Summary of – “Following the Shimala” – by Dastao Justin Lejalem.

Introduction:

I always wanted to examine my life; it seemed there was a tape in my head containing my
childhood memories, holding many details I wished to investigate. I wanted to remember
and unravel the secrets I held within. As I grew older, I often told friends and many
others the story of my Aliyahh to Israel form Ethiopia, and I was even invited to speak
about it in Israel and the United States. Over time, many people have asked me to write
my story, but the place within me - in which I could sit and write what we went through,
and remember all the different layers of life since I was born until today - still had to
ripen. Today I’m ready to share the different chapters of my life story, after a renewed
journey into my past, understanding the past and learning of my strengths, the human
strength and the strength of a child, who didn’t know he could be strong and survive
inhumane conditions.

As a child I only had a vague, limited knowledge of life. I was curious to understand and
discover many things, but the adults did not include me in what was going on around me.
I look at all my childhood memories today through the eyes of an adult man, and I
understand the magnitude of the strength possessed by the child I used to be. The journey
carried with it difficult experiences, experiences which eventually led me to a place of
internal strengthening, a discovery of the powers within me and growth without
surrendering to difficulties, despair and helplessness, despite the crises we went through.
Today I am whole thanks to everything I’ve been through in my childhood.

I would like to convey to my readers my faith in man, an ability to trust in those internal
forces, and an optimism and will to live despite tremendous obstacles. We have many
forces inside us which we need to draw from the bottom of our soul in times of weakness.
The life force I discovered within me as a child is a force concealed in each and every
one of us. I tell the story of an Ethiopian boy who went through an exhausting journey of
survival on the way to Israel, but I hope that every reader of this book will find the way to
their own life journey and to the concealed and visible strengths of their soul.

The Idea of the Book:

The book is written along a chronological continuum of the events of my life, divided
into thirteen parts, with each being connected to each other. I have chosen to start each
part by giving a short introduction of the historical background to my personal story, so
that readers may find an anchor and understand the plot, even if they are not familiar with
the history of Ethiopian Jews. This book presents the points of the journey, starting with
my life as a young boy up to my hardship-surviving adulthood, living in the state of Israel
and looking back at the process I went through as an individual and as one part of a
whole community.

The main theme, the main subject of my story, is the longing of a Jewish boy to get to
Jerusalem in the Holy Land, and how this dream motivates all his decisions and
influences his personality and conduct, alongside his family who share his heart’s desire.
The longing and yearning to get to Jerusalem are expressed in the name of my book:
“Following the Shimala.”

The shimala is the stork, which crosses the Ethiopian sky on its way to Israel every single
year during migration time. In the eyes of Jewish Ethiopian children, the shimala
symbolized a realization of the dream to get to Jerusalem. We would look at the shimala
way up in the sky, and tell it of our love and longing for the Promised Land. There were
many songs written about the longing of Ethiopian Jews for Jerusalem. The shimala, like
the dove after the flood, symbolizes the promise of something better after many days of
wandering and hardship in Ethiopia and after leaving it for Israel. As a child, I heard
many stories of the Jerusalem I longed for, the Holy Jerusalem, and even then I felt
yearning for something unfamiliar which I hadn’t experienced yet. This was the goal I
was aiming for – to be a Jew in Holy Jerusalem.

As an Ethiopian boy I did not feel any sense of belonging to Ethiopia, and I was
expecting to be somewhere else already, in the Promised Land. My personal story
touches the stories of many others from the Ethiopian Jewish community. I’m telling my
experiences only from my point of view, but there are many chapters in my book which
are shared among the whole Ethiopian community.

Summary of the Book by Parts.

Part One – Childhood Years in the Ethiopian Village.

Today as an adult, I allow myself to ponder the far away days of the past. I remember the
experience of my life in Ethiopia at a distance, far away from my present home in the
State of Israel. As Jews in Ethiopia, we were in love with Israel. This love is like a fire
that was kept burning for generations. Suffering through millennia of exile, we remained
Jewish. The Ethiopian Jews have lived, until now, in a constant state of exile since being
expelled from Israel after the destruction of the First Temple. The Temple is, after all,
the essence of the uniqueness of Judaism and the traditions that came from Jerusalem to
Ethiopia.
I come from a family which was considered very small by Ethiopian standards. In my
village, it was uncommon to only have six children. Despite our rather small number, I
always felt part of a warm and loving family, and the family was part of something
bigger, a spark of the Jewish people, the chosen people. I didn’t know then, when I was a
young innocent boy, of the price I would need to pay for being part of this chosen people.

My friends, my brothers and I were all born and raised in the same green Ethiopian
village, full of animals and happiness. As a child I did not know stress, competitiveness,
limits or boundaries and everything was pleasant and good in my eyes. I was a child of
nature, playing in the mud and happy with the freedom that was given to me to run the
paths with no limit; a child full of confidence and temperament. I loved my parents
greatly and just waited to be hugged and kissed by them whenever they had a free
moment between their work and multitude of different tasks.

We kept the holidays in our village as a thousands-year-old Jewish tradition. I loved these
holy days, during which happiness and the sense of family unity were palpable, and of
course there was the great food prepared by my mother (Z"L), may she rest in peace. My
mother would make two kinds of bread, one for Shabbat – Dabo – and the second for
Jerusalem. Everyone wore their holiday whites and blessed and greeted each other. Every
Saturday I felt how everything was renewed, everything was pure, everything was white.

Despite my happy childhood and the wilderness where we lived; my beloved parents, my
doting brothers and close childhood friends, something was bothering my soul. There was
always an unanswered question hanging in the air: When will we get to Jerusalem
already? I used to ask my parents every night: “When Dad? When Mom will we get to
Jerusalem?” Our conversations took place over dinner, after a long day of working the
fields, herding the animals and studying in school. We could feel our parents’ love and
concern and the family unity, when we sat down to eat.

I, who spent my entire childhood in one village, could not understand that Jerusalem was
a city in a foreign, far away country, and not an easy walk away. I used to draw the Star
of David in the sand on the dust paths, using chalk stone to express my dreams, hoping
that one day they would come true.

Part Two – Thoughts of Leaving Ethiopia and Preparations to Escape.

The notion of Aliyah came to Ethiopia in 1979, but there was still a long way to go. We
dreamed of going to Jerusalem because we knew that, despite our love for Ethiopia, it
wasn’t our country. One morning, a white plane crossed the blue sky, above the clouds. I
heard it thundering and called to it: “Take me with you to my country, to Jerusalem.” Of
course my voice was swallowed in the sky, unanswered, but I still believed that someone
up there would hear my voice. The delegations to Ethiopia started to arrive slowly,
mostly in 1981. The arriving delegates told the adults, including our parents, about Israel.
We, the children, were sent out of the house so that we didn’t interrupt the important
conversations about what was happening in Israel. Everything was vague and secret, and
we children were kept away from the clandestine forming of plans for Aliyah to Israel.

Our parents revealed the secret to us slowly and carefully – one day we will leave
Ethiopia and try to get to Jerusalem. The adults started discussing existential questions
regarding our lives: Should we plow our fields or not? Should we sow or not? Should we
sell the cattle or keep it? Because it wasn’t clear when we would leave the village and
run, and what path we would take. Everything was vague except for the dream which was
crystal clear, and the goal was singular: getting to Jerusalem despite all the sacrifices and
dangers.

As a child I could not give up my cows, sheep and goats. I was connected to them as
though to family. I didn’t think that leaving for Jerusalem meant parting from my beloved
animals, which I herded. To me, taking the cattle and selling them before the Aliyah to
Israel was like taking my soul from within me. Those days are accompanied by a memory
of separation and pain leading up to the long journey to Jerusalem.

Slowly we saw entire families disappear from the village: families of young boys, my
friends who did not even say goodbye for fear of being informed on. My parents were
worried and wanted us to leave Ethiopia and escape quickly because persecution and
other dangers were beginning to threaten us. Haile Mariam Mengistu’s reign was
threatening stability, forcefully recruiting youths into an army from which no one ever
returned. My mother was afraid we would be drafted into the army and we wouldn’t get
the chance to escape. My brother Gismy and I were the youngest boys in the family, most
at risk of being forcefully conscripted into the Communist army. My parents were afraid
and time was running out. We were forced to hire the services of a guide and leave,
despite the fact Jews were prohibited by Mengistu from leaving Ethiopia.

Part Three – The Hardship of Leaving Ethiopia for the Sudanese Border.

Our village, Davat, was in northern Ethiopia. We needed to travel south towards the point
at which we would cross over the border with Sudan. The night we left the village, the
moon was half-full. My father had told us in the morning that we were about to leave
that night. At three o'clock in the morning, everyone in the village was asleep and we left
quietly, tip-toeing out of the village. We needed to wait for the moon to get at least
mostly full, because without its light to illuminate our path, we had no chance of finding
our way. We said goodbye to my older brothers and sisters and their children, who were
left behind and couldn't escape with us. We went weeping and saying goodbye, crying
and moving on. Inside me the image is still alive and tears at my heart. I didn't know then
that it would be seven more years until I saw my brothers, sisters, and their families
again.

Our guide did not tell us the true story of the journey ahead of us, because he was afraid
that if we knew the truth we would be reluctant to leave, and he would lose his
livelihood. Perhaps if we had known how difficult the journey to Jerusalem was going to
be, we wouldn't have parted from each other or we would've waited and left with the rest
of the family and the village. But we left that night, driven by the force of a faith so
strong, that even if we died on the way to Jerusalem, for us, it would be a worthy
sacrifice. We were naïve and trusted in people, and it was my parents' faith that led us to
leave for Israel.

On the way from the village to the border we crossed over many landscapes: villages,
rivers, dust paths, mountains, forests and desert. We left our village quietly, but the
villagers on our way heard our procession and wanted to rob us or inform on us to the
authorities. The threats to our lives started as soon as our journey did. Immediately upon
starting the journey, my brother and I had to run away from bandits that attacked our
entire procession. My parents were afraid we would be kidnapped into the army, and for
the first time, we had to separate from our parents. The struggle to find our parents again
started after the bandit attack. We didn't know whether our parents managed to get on the
right path, and our parents didn't know whether my brother and I managed to safely
escape to the nearby house of our sister. The fear for my parents' safety troubled me to
the point of desperation.

Eventually we found my parents, but on our way to the border we experienced many
other bandit attacks. Each time we were stripped of more property, scared and broken but
moved on despite the fear of further attacks. Our hope was that "The Angel of Israel" in
which we believed, would guard us. It was the power of faith that carried us forward. We
heard the sounds of weapons but didn't know where they were coming from, or who
might be ambushing us. I wanted to arrive already; I didn't know when this was going to
end, how many kilometers were left until the border--where this border even was. I had
nothing to hold on to but the endless walking, like the persistent flow of a wandering,
eternal river.

This was how the days passed, and after thirty days and nights of an exhausting march,
we were nearly at the border with Sudan. People tried to cheer each other up, but the
desert, empty of everything but a seamless shroud of thorn plants, caused despair and
fatigue. When we saw from afar the Baher--an ocean in the prairies--it seemed close. It
gave us strength and encouragement, but with every step we felt how the river was far
away from us. When we finally reached the Baher River we felt as if we'd never seen
water before. Great happiness – we could hear the sound of the bustling water. The
Sudanese, who were there, ambushing us, prevented us from drinking and cooling our
bodies. The helplessness, the tiredness and the thirst made it easy to rob us again and take
from us everything that was left in order to be set free.
On the other side of the Baher there were completely full trucks. The distance to the
Ethiopian-Sudanese border, where there was a refugee camp, was great. To cross the
border we needed to get on a truck that would transport us there, a service that we needed
to pay money for. It was a bad ride, on bad roads, and we were tossed from side to side,
tree branches scratching and hurting those sitting on the open part of the truck.
Eventually, we reached the refugee camp in Sudan at night.

Part Four – Lost in Sudan – Waiting Days to the Aliyah to Jerusalem.

Our world turned upside down on the day we reached the refugee camp in Sudan. We
were surrounded by strangers, lost refugees from different places in Ethiopia and Africa,
who arrived exhausted and hungry to the UN shelter. In the intense desert heat, between
the tents and rickety structures, we tried to find our place while hiding the fact we were
Jewish, emphasizing our being refugees just like everyone around us.

We couldn't keep the holy Shabbat anymore, wear white or go to the synagogue. We
were afraid that the other refugees, the Christians, would inform the Sudanese. We were
in a foreign land, uncertain of our position and place as Jews and as refugees. When we
saw Red Cross people from the West we felt power and hope that we had found people
who would help us survive in the refugee camp.

We didn't want to eat the food we got from the UN because it was not kosher, but it was
all we had. In a situation of life and death, the kosher laws are overridden. I saw people
who brought their families baguette-shaped bread. I wanted to go and bring the bread to
my family also. I found a stall of Sudanese who sold baguettes and didn't know how I
would find my way back. When I finally returned with the bread everyone was happy and
encouraged by this, blessing and thanking me, the little boy who managed to bring them
bread while they were all hungry.

This was the moment that changed my life. Suddenly as a little boy, I felt I had accepted
a role, and had turned into an adult at that moment. The few English words I knew, which
I learned in 3rd grade, became essential for communication with strangers in the camp.
My brother asked me to show him the bread stall and I felt for the first time like a guide;
like someone who was responsible.

The Red Cross people and our relatives who already were in the camp warned us against
other refugees who stole property and raped the women in the tents. We had no property
other than a few items of clothing that remained, but we were afraid.

At night we heard the sounds of people who couldn't sleep, they'd turn from side to side,
hum, cry, and in the background we heard the shooting of patrolling soldiers. The fear
had a tight grip on us at night and we were afraid to leave the tent. My father was warned
against befriending strangers, to avoid telling them things, so we would talk with each
other in a secret code language.

Those who understand the holiness of keeping Shabbat will easily understand the horrible
feeling we had when we realized we would not be able to keep Shabbat in the camp. As a
Jewish child there was a thought that I learned to live with as time went by – that I must
tell a white lie and hide the fact I was Jewish. But the price of survival was the loss of
holiness. In the end, the lie saved us.

In the camp we discovered that the Mossad was taking care of us from Israel, and its
spies brought us money from the Sudanese capital, Khartoum. They couldn't get caught
or they would be beaten to death. There were Mossad activists in the Jewish community,
chosen by the Mossad emissaries. I was only eleven then, when I realized the power of
the Mossad and their contacts, or as they were called – kaderi. To me they were
important people, with great knowledge, strength and the will to risk their lives for us. If
they were caught, the emissaries would be locked in Sudanese prisons and tortured
terribly. But they carried on regardless. They came to help us and brought us money so
that we could leave the camp, rent an apartment in the city and buy food from the
Sudanese. They knew what needed to be done so that we could move forward towards the
destination we'd been dreaming of – Israel.

In the evening my father gathered the Jewish people we knew for a silent prayer. I would
look up at the sky as an individual, and we all as a group did this as well, and as a choir
we made a common prayer to God. Every night we prayed in the darkness, finding in it a
shelter from suspecting eyes. In the mornings we used to pray each by oneself, so as not
to be noticed, but in the evening, under the cover of darkness, we would gather together,
finding strength in our joint prayer.

One morning people came to register the number of people in the camp: clerks with
notebooks accompanied by a Sudanese soldier looking for refugees in their homes. We
were afraid to be divided by a separate registration of bachelors and young people and
their families. To avoid this we used to have quick, fake marriages, sometimes carried out
by an oral contract, for the young men and women to keep them in the same family and
to protect the young girls from rape and kidnapping.

The Sudanese soldiers had unexpected outbursts of rage. A soldier could suddenly catch
someone and beat them to a bloody pulp. We saw strange and cruel behavior there. When
soldiers were catching refugees for beatings, we tried to hide and survive.

After a long time spent in the camp, my mother got sick and collapsed one day. I went
looking for a doctor amid the throngs of people in the camp. I found a Sudanese doctor
who ordered me to bring her to him immediately. Every morning for three days I brought
her to him, and he gave her shots of antibiotics. We got very scared when we saw people
sick and dying around us from diseases that would kill them in a moment's time. Death
became part of life in the refugee camp. My father broke down when he saw my mother
lying sick in the straw structure. Mom, who was the pillar of our family, someone we
could all lean on, was helpless. After that time, my mother always thanked me for finding
her a good doctor and saving her life.

When you're in a foreign country you often find a great amount of strength, but
sometimes more than others, the decisions you need to make are crucial. Today I ask
myself many questions about how I took it upon myself at such a young age to make such
decisions. The gap between my biological age and the maturity that gripped me was so
wide.

We didn't know that the first month in the camp wasn't the end, and that there were many
more months of suffering before we would leave that scary, unknown place called Sudan.
The camp was located outside of a city. We knew that if we ever wanted to leave, we'd
have to run into the city. We knew that if we managed to get into the city everything
would be okay. Each one had to do their own secret thing to get their family out of the
camp and no one was to be trusted. There was faith in no one but God.

I was looking for a chance to leave the camp. One day our relatives who went into the
city returned with important information about life there. They wanted to leave the camp
with their families, and I wanted to leave with them so that I could prepare for the arrival
of my family later. I courageously went with them to the new strange place - Gadarif. It
was the ticket out to the life we dreamed to live. The drive was secret and our driver left
us on the road - a dust path at the entrance to the city. Suddenly a Sudanese man appeared
and threatened to rob us, while positioning us in a straight line. Thorns stabbed my feet
and the heat was horrible. But then, suddenly, Sudanese policemen arrived, scattering the
bandits, and we escaped as well. Fear and suspicion accompanied my every move.

After I escaped I somehow managed to find a taxi and while it was going I saw, by way
of a miracle, my brother-in-law's nephew. He took me to my sister Wooda's house.
Wooda had left Ethiopia before us and had already reached Gadarif. My brother-in-law,
after hearing the whole story, said he would help us find an apartment to rent, and then I
could bring our family into the city. We wandered around the city for the whole evening,
seeing many houses, but none of them was available. I felt like an old youth with the
weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Meanwhile, my parents were having their own
troubles as they were trying to get out of the camp and into the city.

Somehow we found out that my parents were waiting near my sister Wooda's house and
went to get them. My brother Gismy was left behind in the camp to wait for my return.
That night, they told us in secret that the Jews needed to march out of their houses in the
city towards the desert, to go on trucks that would smuggle us to a plane and from there
to Israel, in a secret Aliyah operation. We followed the footsteps of others who made the
same way before us, and walked until we reached a huge main road near a low valley.
Two large trucks waited on the dust road to be filled with people.

We stood in long lines, in silence. My sister and brother-in-law, Mazal, my brother's wife
and my parents, were all holding each other's hands in order not to get lost or separated in
the chaos. Everyone was trying to force their way onto the trucks. My parents and my
sister went on one truck but we got separated again, and they motioned to me to go on the
other truck by myself. People were crowded in the truck I went on, pressed against each
other as though in a bee hive. The moment the truck started moving, the bars at the back
of the truck, holding the crowding people in and keeping them from falling, broke.
Everyone who wasn't seated had to get off the truck for fear off falling on the road during
the drive. I had to leave the truck as well.

"I can't leave Gismy behind!" I called towards my family while looking at them standing
on the crowded truck, begging for me to reach up and go on their truck. Just then I made
an immediate, crucial decision not to run with my family to Israel but to go back to the
refugee camp and look for my brother, who was left behind to wait for my return. I was
alone in the desert and my heart was crying.

Part Five – Cutting the Cord, My Brother and I Alone With No Family, Left Behind at
the Refugee Camp.

My parents barely agreed to let me go but knew I would sacrifice my life to find Gismy.
When I think of eleven-year-old Dastao, I don't know where that boy found the strength
to face dangers and goodbyes on his own, over and over again. The Mossad people left
no trace of the secret operation, "Aliyaht Moshe" (Operation Moses), an operation of
which, at the time, we did not know the meaning or the extent. I had to go back to the city
together with other desperate people who couldn't find a place on the broken truck. I was
afraid to get lost and lose my brother Gismy, and the unknown was stabbing at my
stomach with tiny knives. After many troubles I reached the refugee camp where no one
even noticed I was gone, and set off to find Gismy.

When Gismy saw me in the camp, his eyes lit up, because he was very worried for me
and my family. We kept waiting in the camp for a while, waiting for a chance to go into
the city. One afternoon we heard shots. All the Sudanese in the camp gathered together
and the rumor immediately spread that someone was murdered. The Sudanese soldiers
came to investigate and we, who were afraid of them, scattered, together with many other
refugees. The soldiers caught up with us and trapped us in a ditch near the camp, and
immediately started to whip and beat the men indiscriminately. We were scared to death
and it seemed time was not passing at all. We lay in the ditch on top of each other for at
least five hours, scared, shocked, curled into ourselves, almost breathless, thirsty and
hungry, burning under the scorching sun. The only people we could hope for were the
Red Cross people who arrived after a few hours. If they hadn't arrived, we could've been
murdered or left to die in the ditch. We refugees didn't count as human, didn't count at all.

My brother and I spent six months in the camp, waiting. We tried to think of how to get
away and eventually ran away to Gadarif. Our days were not easy, and my brother got
life-threatening Malaria. We missed our parents greatly and fought for our lives so that
one day we might see them again.

Part Six – Surviving in the Big City in Sudan.

We lived for about two months in Gadarif until the police found out that we were
"Habsh" – strangers, not Sudanese. The house we lived in had a huge entrance with a
large yard. The police came into the yard at first light and kicked us out of our home,
while whipping me. I was very angry. I wasn't the only one who was beaten when we
were banished to Touba. We took our things and left for Touba, a city that was refugee
central. We wanted to leave it and get back to Gadarif as soon as possible, because it was
the only place where we had the chance to be in touch with Mossad agents who could tell
us when the time would come for us to escape to Israel. Meanwhile, other Mossad
contacts continued to find Jewish people and help us financially to make sure we had
money for our daily bread.

My brother Gismy and I were inseparable. I took various jobs in the city, and so did
Gismy; we would meet in the evening and eat together. We understood that we were in a
country for Sudanese, and anyone could do with us as they pleased because we had no
right to complain or fight for our rights. All that was left for us was to survive and to be
thankful we were still alive. We went from one temporary job to another until one day we
found work plowing a corn field.

There we came to discover that we had been left on a field with other workers without
food or drink, and we didn't know who owned the field. We escaped and walked many
kilometers between the different villages until we were caught by strong men, who
locked us up like animals in a closed and dirty garage. In a state of distress such as I
experienced then, a person thinks about surviving by any means. If you make a mistake,
others will pay heavily for it as well. We couldn't talk. We were locked in the garage with
other boys who were looking for work like us, and the only sound was our internal
dialogue, filling our head and heart in the silence.

We weren't allowed contact with anyone around us. I sat next to my brother but I was
disconnected from him. We needed to obey others to avoid getting hurt and during this
time I tried to think of a solution, of a way to escape. Sometimes the solutions you think
of scare you and you're glad no one can hear or see your innermost secret thoughts. When
we finally managed to break free and escape, the freedom was like a sigh of relief, a new
breath. A dialogue with God awoke within me. He was the only one I could turn to and
ask for mercy in those moments. We managed to escape, but we couldn't escape the fear,
because the mind and the body were constantly on alert, constantly preparing for the next
thing, for being caught and hurt once again in this journey of survival. Some people
disappeared there and their bodies were never found.
Fear was like a shadow following us and constantly turned into a part of our bodies. Your
shadow shows you how fast or slow you're going. Sometimes that scares you: you're
scared of your own shadow, petrified, but the shadow also shows you that there is light.
Without shadow there is no light and without light there is no darkness and no shadow.
Our own senses were not enough for us to survive so we developed an additional sixth
sense, one that was always on guard, that organized in my head all the little details and
information, sharpened the other senses and gave optimism and inner strength. It was
something that helped me to keep calm, not lose my senses, my mind and my humanity.

It may not be a visible or perceivable sense like taste, touch, sound or vision, but the sixth
sense guarded us as a strong, invisible, spiritual force that is still present in my life. It
works automatically without thought, as a part of me and my being. There is no time or
opportunity to develop it, it was built into my system like an immune system, and it let
me use it when I needed the strong spirit within and near me.

We escaped that night and managed to return to Gadarif. When we arrived we hardly had
any money to buy food. After a few hours of searching we found a job. Many things are
erased from the human memory, but there are some events I can't forget to this day,
they're burned into the memory and documented forever. Many people deceived us, hurt
us and took advantage of our weak condition, our innocence and our hope to survive and
get to the Promised Land. In Gadarif we were lucky enough to accidentally meet Gabihu,
a good friend of our parents, who offered us to stay in his house with his family and
children.

In moments of despair and disbelief, when we were filled with feelings of betrayal by
many of the people we'd met, Gabihu was the only one who returned to us a feeling of
peace and the knowledge that finally, if only for a moment, we were safe. We moved in
with him, sharing our lives but also continuing to go from one temporary job to another
so as not to burden Gabihu and to buy our own food. In those days we were often chased
by youths and men who threatened to kill us. We escaped and fought for our lives,
haunted and threatened, remembering every day that we weren't safe.

Part Seven – The Light at the End of the Tunnel, Preparations for the Escape from
Gadarif to Khartoum.

After a while, during the time we lived with Gabihu in Gadarif, a relative of my brother-
in-law named Yermias, arrived. Yermias was a Mossad operative who was trying to help
Jews make Aliyah, and his reputation as a reliable strong person preceded him. At first
we met him by accident on the street in Gadarif, and afterwards he came on his own to
look for us. He asked my brother and me to have passport pictures made for us and said
he'd try to get us out of Sudan. It took a month before we heard from him again, but for
the first time in a long time there was a feeling that someone was really trying to take
care of us and our future, and we started to develop hope that we would get out of Sudan
and get to Jerusalem one day.

One day it happened – the passage certificate that one needed to get from city to city in
Sudan arrived. Yermias returned to us a month later with the certificate in hand. He gave
us clear instructions. We couldn't point at him or otherwise indicate that we knew him.
He wore a kaffiyah like an Arab. When he arrived we knew that we must go to
Khartoum, the capital, and from there find the activists that would take us out of Sudan.
During a quick and secretive dinner we said goodbye to Gabihu's loving family, gathered
our things and, despite all the difficulties of separation, left excitedly with Yermias on a
new path.

Part Eight – Songs of Salvation, Waiting in Khartoum to Leave Sudan.

Gismy and I went on a bus ride from Gadarif to Khartoum that lasted many hours,
reciting instructions on how to behave when we got off the bus and onto the strange city
streets. On the border at the entrance to the city the Sudanese policemen took us off the
bus, checked all our things and then stole all the money from me, my brother and
everyone else who was on the bus. The policemen told the bus driver to drive away, and
left us on the border stunned, while hitting people quickly and forcefully. They called to
us and interrogated us. They said we were going to live in Khartoum and took all our
money.

One of the girls was taken into the guard tower and brutally raped; when she came out
later, she was hunched over in humiliation, with tearful eyes. I was angry. I asked the
policemen to return me some of my money because we had nothing, and he, much to my
surprise, did in fact gave me a few coins back. I don't know where I got this courage, but
I had to survive. Luckily another bus came and we got on it. It led us from that horrific
scene to a stop at the market in the central station in Khartoum. Yermias told us in
advance that when we got off the bus we needed to hide the fact we were Jewish. He also
said we should sit by the market and not go wandering around; someone was supposed to
find us there: a Mossad operative.

Suddenly a man came up to us and asked me where I was from. He stated the code that
Yermias prepared me for so I knew it was the Mossad man we were waiting for. We did
as he said. He led us to a hidden hostel where we waited with other Jews for about two
weeks. I was appointed to bring food to the families, so I had to leave every morning to
bring food from Khartoum. There I was in Sudan almost a year-and-a-half since leaving
Ethiopia. By this time, hadn't seen my parents in over a year. Time passed and another
two weeks went by. Suddenly we felt free, but we were still afraid something would go
wrong on the way to our happiness – Jerusalem.
Part Nine – Between Earth and Sky, Leaving Sudan for Jerusalem.

Never before was I in an airplane terminal or on a flight. I was full of excitement and fear
of the unknown. We went on the plane and didn’t know what to do, but luckily I knew a
little English. There were other young people from Ethiopia on the plane. I tried to
breathe but was consumed with the fear of being caught. This infinite journey, when
would I be able to say that I had gotten home and wouldn't have to hide or lie? It was
complete darkness. I remember it was the first time I'd seen clouds underneath me. I
couldn't grasp the enormous space. The clouds moved and we couldn't understand where
we were and where the sea was.

On the plane they asked me to gather all the passports from the Jewish passengers. One
of the Mossad people explained to me that I must guard them until the end of the flight.
They gave me this responsibility because I knew a little English, and I was just twelve-
and-a-half. I thought we reached Israel, but we landed in Paris, France.

It was still a huge secret to keep: who we were and why we were there, even in Paris. In
the French hotel, another stop on the way to Israel, we met an activist named Yehudit,
who guided us and took care of us during the two weeks that we waited for other Jewish
people to arrive in France, with whom we were supposed to fly to Israel. The Jewish
Mossad activist, Mati Elias, greeted us at the hotel and told us of what was planned to
happen. We finally felt relief. He explained that we arrived to France and that we would
be flying to Israel in two weeks. Those were two very long, exhausting weeks. Every
other tourist would have enjoyed the opportunity to spend time in France but we, who
were not tourists but passers by, just wanted to get to our parents and the Promised Land,
and we found no rest until we landed in Israel.

Part Ten – The Holy Land – Arriving in Israel.

I remember the flickering lights when the plane was about to land in Israel. Noisy parts
opened up below. At the time I didn't know those were the wheels. I was very afraid of
the unfamiliar noise. The Western world, with all its planes, elevators and other wonders
of progress and technology, was new to me. I peered through the window and saw the
lights of the airport and lots of planes on the lit paths. I was curious. Everything was
absolutely new for me.
The huge gap between my wish as a child, asking a stranger: "take me with you from
Ethiopia to Israel," and the reality to which I arrived in Israel, to "Jerusalem, my special
bride," suddenly grew very small and the dream came true.

The landing of the plane was the beginning of a new life for us. If they told me I was to
die at that moment, I would have been willing to die on the spot, only to be buried in our
land in Israel. Here starts a new life - Jerusalem, I have reached heaven. To me,
Jerusalem is like the soul, you don't know where it is but it spreads through your entire
body. I don't know if Jerusalem is the soul guarding the body or the body guarding the
soul, but Jerusalem is the essence for me, the soul of the state of Israel.

There were important people waiting to greet us when we left the airport. They looked
like representatives in their nice suits, and immediately came over to greet us with
"hallelujah," and to hug us. There was a ceremony made for us but it seemed strange. I
was at the top of the world, I made my dream come true, but on the inside it was hard to
believe that this was actually happening and that we were on Israeli soil, being greeted
with such love. The clerks sitting at the reception could not imagine the depth of longing
and excitement we felt standing on Israeli soil. They came to do their job, write down
names and send each Oleh (immigrant) to their new place.

I wanted someone to bring together the dream and the reality for me, and tie the ends to
my parents so that I could feel my home was whole. The clerks did their work, not lifting
their heads from their notebooks, and I was left waiting for a silent answer. Everything
was left vague, the heaven still a mystery to me.

Israel remained a mystery to me even when I was finally there. I remained curious;
everything was still waiting to be discovered. I was thinking that perhaps the next day I
would understand what the state of Israel was and how people lived in it, perhaps
someone would light my way in the morning. I came from my Ethiopian world, and
suddenly the world I brought with me met a new, strange world, a dream which I couldn't
understand in reality. After hours of driving from the airport, we reached the office at the
absorption center in Zfat. We stood off to the side, stunned, and didn't understand a thing.
"Lejalem, Lejalem," I heard people talking but I was tired.

Someone accompanied us to the apartment where our parents were. We stood behind the
escort quietly when my father opened the door. The woman hugged and kissed my
mother while we waited to be noticed. There was noise around us, a mess of people, joy
and panic in a mass of voices. Our excitement – my parents and ours – was great. Tears
of pain and joy mixed together after a year-and-a-half of not seeing each other. We hadn't
known whether our parents were alive, and they, too, only prayed for our safety. The
many guests congratulated my parents and my mother started whistling with joy and
thanking God. The women put mattresses on the floor, sat down and started asking us
about the situation in Sudan. Sounds of crying, sadness and disappointment filled the
room around me from guests to whom we could not tell whether their relatives had
survived their personal journey. We were emissaries, like the storks, the shimala, as we
called them in Ethiopia, bringers of good or bad news.
Many of the Olim (immigrants) waiting in the absorption center were left without an
answer about the relatives they left in Sudan. They were full of guilt for having shelter
and food while their relatives might have nothing, guilt that was hurting their souls. We
reached our parents' home in the absorption center but others left many victims, losses
and goodbyes behind. We also had three brothers and their whole families left far behind,
and we didn't know a thing about their fate.

I had finally arrived, reunited with my parents in Israel. All the longing and the
expectation before we arrived couldn't fit together with the reality. It was hard to
comprehend that it was over, that a new chapter had begun. To believe that the journey
was over and that I would once again sit with my parents to have the meal my mother
prepared for us. I kept feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins, was still
constantly alert, still surviving, scared, not comprehending that I could now relax and
rest, give up control. Like a survivor of a battle that keeps hearing the shots even when
the war is over.

Each one of the Ethiopian Olim has a story he went through, a price he was willing to pay
to get to Jerusalem. But we didn't know how high the price was going to be and how
many victims would be lost from our community, which longed to reach a resting point.
We felt as though we were stabbed through the heart. There are no words to express the
empty space that was created after we arrived here. In retrospect perhaps we would not
have separated from other family members before making Aliyah to Israel. Perhaps we
would have chosen to be united, never to part, but those days had made us act quickly.

The later Aliyahs from Israel were easier, through Addis Ababa straight to Israel. Here,
after we had reached the final, longed-for stop, the top of our dreams, we had the time to
understand the severe trauma the Ethiopian people went through in their journey from
Ethiopia to Sudan and their escape to Israel.

In the absorption center we had a whole way of life. We gathered and waited to slowly
learn the way of life in Israel: the language, the traditions. We celebrated Shabbat and
once again prayed freely in the synagogue, celebrating the holidays once more. I started
learning Hebrew in school. In the absorption center everyone was religious. We learned
Judaism that was adapted to the traditions of Israel and the Hebrew language. It was part
of our absorption program. I came from a home where we grew up on Jewish values and
a heritage of traditional and religious stories. We didn't need to go through a giyur
process (the process of converting to Judaism), because the state of Israel accepted us as
Jews, but our tradition was in some ways different than the common traditions in Israel.

It was strange and hard for me to understand the interpretation and oral Jewish law as it
was explained in Israel. They explained the difference by the fact that today Israel does
not have a temple so things are done differently. The holiday and Shabbat rules, the rules
surrounding menstruation and family purity were different than the rules we kept in
Ethiopia. We had a head Rabbi who read the Torah, and suddenly we had to be more
involved and be part of the learning process. The Hebrew language and letters were new
to us, but I felt the excitement of a boy in the first grade about to learn new things. I
ignored, or perhaps went into denial about everything that happened in Sudan and the
torments of the journey, telling myself: "who cares about the past, the important part is
that I'm here."

Part Eleven – The Olim Children Sent to Boarding Schools: Another Separation from My
Parents, Once Again Starting Over Alone.

One day my parents were told that I needed to go study in a boarding school. It was a
surprising message, an unequivocal announcement that was not made for my parents to
doubt or object to. Someone somewhere in the governmental system probably knew
better what was right for us; it was definitely an order from up high. Both my parents and
I couldn't understand the need to go to boarding school. My brother stayed with my
parents because he was married already. I had to leave on my own; I couldn't imagine
that I would need to separate from my parents and Gismy once more.

During the summer vacation they took us to a summer camp even before I got to the
boarding school. The vacation was over and it was time to go to the boarding school in
Jerusalem, to bond. I was filled with the pain of separation and the tears erupted. I was
angry at the people from the absorption center for letting me leave, after I'd finally
managed to get to the Holy Land and reunite with my parents. I moved to the new
boarding school in Jerusalem where I lived many years, torn apart from my parents. Life
at the boarding school awakened an old pain of longing. I remember to this day the pain
of the forced separation.

During my time studying at the boarding school, there was a political and religious storm
taking over the country, regarding the Ethiopian community. The Chief Rabbinate
converted all the Jews that came from Ethiopia before Operation Shlomo, but afterwards
there were many Jews who came in the Operation Shlomo Aliyah, whose Judaism was
doubted by the Chief Rabbinate. They decided that the Olim from Ethiopia must go
through the process of giyur and immersion. As a proud Jewish community, we united
across all the absorption centers in Israel and came forward in a huge protest for the
acknowledgement of our Judaism and the purity of our intentions to live in Israel, not as
refugees, but as Jews returning to their country.

During the time I studied at the boarding school, I was introduced to host families, who
were not Ethiopian Jews. Many times we were guests in their houses instead of going to
our parents' home. As children, we had the opportunity to closely encounter the Sabra
culture and answer their curious questions about our way of life. It was during that time I
realized that, just as I knew little about the Western world, so the Israeli residents knew
almost nothing about Ethiopia, our culture and the troubles we went through until we got
to Israel.
Around the time I was finishing school a sudden and exciting contact occurred between
me and my brothers in Ethiopia, and after a long correspondence and great effort on our
part, we connected them with the Jewish Agency, and there developed a chance to bring
our brothers and their families from far away to reunite with those of us living in Israel.

Part Twelve – Realizing My Dream as a Soldier in My Country and Life in the Civilian,
Post-Army World.

It was time for my recruitment to the IDF and I went through all the necessary medical
exams for the process of becoming a soldier. I felt a sense of freedom at having finished
my studies at the boarding school. I really wanted to enlist and it was a release for me to
leave the boarding school for the army. When I arrived on my recruitment day I saw
around me parents accompanying their children for their enlistment, while I came alone
with my bag, without my parents. My family was still living in the absorption center, in
an apartment that was transferred to the ownership of Amidar [a state-owned housing
company]. As a young soldier my parents still counted as new immigrants, accompanied
by the staff at the absorption center.

When I put on my uniform I felt I wasn't a new immigrant anymore but a veteran Israeli,
equal and worthy, making my way towards contributing to my country. I was as excited
as a young groom about to meet his bride, and my heart was beating wildly as I took
upon myself the mission to be obligated to the state of Israel, to which I completely
devoted myself, like groom to bride.

Unlike the time before my recruitment, missing my parents during my army service was
bearable. I was already used to very few meetings and conversations with my family
from my life at the boarding school. When I returned home on leave my parents were
proud of me, and I felt that through me they were also realizing their dream of
contributing to the country. At the time, my father was volunteering in an army base,
organizing uniforms. In that manner, my father and I went through an experience of
bonding with each other, sharing together army experiences and speaking the same
language of soldiers devoted to their country. My father used to iron my uniform and I
felt his love and the complete connection to the country and the family.

As a new immigrant I felt a bond and a will to give my all to the country and to serve in
the combat forces. The army united boys from different backgrounds, from new
immigrants to veteran residents, religious to secular. We all wanted one thing, we were
all for one and one for all. The Israeli motto "Hachi Achi," ("The most my brother")
turned to a way of life for me, with the feeling of sacrifice and closeness at times of war
and battle.
Thanks to the army I learned a lot about the state of Israel, its history and events. A love
and appreciation for the people who built it was born within me. I admired the people that
did everything for the country, whose giving was pouring out of them. I saw black and
white pictures documenting the generations of people who built the country, and I was
happy that I, too, had become a part of the picture and added a shade to it. All my senses
and endurance were once again realized as they had been during my trials in Sudan, and
they became even keener during my military service.

In the army I could keep Shabbat, keep kosher and pray. It was a different lifestyle than
in the boarding school. I found my own unique way to express Judaism and prayer, in the
same way, in fact, with which my parents had raised me. My father always said that
prayer doesn't need a synagogue to be heard by God. Prayer, he said, is in the heart of
man anywhere he feels God and holiness.

After the army I could live the way I really wanted, as when I was a child in Ethiopia, but
in the mind and body of a grown man. It was the first time in my life that I could develop,
grow and rise as a man of profession, thanks to my friends and family who urged me to
study and progress. All through my youth I was worrying for my parents and now, as a
young citizen, I was independent and looking for my own way.

I studied education at university and as a student I worked with children who came from
Ethiopia in Operation Shlomo. It was the Nineties. During the time I was working with
them, memories of my childhood resurfaced. The Ethiopian children were sent to
absorption areas in hot and crowded caravan neighborhoods in the north of the country,
and those days reminded me of our lives at the refugee camp. I tried to be a guide to these
children out of longing for the child I had been.

At that time, with the Ethiopian Jews' Aliyah in the background, a news item broke on all
the news channels in Israel. The item was later known as "The Blood Affair." Many
Ethiopian Jews donated their blood to MADA, but it was revealed that MADA
quarantined thousands of those blood units, unknown to the donors, claiming that the
Ethiopian immigrants were in a risk group for viral and infectious, life-threatening
diseases. This generalization became a huge stigma for the Ethiopian immigrants who
were afterwards marked as a sick, isolated community. The entire community, me
included, went out in protest against the wasting of the blood units, the hiding of
information and the marring of our reputation. Those were hard and dramatic days for the
Ethiopian Jewish community, who wanted to belong to the country but discovered that
there were forces pushing us to the margins of society, as a dangerous, disease-ridden
population.

It was in that period during the Nineties that my two brothers, sister and their families
came to Israel after many years. Our family finally got the reunion we'd all been waiting
for, and although each of the brothers was absorbed in a different city, the family enjoyed
many years of life together.
The Thirteenth and Final Part – Reflection.

My mother, may she rest in peace, got to be buried in the Holy Land, but her mother did
not make it to Israel and was buried in Sudan. I wrote this book to honor the memory of
my mother, who died three years ago. My vision for the future, my views and memories
of the past are for each and every reader from any ethnic group. All Jews are part of the
same people that survived hardships and wanderings, suffering and disasters in order to
realize the Jewish Zionist dream. I, as a member of the unique and beautiful Ethiopian
community, want to tell my personal story, but also to raise the voice of the entire
Ethiopian community, whose story is unknown to most people in the country and in the
world.