from subjugation.
As revealed in the previous chapter, the Qeerroo movement marked a turning point in the history of the struggle. It transformed the Oromo narrative from a stance of being external to Ethiopia to one of taking control and redefining their place within it.
With the line "Arat Kilo belongs to you," This silent historical shift, which had been unfolding in the background, was boldly verbalised by Hachallu..
The essence of the song was that, rather than perceiving Ethiopia as a foreign entity, the Oromo people should reclaim their ownership of it. By highlighting the pivotal roles played by Oromo heroes in the victory at Adwa, the song reinforced this sense of belonging. It emphasised that, as Oromos, the land was built through the blood sacrifices of their ancestors. Therefore, despite the oppression endured under successive Ethiopian governments, the Oromo people were entitled to inherit and preserve it, rather than abandoning or destroying it.
The call for a historical transition—for the Oromo people to view Ethiopia as a nation they rightfully own, rather than something imposed upon them—was a perspective understood by very few at the time. In hindsight, knowing that Hachallu was among those few deepens my admiration for his foresight and maturity.
At the time when I opposed Abiy Ahmed becoming prime minister, Hachallu called me, and we argued at length. His argument was that: “No matter who he is, if he is an Oromo, we should support him.” He also tried to convince me by mentioning that he had met Abiy and spoken to him. I told him that I had also met the prime minister when he came to America and did not believe he was the right person to lead the transitional government. After a long debate, we agreed to disagree. He then asked me: “Even if you do not support him, at least stop posting polemic statements against him on social media.” I told him I would. He concluded with a humorous bet: “If your speculations are right, I will let you make me chew khat in Awaday. If mine are right, I will get you drunk with tej in Ambo.”
The call for a historical transition—for the Oromo people to view Ethiopia as a nation they rightfully own, rather than something imposed upon them—was a perspective understood by very few at the time.
After arriving in Ethiopia, I went to Ambo. As I mentioned previously, I got out of the car and started walking barefoot. Hachallu was already there, waiting for me after preparing everything. We met and, hand in hand, went to the spot where his friend Jagama Badane was assassinated and planted a memorial Oda tree.
Shortly before his assassination, Hachallu confided in me that he was being followed by suspicious individuals. I contacted someone in the police, who assured me the surveillance would stop, but the targeting continued—both physically and through defamatory media campaigns.
When I heard from one of the OMN [Oromia Media Network] journalists that Hachallu was planning an interview to address these defamatory attempts, I invited him to my house and advised him against appearing on media at such a time. Irritated, he asked me: “Why do you always try to keep me away from the media?” He reminded me of a similar incident in 2016 in Minnesota. At the time, after learning from an OMN staff member that Hachallu was planning an interview, I had opposed it due to the tense atmosphere in Ethiopia. The government was taking ruthless measures against citizens, and OMN was labelled a terrorist media outlet. Knowing that Hachallu would speak his mind emotionally, especially given the ongoing conflict and killings, my opposition stemmed from fear for his safety if he returned to Ethiopia after the interview.
The journalist cancelled the interview without communicating my reasons, which made it seem like I had acted with bad intentions. Later, after feeling offended by my decision, I explained to Hachallu why I had opposed the interview.
During this conversation, I tried to convey my concerns. I explained to him that even if there was no physical danger, I feared his appearance in the media would intensify the already tense political climate. However, he shared his turmoil over the defaming accusations he faced and expressed how the ongoing conflicts—particularly between the Prosperity Party and the ONLF—had placed him in a difficult position. He felt the need to speak out and share his thoughts.
Regarding the defamatory claims, I reassured him that I would defend him as I had done before. I recounted an incident to him: a female journalist from an Amharic radio station once called me and asked: “Were you fighting against illegal land grabbing just to do the same thing yourselves?” When I asked who she was referring to, she replied: “Your fellow comrades in the struggle.” I pressed her to specify, and she mentioned Hachallu and Feyisa Lilesa. She claimed they had each taken five kares of land illegally.
I explained to her that the land Hachallu and Feyisa took in Finfinne wasn’t illegal; they were merely reclaiming property that had been unjustly taken from their fathers. If Hachallu had acquired land, it wasn’t robbery—it was the rightful reclamation of land stolen from his grandparents. Their only mistake was taking just five kares each when they were actually entitled to five hectares.
The journalist was taken aback by my response and asked if I was sure she could broadcast my statement. “Without cutting a single word,” I replied. Ultimately, she chose not to air it. When I gave that answer, my intention wasn’t to defend the land they had acquired but to counter the malicious efforts to tarnish the reputations of these young men who had played significant roles in the struggle.
After recounting this story to Hachallu, I assured him he didn’t need to defend himself when he had someone like me to do so. He jokingly replied: “If you say so, then be it. I can’t argue with a mouth that beat Woyane. You can convince someone that black is white and vice versa.”
Shortly after this, Hachallu went to OMN and gave the interview. Later, he came to me and confessed that he couldn’t hold back any longer. We had a long conversation that night. He shared how disheartened he was that, after struggling so hard for so long, the Oromo people were now fighting among themselves. “I’m glad I didn’t sing for anyone alive,” he said. “Living people can change—they make you proud one day and disappoint you the next. Praising the dead is safer; their stories are already complete.”
Trying to lighten his mood, I joked: “Don’t worry; they’ll probably kill me soon, and you’ll have a song to sing for me.”
He responded: “You won’t die anytime soon. If you were that easy to kill, you’d have died ages ago. You have seven lives. I’ll probably die before you.”
I teased back: “Even if no one else kills me, my own weight will do the job.”
At that moment, my sister, who was preparing coffee, scolded us for joking about death. We laughed and changed the subject.
As he was about to leave, I offered him two of my bodyguards. I was deeply worried about his safety—not necessarily that someone would harm him directly, but that they might provoke or bait him into a situation that could lead to his arrest. He declined, saying his brother, a martial artist, would accompany him instead.
That night was the last time I saw Hachallu in person. A few days later, he was brutally assassinated.