Every Life Is a Story. I Finally Started Writing Mine
The Return of Storytelling
There was a time when writing came naturally to me. This storytelling journey did not begin today—it started long ago, in high school, in college, and even in the early years of my career.
I often wrote down thoughts, reflections, and fragments of life as I experienced it. But then life unfolded in its full weight and beauty. Family responsibilities grew. Years were spent in graduate school and postdoctoral work. I moved across continents—from Ethiopia to Sweden, and eventually to the United States. Each transition brought opportunity, but also a challenge. There was little room left for quiet reflection. Slowly, writing faded into the background.
Until recently.
Something shifted in me. Almost unexpectedly, I felt the urge to write again—as if a long-lost part of myself had returned. Words began to flow, not out of obligation, but from a deep inner need to capture life as it happens. I realized something simple, yet powerful: every moment of life holds a story, and every person carries stories worth telling.
The Storytellers Who Shaped Me
Perhaps this storytelling journey is not new for me. Perhaps it is something I inherited.
I grew up surrounded by storytellers.
My father, Sergeant Gebriye Setegn, was one of them. Though he passed away when I was only thirteen, his presence remains vivid in my memory. When he sat among friends, he had a way of speaking that drew everyone in. People listened, laughed, and became part of the story. He never wrote down his stories, but he carried a lifetime of experiences. As a soldier in the Ethiopian army during the 1950s and 1960s, and later during a deployment to Congo, he witnessed history firsthand. Those stories lived in his voice.
Another storyteller in my life was my cousin, Tesfaye Takele. He had a remarkable gift—not only for telling stories, but for remembering them in extraordinary detail. He could recall not just events, but the time of day, the weather, the movement of clouds, even the direction of the wind. When he spoke, we did not simply listen; we saw, we felt, and we lived those moments with him. His stories brought laughter, connection, and life to ordinary days. He passed away in 2015, but his voice still echoes in memory.
And then there is my aunt, Tadesu Befikadu, now 88—a living archive of history. Through her, I have come to understand not only our family’s past, but also its connection to the broader history of Ethiopia. She speaks of ancestors, of journeys from Shewa province to Hararghe during the expansion of Emperor Menelik II’s rule, and of connections to figures such as Lij Iyasu and King Menelik. She remembers names, generations, and relationships—threads of history that were rarely written down, but deeply lived.
One of the stories she tells has stayed with me.
She speaks of her father, Befikadu Woldeyes, my grandfather, a warrior who fought during the Italian invasion. In those days, it was tradition for traditional singers to welcome returning warriors and celebrate their victories through song.
One day, when her father returned from battle, a singer hinted, through her words, that he had come back without victory.
The singer’s voice rose in Amharic:
አባ ጅግሳው ፍቄ የገደለ አንደሆን
አኔም አገላለሁ በደጋኔም ቢሆን
The message was clear—and it stung. The words were not just a song; they were a challenge.
In response, her father returned to the wilderness. Days later, he came back, this time with proof of his courage—a tiger he had killed with his bare hands and a traditional knife, a gorade.
Later, before the gathered crowd, the same singer returned with a different tone—this time, one of praise:
አባ ጅግሳው ፍቄ የጎራው ወንበዴ
ማን አድርጎት ያውቃል ነብር በጎራዴ
In essence, the song honored a man whose courage was so extraordinary that few could imagine defeating a tiger with nothing but a blade.
Stories like these are more than memories. They are identity. They are history. They are lives carried across generations.
But storytelling did not remain only in my childhood. Even during my college years, I found myself surrounded by people who could turn ordinary moments into unforgettable memories.
One of them was my dear college friend, Zerihn Bekele. Zerihn was a born storyteller. To this day, I can still hear his voice when I think about those years. He could speak about his family, his father, his siblings, world politics, or stories from daily life in ways that made everyone stop and listen. Even when he told a story we already knew, he somehow made it feel new, alive, and more interesting than before.
During our college days, we often watched movies together. But sometimes the real entertainment began after the movie ended. When we returned to the dormitories, Zerihn would retell the movie in Amharic, adding expressions, humor, emotion, and dramatic details that made his version even better than the original film. We laughed endlessly during those nights. Looking back now, I realize he was teaching us something deeper: storytelling is not simply about repeating events; it is about giving them life.
Another storyteller who continues to inspire me is my wife, Senait Amare. She has a beautiful gift for remembering people and relationships from her childhood—family members, neighbors, friends, and the emotional texture of those years. I genuinely enjoy listening to her stories. Sometimes she describes Amharic dramas, movies, or simple everyday memories. When I later get the chance to watch the same movie or drama she told me about some time ago, I often realize it is not nearly as beautiful or captivating as the way she described it. That is when I truly appreciate the gift of storytelling—the ability to take a known story, a simple event, or an ordinary moment and make it more meaningful, alive, and enjoyable.
That is her gift.
She can make a quiet story breathe. She can take an ordinary memory and fill it with warmth, emotion, humor, and humanity. She does not merely tell stories—she revives them.
When I reflect on all these people—my father, my aunt, my cousin, my friend, and my wife—I realize storytelling has always surrounded me like a river flowing quietly through life. Perhaps this is why I feel drawn to write now. Perhaps stories have been living inside me for a very long time, waiting patiently for their turn to be told.
Sometimes I wonder why I cannot remember things the way they did—my father, my aunt, and my cousin. They seemed to carry entire worlds in their minds. I often joke that education may fill our heads with formulas and theories, leaving less room for the small, meaningful details of everyday life. Yet what they held—those rich, living memories—was a different kind of wisdom, one that cannot be learned in books.
Why I Started Writing Again
Storytelling, I now realize, is part of who I am. It lives in my family, and it lives in me.
That is why I have started writing again.
I want to capture the moments that might otherwise fade—the journeys, the conversations, the laughter, the struggles, and the quiet reflections. This space, Where Memory Travels, is part of my storytelling journey—a way to preserve those fragments of life and share them with others.
Because we all have stories.
Stories of joy. Stories of pain. Stories of loss, love, growth, and rediscovery.
And perhaps, by writing them, we give them a chance to live a little longer.
Let us keep this journey together.
Storytelling has always been part of human history, shaping cultures and identities across generations.
