Profile Piece
Volume III • Edition I
Childhood… As a boy, Fikadu lives a happy, if sheltered, childhood. Socialists control his country, and his town, Aghafa, stands a showpiece of the government, thus public workers maintain it well. He lives with his family in a farming community. His parents are farmers, his siblings are farmers, and he is no exception. He lives in small house, his family poor. They have neither running water nor electricity. Fikadu and his eleven siblings sleep in one small room together. And yet he considers himself lucky. His mother, Zewde Wolde, is a woman whose life is as much about her children as it is about herself. She works hard alongside her husband every day to put food on the March 2018
9
In Southern Ethiopia, mid 80s, the roads are dirt and the jungles are thick. A government coup has put the country in the hands of guerrilla fighters who permeate these jungles. Young boys and old men tote rifles and knives in a time of bloodshed and grief. Two young boys seem the picture of the populace, the epitome of the everyday Ethiopian. They kick up dust as they walk along a dirt road which twists through the jungle. It is humid, buggy, and hot. The pair come to a deep gorge. A muddy. strong river flows through it. Eddies crash against rocks, a daunting sight below the boys who now stand on the bridge directly above. Fikadu pauses, scared. He turns to his brother for reassurance as if the two years of age make any difference. For a moment, the buzz of mosquitos and the roar of the river seem louder. Then all noise drowns in rattles of gunfire. Men yell in the gorge below. Out of the jungle, two militias materialize. Fikadu can see the bright muzzle flashes from the woods. He can see the carnage below. But his gaze doesn’t linger. He and his brother run, Fikadu in front, his brother behind. They run until they are out of the jungle, until they reach school caked in five miles worth of dust. Now, many years later, Fikadu Tafesse is a jovial man, though perhaps he lacks the robust figure and heavy laugh that “jovial” may imply. Rather, he stands tall and slender. He has somewhat hollow cheekbones, thick but short-cut hair, smooth dark skin, and wears a constant, slightly yellowed smile. His eyes flash brightly, and his face is thin. Smile lines that trace the ends of his eyes to just before his temples reflect a joyful character. He wears a white shirt with the top button and collar undone. His jeans are a deep blue and look new. His only ac-
sound dulled and “th” sounds hint at the pronunciations of a “d.” The man’s accent comes from traces of Oromo and Amhara. Two languages learned from his mother and father respectively. I am with Fikadu in an office building where various Harvard collaborators work. We sit in an unadorned room. A black computer sits on a metal desk and a bookshelf covers one wall. End to end, the shelves carry scientific journals. Fikadu sits behind the desk, leaning back in a office chair. The floor appears a bluish gray, with wall to wall carpeting and the back wall of his room a large window looks out onto Boston. He apologizes for the uncomfortable seating, telling me that he did not come to Boston as often as he used to. “I spend most of my time in my lab in Oregon so I have no need for a fancy office here.” His lit-up eyes focus on me, inquisitive and relaxed. It takes little prompting to start the conversation. Fikadu jumps on my questions with alacrity and soon brings us back to a late 70s Bali Province, Ethiopia.
The Podium | Research Papers
cessory seems to be a silver ring. Fikadu Author-Elias Hyde ‘20 Section-Research Papers speaks with a slight accent where vowels
