Dallas, Texas — September 25–27

The 11th Annual ELF Veterans Reunion convened in Dallas for the second consecutive year, and the atmosphere was as jovial as it was sobering. It was a bittersweet gathering — an occasion where pride and sorrow, gratitude and regret, rise and fall in equal measure, like a single emotion breathing in two directions.

The men and women who filled the hall were once the young freedom fighters and revolutionaries of the 1970s: idealistic, unyielding, and prepared to give their lives for the liberation of their people. Today, they stand in their late sixties and seventies. Time has inevitably left its marks on their bodies, yet the flame of unrequited love for country, for comrades, for a dream unfinished — still burns with unmistakable clarity. It is alive, steady, and defiant.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the role of Mr. Ahmed Dali.

Had he not called me twice—just two days before the event—I would likely have missed it, even though both Mr. Tsegai Negash, the president of the association, and Mr. Tesfai Degiga, one of the keynote speakers, had informed me about it months earlier. His insistence made all the difference.

Friday, September 25

When I arrived, the hall was nearly full, and the program was already in motion. Guests were invited to introduce themselves in two or three minutes, and one by one they stood to recount when they joined the ELF, where they served, and how they eventually made their way to Sudan and, later, to the United States, Canada, or Europe. Most of the attendees were from across the U.S., forming a tapestry of lives shaped by struggle, exile, and endurance. Among the notable attendees from Europe were two familiar figures: the indefatigable Mesfin Mengistu, whose energy seems immune to the passage of time, and the softly spoken gentleman Tzehaie Kubrom, whose quiet presence carries the weight of long experience. And it would not be complete if I did not mention the suave Kerenite from Toronto, Michael Embaye, who closed the event with a speech that would not have been out of place among the world’s finest motivational speakers and human psychologists — a thoughtful, elevating reflection that gave the evening its final, resonant note.

What stood out most on the first day were three testimonies delivered in succession. Two men—one from Dallas (Menghis), the other from Atlanta (Tsegai)—spoke warmly of their time in the ELF. Both concluded by saying that, beyond the political and military experience, the organization had given them their spouses. It was as if, they joked, they had received their “separation benefits” from the ELF in the form of lifelong companionship.

Then came a man named Kamal Ibrahim. His opening line froze the room: “My experience in the ELF was everything but good.” He went on to explain that he had spent most of his time in prison, that hardship had been his constant companion. Yet he never abandoned what the ELF stood for, and he continues to do his part even now. His honesty—raw, unvarnished, and unembellished—added a necessary counterweight to the nostalgia in the room. It reminded us that the liberation struggle was never a single, uniform story, but a mosaic of triumphs and traumas.

I was sitting next to Michael Embaye from Canada, who leaned toward me and whispered that Kamal’s experience mirrored his own. What struck me most was that neither Kamal nor Michael exhibited bitterness. There was no trace of resentment in their voices, no lingering grievance in their posture. Instead, what I saw was a quiet maturity — an understanding of the past and a willingness to shoulder responsibility for their role in it. They were young then, idealistic and impatient, unwilling to sit quietly when they believed something was wrong. Now, with the benefit of time and reflection, they recognize the complexity of those years. As Michael put it, with a wry smile, “It takes two to tango.”

Michael, incidentally, was Saleh G. Johar’s classmate from the second grade — a small but touching detail that added yet another thread of continuity to the tapestry of shared histories in the room.

Their candor, their lack of rancor, and their readiness to acknowledge the shared nature of the conflict left a deep impression on me. It was a reminder that reconciliation begins not with grand gestures, but with small moments of truth spoken without malice.

When the introductions concluded, an EPLF veteran, Tekie Fesseha, took the microphone. His two older brothers, Tesfit and the martyred Girmai, had served in the ELF. He spoke clearly and with quiet confidence that made it evident he had weighed every word before offering it to the room. He recounted how he had been part of the force that drove the ELF out of Eritrea — a civil war that raged around Mai Ayni and KoAtit, where one of his EPLF comrades stumbled upon a fallen ELF fighter who, in a cruel twist of fate, turned out to be his younger brother. The war, for him and his EPLF comrade, was quite literally a war among brothers.

He admitted how profoundly he regretted his role in that tragic chapter of our history. He said he now sees, with painful clarity, that the absence of the ELF created a vacuum — one that enabled the rise of tyranny and the suffering our people endure today. And then, without hesitation, he asked for forgiveness. He apologized.

It was a moment that hung in the air with unusual weight. His gesture was simple, but its moral significance was immense. In a room full of veterans who had carried decades of unspoken grief, loss, and unresolved history, his words felt like the first crack of light entering a long‑sealed space. It was an act of courage, humility, and humanity — the kind of gesture that reminds us that reconciliation is not an abstract ideal but a lived possibility. It gave me hope that the wounds our veterans carry, wounds that have festered for far too long, can still be healed.

That simple gesture—rooted in understanding, decency, and moral courage—gave me hope. Hope that the wounds our veterans carry, wounds that have festered for decades, can still be healed. Hope that reconciliation is not a distant abstraction but a living possibility. I pray that this small act of humility spreads across our communities like wildfire, because we desperately need that healing.

Saturday, September 26

This was the main day that feaured some prominent figures and speakers among the most notable being, Mr. Tesfai Woldemichael (Degiga), Mr. Girmai Gebreselassie (Qeshi), Mrs. Elsa Mesfin, Mr. Hidrai Fessehai, Mr. Kemal Ibrahim and of course the the master of ceremonly and president of the association, Mr. Tsegai Negash.

The meeting then shifted to a series of recorded voice messages sent by prominent veterans: Mr. Abdalla Hassen; two wounded ELF veterans, Wedi Ulfu and Essa, from the Kassala Wgat Harent Center; Mr. Mohamed Brhan Blata; Mr. Abubaker Ali (Anter); Mr. Saleh Abdalla; and Mrs. Nesrit Kerar. Nesrit, who served in the Executive Leadership of the ELF Women’s Organization and was responsible for public relations, spoke with her characteristic poise, clarity and trade-mark Tigrinya accent, as one observor pointed out. Each message conveyed heartfelt wishes for the success of the gathering. They expressed deep appreciation for the veterans’ loyalty and fidelity to the cause and principles they once fought for together, and gratitude that their comrades — especially the wounded veterans in Kassala — had not been forgotten.

Their messages carried a familiar duality: pride in their role in the liberation of Eritrea, and sorrow over the country’s present condition. They spoke openly about the reigning tyranny and the misery afflicting our people. With unmistakable urgency, they called on everyone to set aside secondary differences and rally behind the national imperative of saving our people and our country. Their voices, though distant, felt close—like echoes of a shared past reminding us of an unfinished duty.

After the voice messages, the program turned to the prepared speeches. The first to speak was Mr. Hidrai Feseha, who served in urban clandestine operations from 1972 to 1981. Although his subject matter was serious and somber, he possessed an uncanny ability to lace his reflections with humor, lightening the mood without diminishing the gravity of his experiences. He is, in many ways, the embodiment of what Harif Wede Asmera represents: sharp, resourceful, and unflinchingly committed.

His emphasis was on the diverse roles Eritreans from all walks of life played to make their risky operations succeed. He recounted a story involving a priest, Aba Woldehaymanot, from Gedam Enda Selassie, a close friend of the martyred legendary leader, Abdelqadir Ramadan. When the ELF ran out of food and the tegadelti at the training camp were starving, the priest—along with three fedayeen, Hidrai among them—managed to sneak into Asmera and return with a truckload of supplies. Hidrai still vividly remembers the moment Abdelqadir Ramadan and the priest embraced after the successful mission, a scene that captured the extraordinary unity of purpose that defined those years.

In another story, he described how he and martyr Brigadier General Mebrahtu Tekleab (Vaynak) were saved by an Eritrean farmer who showed them how to hide inside a haystack while soldiers of the Derg were in pursuit. Hidrai and Vaynak had been collaborating on an operation, and the farmer’s quick thinking and courage saved their lives. These stories—simple, human, and heroic—reminded everyone in the room that the liberation struggle was sustained not only by fighters but by ordinary Eritreans whose bravery often went unrecorded.

As Hidrai recounted the scene, he added a touch of his trademark Wedi Asmera humor. The soldiers, unaware of what—or who—was hidden inside the haystack, were walking around it casually, even urinating nearby. With perfect comedic timing, Hidrai said, “Just imagine if they had lit a match… they would have made a barbecue out of us.” The room erupted in laughter, a welcome release after the tension of the story. It was a moment that captured the essence of Hidrai’s presence: the ability to carry the weight of history without letting it crush the spirit.

Then came Mr. Kemal Ibrahim, and given what he had said the previous night, my expectations were high — and he delivered beyond anything I anticipated. He is another city‑slicker, a true Wedi Asmera, who began by saying, “Hidrai told you what happened on the ground in Asmera; I will tell you what lies underneath Asmera.” With that, he launched into a vivid description of the four rivers that cradle the city from all directions — Mai Chewet, Mai Shekha Frtt, and Mai Mdaget, which eventually merge into Mai Bela. Mai Bela itself has additional tributaries, including Mai Temenay and Mai Elgon. Whether these last two formed the “fourth river” he referred to, the point was unmistakable: Kemal displayed an intimate, almost cartographic knowledge of the city that shaped him.

But this was only a preview.

Kemal then did something I have never seen any Eritrean do. He spoke about the Afar — their culture, geography, economy, religion, language, and history — with a depth and fluency that left the audience stunned. In doing so, he revealed how little most of us know about a people we claim as fellow citizens. It was an uncomfortable realization: how can one speak of national unity while remaining ignorant of the communities that form that nation? Kemal mentioned a Tigrinya book written by his former ELF comrade, Tesfamichael Hagos, titled “ELF in the Afar Baro.” I plan to read it next month.

In a way, Kamal diagnosed our problem and pointed to our solution. In a diverse society like Eritrea, people must make a conscious and sustained effort to know one another. He explained that when he was stationed in the region, most Afaris — nearly 80 percent — did not identify as Eritreans. They were simply Afar. The ELF won them over not through slogans or ideological persuasion, but through tangible service: introducing farming in southern Afar (known to many as Dankalia), expanding education, and providing health services. The tegadali who oversaw the introduction of agriculture in Afar was a graduate of Alemaya College of Agriculture — a detail that underscores how practical expertise, not rhetoric, built trust.

Kamal noted, interestingly, that the Afar dislike the term “Dankalia.” Over time, however, they embraced the ELF as their own and offered their loyalty. Their transformation was not accidental; it was the product of respect, engagement, and service — the very ingredients of national cohesion that Eritrea has lacked ever since.

Kemal acknowledged that the ELF could have done more but insisted it was on the right path. When I asked him whether it was a mistake for the ELF to abandon Dankalia, he choked up, remembering the leaders who were killed by their own. Kemal had been among those who opposed and criticized the leadership. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, he regrets his role and accepts responsibility rather than assigning blame solely to the leadership.

His presentation was so compelling that the audience asked for additional time. It was evident they wanted to hear more — not out of nostalgia, but out of a genuine hunger to understand. We need more like Kemal, who embody Eritrea’s diversity as something natural, unforced, and unapologetic. To me, that is what it truly means to be Eritrean. Kudos to Kemal.

After Kemal, Mr. Tesfai, Mr. Girmai, and Mrs. Elsa spoke in greater detail about their experiences and the complex chain of events that led to the eventual demise of the ELF. It was sobering to witness these leaders acknowledge the intricacies of the situations they had lived through. Tesfai Degiga noted that, aside from his formative years with his family, the ELF experience was the most significant force shaping who he is — a sentiment shared by nearly all the veterans. He acknowledged the organization’s shortcomings but emphasized that those weaknesses were exploited by Nehnan Elamanan for partisan purposes, and Eritrea continues to pay the price for those distortions. Despite its deficiencies, the ELF was better suited to manage Eritrea’s diversity.

Mr. Girmai explained why the history of the ELF matters: within that history lies the light capable of illuminating the darkness hovering over us today. The goal is not to resurrect the ELF, but to document its history honestly, learn from its mistakes, and finally build the country so many fought and died for. He wants the new generation to know their history because whether it is ELF’s or EPLF’s history, it is their history and they need to benefit from its vices and virtues.

Mrs. Elsa, speaking as one of the leaders of the ELF Women’s Association, described how free and autonomous the organization had been. She recounted being part of a delegation sent to Sahel to meet their EPLF counterparts with the hope of forming a united, independent women’s organization. Instead of meeting the women, however, they were met by the men of the Politburo — and nothing came of the initiative. Her testimony reinforced a consensus shared by speakers and participants alike: the ELF had been a far more open and freer organization.

The open discussion that followed was lively — a bonfire of information, insights, and lessons.

Sunday, September 27

The meeting was reconvened after lunch, this time with a forward‑looking agenda: what comes next, and how to strengthen the association so it can be more effective and more relevant. The current board was expanded, adding three new members to the existing four — a sign of both growth and renewed commitment. A task force was established to develop a website for the association, a long‑overdue step toward institutional visibility and organizational continuity. I agreed to join the task force alongside fellow Dallasites Nasser, Tewolde, and Samuel. Apart from Samuel, none of us are members of the association or veterans of the ELF, yet we felt compelled to contribute to an effort that honors a history larger than any one of us.

It was also decided that the next reunion would be held in Dallas, though Houston was given the first opportunity to host—provided it could complete all necessary preparations before May 2027. The meeting took place at the Eritrean American Civic Center, whose president made it clear that the ELF Veterans Association, along with any other Eritrean organization, was welcome to use the facility. It was a gesture of solidarity that did not go unnoticed.

All the food and refreshments were catered by the veterans who had traveled from Houston, a great and meaningful act of generosity that added warmth to the gathering. It was another reminder that, despite age, distance, and the weight of history, the spirit of service and camaraderie remains alive among these veterans.

In response to an insightful commentary and question posed by Nasser Omer Ali of Dallas, Mr. Tsegai Negash offered an articulation of the three‑day proceedings through an anecdote that resonated with me profoundly. In early 1975, Tsegai and three other recruits were assigned to Hali 610, headed by Saleh Abubaker. The Hali, composed of roughly one hundred fighters, included only about six Christians and Tigrinya speakers; the rest were Muslims, most of whom had joined from Sudan. Stationed in Barka Laelay, the unit lived under a cloud of mutual mistrust and suspicion between the majority Muslim fighters and the handful of Christians.

Everything changed after the battle of Duluk, where the Christian fighters demonstrated unquestionable bravery and commitment. Shortly afterward, Saleh Abubaker summoned Tsegai to Hirkokoya, a Blin village near Shebet. Expecting the worst, Tsegai nonetheless went. Instead of reprimanding, Saleh offered counsel that would transform him. He told Tsegai that the ELF’s long‑standing goal had always been to win over the Christian highlanders, and now that they were joining in significant numbers, there were essential principles he needed to understand. The front, Saleh said, must ultimately be led by educated and capable people — but leadership had to be earned. To gain the trust of all tegadelti, regardless of their educational background, one had to be patient, humble, and willing to learn. Once you truly know the fighters and earn their trust, he told him, you will not find more loyal people than them.

That encounter reshaped Tsegai’s understanding of his comrades and of the front itself. It marked the beginning of his deep belief in the ELF and his evolution into a committed tegadali. About a year and a half ago, Tsegai managed to obtain the phone number of Saleh Abubaker, who now lives in Kassala, Sudan, and reached out to him. Saleh was profoundly pleased that his former mentee had not forgotten him — a touching tribute to their comradership and fraternity.

In many ways, this is precisely what Kamal Ibrahim was trying to teach us: we must know one another. Knowledge breeds trust; trust fosters mutual respect; and from these, the foundations of harmonious coexistence are built.

Let us keep writing the evolving story of Eritrea — a story of diversity, a story of inclusion, a story of mutual respect and harmonious coexistence. It is a story still in motion, carried by men and women who refuse to let memory fade or hope die. And gatherings like this remind us that the future we seek will be built not by erasing our differences, but by understanding them, honoring them, and weaving them into a shared national fabric.

To contact the author: weriz@yahoo.com