By: Hawi Bussa
It starts softly. A message from a friend in the U.S., a commercial playing “A Song for Mama,” a flurry of Instagram posts with florals and heartfelt captions. You feel it even before the date arrives—Mother’s Day is coming. Not long ago, it would’ve passed unnoticed in many Ethiopian households. Today, it’s beginning to bloom here too.
Mother’s Day is not traditionally an Ethiopian holiday. We have our own rhythm of reverence—timeless, quieter, and often unspoken. In our culture, we honor our parents in how we serve them their Buna, in how we kneel to greet them, and in the small, everyday ways we give up ourselves to show respect. But affection? That was never the language many of us grew up hearing.
And yet, here we are. In coffee shops across Addis, you’ll overhear plans to take Mom out. Restaurants prepare special brunches. Local brands release limited-edition gift boxes—teas, lotions, and scarves. Schools have begun the tradition of handmade cards with crayon hearts. Something is shifting, and it feels beautiful.
This year, I caught myself planning a little surprise for my mother. Not because she expected it—she never would—but because I wanted to. I wanted her to feel seen. And not just for the way she raised us or the meals she made, but for the woman she still is. The girl who once had dreams before children, the woman who sacrificed things we may never know about. It is funny how, as we grow older, we start to see our parents not just as our caretakers but as people with their own layered stories.
Ethiopian culture is deeply rooted in respect, but we are still learning the art of open affection. We love hard, but many of us don’t say it. Our parents rarely said it either. They showed love through provision, protection, and presence—but rarely through words or physical tenderness. This emotional reserve wasn’t coldness; it was what they knew, passed down from generations who survived hardship, war, and survivalist parenting.
Still, I believe our generation is different. We want to celebrate our mothers while they’re still here. We want to break the quiet, to say the words, to buy the flowers, to hold their hands, and to say, “Thank you, I love you,” with our whole chests. We want to give them their flowers—literally and figuratively—while they’re still here to smell them.
Mother’s Day might not yet be stitched into the Ethiopian calendar in red ink, but it’s finding its way into our hearts. It's not about imported traditions—it’s about intentionality. We are not replacing our heritage. We’re adding tenderness to it.
So here’s to our mothers. To the ones who bore us and the ones who raised us. To the aunties and grandmothers who stepped in. To the soft ones and the stern ones. May we celebrate them out loud. May we call them more often. May we learn their stories before it's too late. And may we, the children of a new era, become the kind of affectionate, expressive parents we once longed for.
Love, like tradition, is something we pass down. And it’s a beautiful thing to give your mother her due—today and always.