By: Ahmed Mohammed
Shortly after my arrival, the call to prayer, the Adhan, echoed from the mosque, and then after bells from Raguel started drifting through the evening, fresh air was blowing from Mercato, the largest open market in Africa. I felt my soul connected to divine energy and cosmic whispers, and goosebumps engulfed my entire skin as well. Words of God kept filling the immediate environment. I felt refreshed, my aura detox.
So perfect! So Unique. As it rarely does, Ramadan and Lent have once again coincided, perhaps with a mysterious cosmic plan aimed at further blending Ethiopian Muslims and Christians-which is still perfectly in sync thousands of years after the two Abrahamic religions started off winning souls of Ethiopians, cleansing ruined fleshes and sinned souls.
From the twin chapels, preaches kept coming---simultaneously yet audibly. "Love thy neighbor as thyself," he proclaimed, his tone soft yet strong. "For in love, we find the essence of God. Through forgiveness and compassion, we mirror the divine."
My heart has now begun being stirred by the simplicity and depth of the message. After all, I have been always taken away by the teachings of Jesus—his emphasis on humility, kindness, and selflessness. Yet, as I turned my gaze toward the mosque, another cosmic, so mystic voice kept reaching my alert ears.
As always, I found the imam's voice so rich and resonant with my lust for truth and cosmic guidance. I have felt my nearly depleted energy refueled with humility, hope, and 'taqwa. "Allah is merciful and compassionate," he declared. "Strive to live a life of righteousness, to care for the poor, to seek justice, and to walk in humility. For it is through our actions that we draw closer to the Divine."
I felt a shiver run down my spine, turned euphoric of the religious harmonies this land of origins has braved for over thousands of years. The teachings of Islam, too, spoke to my soul—its brave verses and chapters that predicted quantum physics fourteen hundred years ago. I turned inquisitive at how both faiths, though distinct in their teachings, seemed to echo the same fundamental truths.
Lost in my euphoric thought, I rushed to meet my friend, breathing in and feasting on the streetside fast foods ready to be served for passersby, mostly freely. Nearby, I met my friend Daniel, enjoying a freshly baked Samosa. I found his face lit by the soft glow of a nearby roadside lamppost. Daniel and I had known each other for decades. And though our paths had diverged—he, a devout Christian, and I, a practicing Muslim—our friendship had remained steadfast.
“Hey, Dani!” I called out, waving as I approached him. He looked up, his face breaking into a warm smile.
“Ah, my friend! Just the person I needed to see,” I said, as we hugged. “I was just thinking about how long it’s been since we shared a meal together.”
We walked together, our footsteps echoing in harmony as we made our way to my home. Along the way, we passed the Raguel Church, its ancient stone walls standing tall and proud. From within, a mystic hymn drifted out, carried by the evening breeze. Dani paused for a moment, closing his eyes as if to savor the melody.
“That’s the Lenten hymn,” he said softly. “It always reminds me of how much we have in common, you and I---Islam and Christianity.”
I nodded, smiling. Just a few blocks away, the minaret of the Anwar Mosque rose gracefully into the sky. As we drew closer, the call to the ‘Isha; prayer echoed through the streets. The two sounds—the hymn and the call to prayer—seemed to intertwine, creating a symphony of faith that felt uniquely Ethiopian- --- a nation that has embraced Islam and Christianity one after the other, a nation whose name is well versed in the holy texts of both Islam and Christianity---the Holy Quran and the Holy Bible.
From nowhere, Bilal Al Habesh flashed my mind. ….. Sadly, we failed to promote his role for our advantage, though the tall, such handsome Ethiopian rose to the occasion and became the first caller to prayer, Muezzin.
At home, I laid out the ‘Iftar’ meal: dates, freshly baked ‘injera’, spicy lentil stew, and a pot of steaming Ethiopian coffee. Dani and I sat cross-legged on the floor and began our meal with a prayer—first his, then mine. It was a small gesture but one that spoke volumes about the respect and understanding we shared for centuries.
As we ate, our conversation turned to the twin religious buildings in Wollo , my birth place we had both visited as journalists. The chapels—one dedicated to the Virgin Mary and the other to a revered Islamic saint—stood side by side, their doors facing each other as if in silent conversation.
“Do you remember the story the priest told us?” Dani asked, his eyes twinkling.
The chapels were built by two brothers, one Christian and one Muslim, who wanted to honor their shared heritage, wisdom, and treasure." This is very common in Wollo, where interfaith is tied wisely, never to be lost. And they’ve been in sync ever since. Just like us.
The stories of the twin chapels in Wollo and the Grand Anwar Mosque and Raguel church in Addis are a microcosm of Ethiopia itself—a nation where Islam and Christianity have coexisted for centuries, their histories intertwined like the threads of a finely woven tapestry. This harmony was especially evident during times of such kinds, when Ramadan and Lent coincided, as it does this year, and the entire nation seemed to be fasting together.
Religion is not a dividing line but a bridge in, Ethiopia. Christians and Muslims often attend each other’s religious ceremonies, sharing in the joy and solemnity of their respective faiths. During Easter, it’s not uncommon to see Muslims joining their Christian neighbors for the traditional feast, just as Christians often share Iftar meals during Ramadan.
This spirit of unity is deeply rooted in Ethiopia’s history. The country is home to some of the oldest Christian and Muslim communities in the world. The Ark of the Covenant, said to be housed in the Church of St. Mary of Zion in Axum, is a symbol of Ethiopia’s ancient Christian heritage. Meanwhile, the town of Negash is revered as the site of the first Muslim settlement in Africa, where early followers of Islam found refuge under the protection of a Christian king.
After our meal, Dani and I decided to take a walk. The streets were quiet, and the city bathed in the soft glow of a crescent moonlight. As we passed the Raguel Church again, we noticed white-dressed groups of faithful standing outside, listening to the hymns. Muslims are also now seen heading Tarawih (nightly prayer).
It is a scene that could only happen in Ethiopia, a country where faith is not a barrier but a bond. Dani and I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. I think the twin chapels in Addis Ababa—Anwar and Raguel are a perfect metaphor for our country. They may be different, but they’re still in sync-with their crescent and cross-facing each other.