Hayelom: The Hero Who Lives in My Son’s Name

              The Hero Who Lives in My Son’s Name

Today, as we mark the day our beloved Hayelom fell in battle, we honor not only his courage but the unbroken chain of love and defiance he inspired. To the world, he was a warrior; to me, he was “ሓየተይ”—my hero. And in his name, I have etched his legacy into the future: my son, ሓየሎም, carries the torch of his bravery. This is a tribute to Hayelom, to the fathers who fought in shadows, and to the children who inherit their fire.

The Donkey, the Teff, and the Boy Who Carried Hope

“እተን ተሸይጠን ዘይፈልጣ ናብ ዕዳጋ ተመላለሳ ውድን ለቆታ ጣፍ.”

(My memories of the packed Teff grain, loaded to market on the back of the donkey but never sold.)

In the dust and defiance of Medebay Zana, where DERG soldiers patrolled like vultures, resistance was a language spoken in whispers. I learned it at eight years old, guided by a donkey named Bula and a father who was both priest and rebel. Every week, for years, Bula and I trekked 15 kilometers to Selekleka market. Strapped to his back were two ሎቆታ, baskets woven tight with Teff grain—a decoy for the regime’s bloodshot eyes.

Bula, stubborn and sage, knew the mission better than I did. He plodded past checkpoints, his ears flicking at soldiers’ shouts, while I played the role of a child too simple to suspect. The Teff was never for sale. At a quiet house in Selekleka, a man in his 50s would unload the grain and stuff the baskets with cigarettes, hidden like secrets in the chaff. Those cigarettes were lifelines for Hayelom and his TPLF fighters, camped in the hills near our home. My father, a farmer who quoted scripture and smuggled supplies, had turned our harvest into a weapon.

The DERG saw a boy and a donkey; they never saw the revolution riding on Bula’s back.

Hayelom: The Brave Who Became a Brother

Hayelom was more than a commander. To the fighters, he was a strategist; to us, he was a protector. My father spoke of him in hushed reverence, calling him ተራ ንህዝቢ—a shield for the people. But to me, he was “ሓየተይ,” my hero. I never met him, yet I knew him in the way our village straightened when his name was uttered. He was the reason fathers whispered plans after dark, the reason mothers buried extra injera dough for hungry fighters, the reason a priest’s son smuggled cigarettes in Teff baskets.

When the DERG tightened its grip, Hayelom’s fighters became ghosts—appearing in the night to collect supplies, vanishing by dawn. Their gratitude was not in words but in survival. Every cigarette delivered was a promise: We are still here. We are still fighting.

Naming the Future: A Son Called ሓየሎም

Years after the war, when the guns fell silent and the DERG crumbled, I held my newborn son and knew his name before he drew breath. ሓየሎም. A name that carries the weight of mountains and the spark of rebellion. To name him after my hero was to defy oblivion. It was to say: You did not die in vain. Your courage lives in my blood.

Every time I call my son—“ሓየሎም!”—I summon the past. I see Bula’s dusty hooves, my father’s calloused hands blessing the Teff, and Hayelom’s comrades emerging from the shadows to claim their rations. My son, now growing under a freer sky, asks why he bears this name. I tell him of the boy who walked with a donkey, the priest who prayed with a rebel’s heart, and the hero who taught us that tyranny is outlived by love.

Conclusion: The Unbroken Chain

Hayelom’s death was a wound, but his life was a seed. Today, as we light candles in his memory, we also kindle the flames he ignited: in the farmers who fed a revolution, the children who smuggled hope, and the sons and daughters who inherit their names.

The DERG is gone, but its shadow lingers in the stories we refuse to forget. My father, now an old man, tends his fields and whispers to Hayelom in prayers. Bula’s hoofprints have faded, but the path he walked still marks the land. And my son, ሓየሎም, carries a name that is both a tribute and a battle cry.

We are Tigray. They tried to erase us, but we are memory. They tried to silence us, but we are song.

“ሓየሎም ኣብ ልበይ እዩ። ታሪኽ ሓየሎም ካብ ልቢ ትግራይ ኣይጠፍአን።”

(Hayelom lives in my heart. Hid history in Tigray will never perish.)