The Tenth Anniversary of the ELF Reunion and Reflection
Honoring the Past, Inspiring the Future
Dallas, Texas | October 3–5, 2025
In a hall radiant with camaraderie, sibling affection, and the joy of long-awaited embraces, the tenth anniversary of the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) Reunion and Reflection unfolded under the theme “Honoring the Past and Inspiring the Future.” Held in Dallas, Texas, the gathering was a living testament to endurance—of friendships forged in struggle, of memory preserved through time, and of shared purpose that refuses to fade.
The blue flag—emblem of a legacy both proud and painful—was raised high. Some draped it around their shoulders, others pressed it reverently to their chests. Though the hall shimmered in blue, the mood was anything but somber. It pulsed with laughter, storytelling, and the quiet dignity of those who have endured.
Over the years, I’ve sensed a marked emotional difference between the two liberation fronts. Among ELF veterans, camaraderie feels organic and tender—woven into jokes, tears, and embraces. The EPLF, by contrast, often projects a disciplined but emotionally austere esprit de corps: devotion to organization over intimacy, ideology over affection. In that hall, the ELF spirit felt unmistakably human—rooted in friendship, memory, and grace rather than dogma or hierarchy.
Friday: A Sacred Return
The reunion opened on Friday evening with warmth and quiet anticipation. Food and laughter filled the air as old comrades embraced—some after years, others after decades apart. It was more than a social gathering; it was a homecoming. A sacred moment in which each person was seen not as a relic of history, but as a living witness to a story still unfolding.
Veterans of Principle and Memory
Veterans arrived from every corner of the United States. Among them was our own Mr. Ahmed Dali, who joined the struggle as a teenager in 1968—his youth forever tethered to a cause larger than himself. The most senior leader among them, Mr. Girmai “Qeshi” Gebresellasie, joined in 1973 from Asmara University, bringing with him a quiet moral authority that continues to inspire. He was part of a cohort of university students who studied the political programs of the ELF’s First National Congress and the PLF/EPLF’s Nehnan Elamanan. They chose the former—not out of ignorance of the latter’s mobilizing power among Christian highlanders, but because they rejected its “sectarian undertones.” Their decision was principled, not tactical—a reflection of their commitment to a pluralistic vision of Eritrea.
A Mosaic of Voices and Longing
The hall itself reflected Eritrea’s mosaic—students and farmers, urban professionals and villagers, speaking a mélange of languages: Tigrinya, Arabic, and English. What bound them together was not uniformity, but shared memory. A longing for dignity, justice, and truth that transcended region, religion, and class.
A Personal Lineage of Sacrifice
I, too, attended—thanks to the gracious invitation of Mr. Ahmed Dali. My connection is deeply personal. My martyred father served in the ELF, alongside two of his brothers. The youngest later joined the EPLF through the Fallul movement and was martyred in 1978 during the EPLF’s failed attempt to liberate the port of Massawa. Another brother was killed by the EPLF. Two more of his siblings—my uncle and auntie—also joined the EPLF. These losses are etched into the fabric of my family’s history.
Although most of my extended family aligned with the EPLF, my bond with the ELF remains enduring and deeply personal. All my maternal cousins from Seharti joined the EPLF, including my uncle Tarzan, who oversaw its clandestine operations in Asmera. Prior to that, he had served as Kidane Kiflu’s deputy in Addis Abeba, assuming leadership when Kidane joined the ELF. Kidane was later killed in Kassala alongside Woldai Gidey—allegedly by the ELF itself or a faction within it. That betrayal may well explain his enduring antipathy toward the ELF.
Tarzan, notably, had once been a classmate of Isaias Afwerki, the man who would go on to rule Eritrea with an authoritarian grip. In the final chapter of his life, Tarzan grew increasingly disillusioned with the EPLF leadership, deeply skeptical of its capacity to deliver justice or democracy. According to a close friend, one book that profoundly shaped his thinking during that period was Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler—a haunting meditation on revolutionary betrayal and the moral cost of ideological purity. I had to read the book twice just to glimpse the contours of his thinking. And now, I understand.
My favorite maternal cousin, Ghebrehiwet Tesfamichael—a former EPLF tegadali—joined the ELF in its final year and was martyred on its side during the civil war. His death, like so many others, is a solemn reminder that the cost of principle and personal choice is often paid in blood.
Seeds of Consciousness
I am also a beneficiary of the ELF’s educational legacy—a product of its vision for a liberated and enlightened Eritrea. That lineage carries both inheritance and responsibility. As a child, I was part of the Dawn youth group in Kassala, where the seeds of civic consciousness and collective purpose were quietly sown. These were the children of the future: the Dawn Generation.
ጽባሕ: ጽባሕ: ኣብ ዘለኻዮ: ተዳሊኻ ጽናሕ: ኣብ ቃልሲ ሓርነት ቀላጽምካ ክዝርጋሕ።
(Dawn: Dawn: Wherever you might be, stay prepared; to flex your muscles in the struggle for liberty.)
A Living Legacy
To be present at the reunion was not merely to observe—it was to bear witness. The story of the ELF is not confined to the past; it lives within us—in our memories, our convictions, and our unfinished work. Through us, it must endure—not out of partisan nostalgia, but because it remains an essential thread in the fabric of Eritrea’s modern history.
The Master of Ceremony: A Quiet Force
Presiding over the gathering was Mr. Tseggai Negash, a man I had long known over the phone and through his writings, but never met. His presence confirmed everything I’d felt I knew about him—humble and deeply humane. A former Tegadali who spent most of his time in Anseba, Hamasien, he carried himself with warmth and quiet authority.
Tseggai is the author of ኪዳን ዝኣተወ and ሓያት: ዛንታ ጽኑዕ ፍቕሪ, works that preserve emotional truth, love as much as history. As editor of the magazine ነጸብራቕ, I once used to read, he helped sustain dialogue and cultural reflection across generations. His forthcoming book, ነጸብራቕ፣ ነቑጣታት ህይወት, promises to continue that legacy.
From the first evening to the closing session, Tseggai’s leadership set the tone: patient, humorous, and inclusive. His anecdotes rooted the event in lived experience—never lecturing, always connecting.
One story lingered in everyone’s mind. Near Adi Quala, he said, stands a vast sycamore tree that shades funeral gatherings. A visitor once marveled, “I wish we could always use this place for funerals.” A local replied, “Of course—just bring the corpses.” The laughter that followed carried a deeper lesson about entitlement and contribution, about community as both privilege and responsibility. That blend of wit and wisdom made Tseggai the soul of the weekend.
Saturday: Honoring Milestones and Unveiling Silences
Saturday began with Mr. Tseggai Negash’s sweeping reflections on Eritrean history, drawing from the scholarship of Alemseged Tesfai. His remarks were both commemorative and corrective—a call not only to remember, but to reckon with the truths we’ve inherited and the silences we’ve allowed.
He then offered a vivid portrait of Idriss Hamid Awate, the founder of the armed struggle and revered as the “Father of the Eritrean Revolution.” Awate’s first shot at Mount Adal in 1961 did more than signal resistance—it ignited the long and arduous path to liberation. Yet, as Mr. Tseggai reminded the audience, Awate was not officially celebrated by the EPLF until years later—1979, to be precise.
To confirm this, I spoke with a former EPLF tegadali, who recalled that while fighters were taught the struggle began in 1961, Awate himself was not honored as its founder until after the ELF’s withdrawal to Sudan. He recounted a meeting in Fah, Sahel, in 1976, where Isaias Afwerki argued that the armed struggle began in 1962—an act of historical revision that quietly displaced Awate’s foundational role. Recognition, it seemed, followed political convenience rather than principled continuity.
This revelation cast Saturday’s session as more than a tribute—it became an act of restoration. To honor Awate was to reclaim historical truth, to resist the politicization of memory, and to affirm that Eritrea’s revolution began with courage unbound by faction, ideology, or region. It was a reminder that the integrity of our history depends not on who controls the narrative, but on who dares to tell it honestly.
The Spirit of Diversity
Later that day, Mr. Tseggai Negash shared a story emblematic of the ELF’s pluralistic spirit. In the early years of the armed struggle, Idris Awate asked his Christian comrade, Teweldemedhin, to slaughter a sheep. When asked why, Awate replied, “Because our table is one, and our children will fight together.” It was a simple moment, yet it distilled the essence of the ELF—an organic unity that transcended religion, language, and region. Organizations, to some extent, reflect the character of their founders. This seems especially true of both the ELF and the EPLF.
Throughout the reunion, veterans effortlessly wove Arabic phrases into their Tigrinya speeches, revealing a lived intimacy that defied sectarian lines. By the mid-1970s, the ELF had evolved into the most authentic expression of Eritrea’s diversity—a mosaic of languages, faiths, and regions forged in struggle. That kind of cultural fluency was a luxury largely reserved for the upper echelons of the EPLF. Among the rank and file, the social fabric was far more homogenous.
The ethos I witnessed left a lasting impression and gave me hope for the future. Recently, I learned from Brother Salah Mohmud of Hiwar for Common Awareness about the foundational importance of morals. He quoted an Arabic saying:
إنما الأمم الأخلاق ما بقيت، فإن هم ذهبت أخلاقهم ذهبوا
“Nations are but morals; as long as they remain, the nations remain. If their morals disappear, they disappear.”
Mutual respect, acceptance, harmonious coexistence, and deference to faith are not optional virtues in Eritrea—they are foundational. They must be upheld, preserved, cherished, and protected if we are to endure with dignity.
Formal Inclusion vs. Lived Pluralism
By contrast, the EPLF’s diversity often felt more formal than lived. While women comprised roughly 30 percent of its fighting force, their representation in leadership roles remained below 10 percent. Religious and regional imbalances persisted. Representation within the EPLF was, in many respects, performative. The leadership maintained a visible balance between Muslims and Christians, but this parity did not reflect the demographic reality of its rank and file.
Similarly, the inclusion of women in combat roles—though numerically significant—did not translate into proportional leadership. These disparities were not incidental; they were structural. And they shaped the lived experience of those within the movement, reinforcing hierarchies that contradicted the egalitarian ideals the organization professed.
The Cost of Lost Pluralism
As Girmai Qeshi observed, the defeat of the ELF was not merely military—it marked the erosion of Eritrea’s pluralism and civic nationalism. To compound matters, the EPLF’s rise was facilitated through its alliance with the TPLF, a foreign organization whose involvement in the 1980–81 conflict reignited long-standing fears of Tigray-Tigrigni recidivism. This alliance not only deepened communal wounds but also cast a shadow over the legitimacy of the EPLF’s consolidation of power. What was lost in that moment was not just a political alternative, but a vision of Eritrea that embraced its full cultural and regional spectrum.
One participant, Wedi Mussie, put it bluntly: “The 1980–81 war should not be called a civil war—it wasn’t purely fratricide.” The EPLF’s alliance with the TPLF, he argued, fractured Eritrea’s unity and reopened old wounds.
Reclamation, Not Nostalgia
What surfaced in these exchanges was not bitterness, but clarity. The ELF envisioned an Eritrea that was inclusive, multilingual, and spiritually diverse. Remembering it was not an act of nostalgia—it was an act of reclamation.
One of the most piercing insights came from Mr. Fessehaye Fitwi, who observed:
“One of the factors that contributed to the demise of the ELF was that we neither understood its essence nor were able to effectively tell its story. And because of these two failures, when the time of reckoning came, we were unable to defend her.”
His words struck a chord. They captured not only the tragedy of organizational collapse, but the deeper loss of narrative stewardship. Without clarity of purpose and the power to articulate it, even the most principled movements risk being misunderstood, misrepresented, or erased. The ELF’s story—its pluralism, its sacrifices, its vision—deserved defenders. But as Mr. Fessehaye reminded us, defense begins with understanding, and understanding begins with telling.
The Challenge of Internal Bias
Before the meeting was called to session, I had the opportunity to speak with several veterans. One of them, in a moment of rare and unflinching honesty, remarked that one of the deepest challenges the ELF faced was that many tegadelti from Kebessa struggled to transcend their Kebessaness. It wasn’t a matter of intent, he suggested, but of ingrained perspective—an inability to fully embrace the pluralism the movement aspired to represent.
The refusal to obey orders on the basis of “we’re not going to fight against our brothers in the EPLF” was a manifestation of this malaise. Yet when the same order was given to attack the Sabbe group in Barka or the Yemin group in Dankalia, the tegadelti from Kebessa were reportedly trigger-happy.
The comment echoed a piercing critique allegedly made by Haile Durue:
“The biggest problem facing Eritrea in the post-independence era is Tigrinya chauvinism.”
Whether one agrees or not, the statement forces reflection. It points to a persistent tension between regional identity and national unity—a tension that, if left unexamined, risks undermining the very ideals the liberation struggle sought to uphold.
A Call to Conscience
The truth is this: how we manage our diversity will ultimately determine the kind of Eritrea we become. The tragedies unfolding in Ethiopia, Sudan, Yemen, and Somalia are not merely political—they are rooted in the failure to effectively embrace and govern diversity. Eritrea must learn from these cautionary tales.
The EPLF succeeded in forming a state, but it has thus far failed—miserably—in building a nation. Nation-building requires more than borders and state apparatus; it demands inclusion, equity, empathy, and a shared civic vision. That work remains unfinished.
It is the responsibility of every Eritrean to step forward—not as critics from the sidelines, but as participants in the healing and reconstruction of our national soul. Blaming the darkness is no longer enough. We must light a lamp, however small, and carry it forward. Because the future of Eritrea will not be shaped by those who merely remember the past, but by those who dare to illuminate the path ahead.
Oaths, Voices, and Shared Memories
That evening, Ahmed Dali recalled taking his oath in Arabic, pledging to reject divisions and serve Eritrea alone. His comrade G/Medhin swore in Tigrinya: ““ማርያም ትቦርቅሰኒ—May Mary uproot me.” It was the first time Dali heard anyone took an oath in Tigrinya. Their oaths—spoken in different tongues but united in meaning—embodied the ELF’s spirit.
The night continued with personal reflections from Elsa Gide, Tsehaye Mehari, Tsegeweyni Hagos, and Hidrai Fesseha, followed by prepared talks from Arefaine Mengisteab, Elsa Mesfin, Tsege Ghebreab, and Mehari Garoy.
Arefaine chronicled the evolution of the ELF’s Department of Health—from makeshift care to a structured network serving fighters and civilians alike. Elsa Mesfin and Tsege Ghebreab spoke of the General Union of Eritrean Women and its compassion for infants, mothers, and pregnant tegadelti—reminders that revolution is also nurturance.
Mehari Garoy’s reflections on Anseba revealed how the ELF won loyalty not through force but through trust and cultural fluency. At its heart was Hamid Mohamud, a leader whose empathy made him beloved. His dream—to marry from Kebessa, symbolizing unity—died with him in battle. His loss was not just personal; it was the silencing of a bridge-builder.
Mehari also recalled a telling episode during ዋሬዳ (land redistribution). When the EPLF requested land for its fighters, Anseba’s elders agreed—on condition the same courtesy be shown to the ELF. The EPLF refused. What could have united became division—a small act revealing a larger mindset of exclusion.
Stories of Courage and Principle
Hidrai Fesseha’s accounts of urban operations and prison breaks captured the strategic brilliance of ELF fighters and the prudent leadership of Abdella Hassen. Among his most striking stories was a joint mission between two legends: Abraham Teckle (ELF) and Simon Uqbe Kelete “Vinac” (EPLF)—proof that unity was once possible, even on the battlefield.
He recounted legendary escapes from Sembel, Adi Quala, Forto, and the Hospital—each a defiance of captivity that echoed the 1899 Nakura breakout led by Ali Mohammed Osman Buri, forever remembered as Sebar Nakura—the “Breaker of Nakura.”
That same spirit lived on in Woldedawit Temesgen, an ELF prisoner who, when asked by the warden of Sembel prison, what would improve their treatment, replied simply: “Leave our country.” It was not a demand for comfort but a declaration of freedom—an echo of Eritrea’s irrepressible dignity.
The Keynote: Lessons in Reflection
When Girmai Qeshi rose to speak, the hall grew still. Thoughtful and measured, he traced the roots of the tragic ELF–EPLF conflict to ideological rigidity and the absence of democratic culture and peaceful conflict resolution. Both sides, he argued, bore responsibility. His message was reconciliation, not blame: Eritreans must learn from both traditions, cherish their shared history, and confront its flaws with honesty and humility.
A Dinner That Became a Vigil
That evening in Dallas, veterans gathered for a communal dinner—plates filled with food steeped in memory, pride, and generational inheritance. Yet even celebration deferred to conscience. The night before, attendees had wrestled with a question of tone: was dancing music appropriate on the anniversary of the Lampedusa tragedy, where hundreds of Eritrean refugees drowned in search of dignity and refuge?
The consensus was clear—music would not be festive, but reflective.
Songs of Sorrow and Strength
In that spirit, Wedi Tukabo and Aaron offered performances that braided sorrow with strength, and remembrance with resilience. Their songs did not entertain—they testified. This gesture of cultural reverence distinguished the gathering as one rooted in tradition, moral clarity, and communal values. It was not just a dinner—it was a vigil in motion.
Honoring Artistic Resistance
The event paid heartfelt tribute to the late artist Negash Tekie and the legendary Tewelde Reda, honoring their enduring contributions to Eritrea’s liberation and their unwavering fidelity to the principles that shaped their lives. Their collective work was more than music—it was a cultural lifeline during a time of struggle, a testament to the role of art in sustaining hope and identity.
Negash Tekie was not only an accomplished and influential artist—he was also a committed member of the ELF’s clandestine urban network. During his tenure with the Eritrean Police Orchestra in Asmara, he worked in close coordination with fellow fedayeen Abraham Tekle and Hidrai Fisseha, blending artistic excellence with underground resistance. His dual role as cultural figure and covert operative exemplifies the quiet courage of those who fought not only with arms, but with art, loyalty, and strategic discretion. In a heartfelt standing ovation to his family—his wife and children—the conference solemnly honored the late Negash Tekie. In tribute to her father’s legacy, one of his daughters made a generous donation to support the wounded ELF veterans center in Kassala.
A Time to Mourn
Scripture reminds us: “There is a time to mourn and a time to dance,” and “the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.” Today, wisdom calls us to mourn.
We Eritreans carry too many names, too many silences, too many unburied truths. Let us pause the EPLF/PFDJ calendar of festivals and dancing—not out of bitterness, but out of fidelity to those we lost, and to the dignity they were denied.
Mourning is not weakness. It is the soil of renewal.
Festivals may offer momentary relief, but they cannot heal what remains unspoken. They are short-term balms, not long-term remedies. What we need is sober reckoning—a serious, careful confrontation with our sorrow and our unfinished responsibilities.
The regime places a high premium on festivals, not as sites of cultural healing, but as instruments of distraction. Zemhret Yohannes, once chairman of the National Holidays Coordinating Committee, was removed from his post in 2010 after the dictator expressed dissatisfaction with that year’s performances. Since then, Ambassador Zemede Tekle—now Commissioner of Culture and Sports—has taken over the orchestration of Eritrea’s national festivals, reinforcing their role as curated spectacles rather than spaces of truth-telling.
In the hands of a dictatorship, festivals have become tools of denial. But truth cannot be danced away. Justice cannot be postponed with music. The time has come to mourn, to remember, and to rebuild.
Sunday: Reflection and Renewal
On Sunday, Mr. Tseggai Negash spoke with candor and humility about his time administering Anseba, Hamasien, or in the ELF’s jargon: Number 8. (Eritrea was divided into 12 administrative provinces by the ELF.) He admitted that the ideological training he received at the ELF cadre school had not prepared him to lead a people with a proud and time-honored tradition of self-governance. It was they—not he—who taught him that true leadership is rooted in consultation, not control. His honesty distilled a timeless lesson: leadership is not about commanding others, but about empowering them to govern themselves.
The weekend concluded with reflections, evaluations, and plans for the next reunion—once again to be held in Dallas. I had to leave before the closing session due to a prior commitment, but if the organizers would consider one suggestion, I would urge them to include families in future gatherings—especially children and grandchildren. The next generation deserves to witness this legacy firsthand.
Across the diaspora, many children of ELF veterans have endured quiet forms of psychological and social marginalization—simply for honoring their parents’ history. In a culture that often rewards silence and revision, remembering becomes an act of resistance.
Scripture teaches: “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long…that it may be well with you in the land.” This is not just a moral injunction—it is a civic truth. The essence of patriotism is love of the fatherland, and one cannot love the land while denying the dignity of those who came before. To honor our parents is to honor the soil they fought for, the sacrifices they made, and the truths they carried.
This was poignantly shared with me by Ms. Freweni Habtemariam of Germany, whose personal experience reflects a broader pattern of exclusion. These children are not outsiders to the legacy—they are its rightful heirs. Many have chosen to refrain from attending EPLF/PFDJ-sponsored events or even visiting Eritrea, following in their parents’ principled footsteps. Their steadfast loyalty and ethical stance deserve acknowledgment and honor.
Please include them in your reunions. They deserve recognition and pride, not silence. Their presence would not only affirm the continuity of memory, but also ensure that the story of the ELF is carried forward with dignity, truth, and love.
Legacy and Continuance
To witness the camaraderie, humor, and grace that filled those three days in Dallas was to see that the spirit of the ELF lives on—not in slogans, but in relationships. It endures in the way veterans greet one another, in the stories they tell, and in the quiet dignity with which they carry the memory of their fallen comrades.
Hail to the memory of the heroes who gave everything, and to the veterans who continue to keep their flame alive. Their legacy is Eritrea’s legacy—and it belongs to all of us.
As Girmai Qeshi reminded us:
The history of the ELF and EPLF is Eritrea’s history. We must own it, know it, preserve it, cherish it—and learn from its faults as much as its triumphs.
Eritrea is independent, but its people are not yet free. The war for sovereignty—heroically launched by the ELF on September 1st, 1961—was victoriously concluded by the EPLF on May 24th, 1991. Yet the struggle for liberty continues.
To move forward, Eritreans must draw from both legacies: the EPLF’s discipline and resolve, and the ELF’s moral conscience and pluralistic vision. It is a vital synthesis—the former’s get-it-done mentality tempered by the latter’s do-the-right-thing ethos. Only by merging work ethic with empathy can the nation fulfill the promise its martyrs died for: not merely freedom, but true liberation.
The next phase of our struggle begins with full ownership of our legacies—embracing with pride what is truly ours: the ELF, the EPLF, and everything Eritrean in between. Only by honoring the totality of our history can we chart a future rooted in truth, dignity, and shared purpose. Our epic journey bore both virtue and vice, wisdom and excess, triumph and tragedy. May we find the courage to preserve and celebrate what was noble, and the humility to learn from what was not.
A brighter future awaits—but only if we reclaim our country from the dictator who has mocked our collective sacrifices and betrayed the values that once bound us. The path forward demands courage, clarity, and a renewed commitment to the principles we fought for.
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To reach the author: weriz@yahoo.com
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