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When I left Mekele for Adigrat, the road ahead carried more than just distance. It carried silence, loss and survival. In my mind, I kept thinking, “I’m sorry for your loss. Sorry I couldn’t do anything.” But there was no one to say it to.
As we drove, I saw houses scarred by gunfire, some completely destroyed. I couldn’t imagine the full extent of what happened. Who was killed? Who was hurt? Who was violated? But it weighed heavily on me. I felt sadness and guilt. The driver, perhaps numb to it all, pointed out places as we passed by. This was a factory. This was a health facility. What once stood tall now existed only as memories.
His voice carried an unspoken pain, as if saying, “This happened to us.” Every town — Wukro, Idaga Hamus — was a reminder of the battles that had scarred this land. And Tigray, with its deep religious history, felt even more devastated. I thought of the ancient faith rooted here, where both Christianity and Islam have thrived for centuries.
The damage was heart-wrenching, especially to places of worship like the Eparchy of Adigrat. When I arrived at the Cathedral of the Holy Savior, the church’s compound was quiet. It was a Saturday and Adigrat itself seemed still, the wind sweeping through its streets.
The church, with its modern architecture, stood tall, a presence that could be seen from any point in the city. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, a symbol of faith, but it too had endured the violence. Heavy guns had hit the church during exchanges of fire and a cannon had struck the house of the seminarians within the compound. Behind the church’s compound, there is a graveyard and chapel for prayers for the dead.
A block where seminarians lived and studied, where their library and prayer chapel were located, had been heavily damaged. Its windows shattered. Other blocks around the seminary had also been hit. Yet I was told that some of these places had been renovated, restored in the face of destruction.
This place of refuge now held its own stories of horror.
Yet there was something about the church, its resilience, its enduring presence, that made it a symbol of hope amidst the devastation. As I stood there, I realized that in the silence, the church, much like the people of Tigray, was still standing, determined to rebuild.
Read “Leaning on Mercy and Grace” in the December 2024 edition of ONE.