The Ethiopian Orthodox Church is a pawn in the hands of Ethiopian immigrants on conflicting sides of home country politics. Osita Nwajah reports You may mistake this for a local political gathering, if the things that you rely on to make a judgement are the red, yellow and green flag hanging above the speaker and the rows of ordinary-looking people paying rapt attention to what he is saying. But that is only if you ignore, among other things, the other feature of the flag. A brightly coloured portrait of Jesus Christ has been glued to its bright yellow centre. This is the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (EOTC). Or rather, a part of it – a rebel branch located in Saratoga Avenue, Doornfontein, Johannesburg. On this particular Sunday morning there is no talk of politics. The sermon is about the influence of God in the lives of men. But it is for political reasons that the 83 worshippers (only 22 of them women) fled Ethiopia.
It is for the same reasons that they elected to part ways with their fellow worshippers, in the more established branch of the church, only five minutes drive away, in Berea, Johannesburg. A few months ago the almost 500 active members of the church were set to take possession of their new worship centre, a former Jewish synagogue in Doris Street, Berea, for which they had, over a four-year period, saved about R500 000 (including a donation by the Ethiopian embassy). Then trouble came in the form of the government back in Addis Ababa. President Melas Zenawi felt he should keep a wary eye on “dissidents” opposing his regime. He asked Archbishop Paulos, head of the church in Ethiopia, to appoint Bishop Petross to take over the spiritual and temporal administration of the exile church in South Africa.
A large body of members accused the government of meddling. “They want to use this mechanism to spy on us,” said Sileshi Tegegne, a journalist, who had to leave Ethiopia in a less-than-tidy manner after he was arrested, detained and tortured for reporting the murder of monk Sekedsallse allegedly at the hands of Paulos’s bodyguards during a church service. The “rebels” decided to stay put at the old hall, rented from the Catholic diocese. Politics aside, they have remained faithful to the universal codes and practices of the church.
The service starts with the priest advancing from the congregation to the altar. He is clad in a white robe. He calls out the order of the Mass in the millennia- old Ge’ez language reserved for such religious occasions. The congregation responds in like manner. Sitting in the front rows are the eight members of the “Kahina” (deacons). Crosses are emblazoned on the deacons’ robes and green headgear held on by white elastic bands. The altar is a table covered with an off- white drapery, which seems to have been rescued from the curtain family of a member of the congregation. On it are a small bronze bell, two big loaves of bread and an array of cheap, framed colour duplications of Jesus and the virgin mother. To the right of the priest, in holders, stand six small candles around a big one. A large drum that can be beat at both ends sits on the ash-coloured carpeted floor of the church. Several times in the course of the mass, it is called to service. A drummer hangs it around his neck and dictates, by his beats, the pace of the singing. But comparatively, this is a quiet worship. Unlike many traditional churches that exploit the feisty nature of the African, not once did the congregation of this church stand up when they sang the hymn. The liturgy follows the regular chant- response format. Two hours into the service, 10 gold-plated staffs and shakers are laid on the floor. The priest and deacons pick a piece each, split into two groups and while singing a soulful hymn, make well-choreographed forward and backward dance movements to and away from one another. Soon they dissolve into a colourful circle of singing and dancing men and woman. The congregation, while remaining seated, occasionally joins in with claps and ululation, when the drummer gives the signal by raising the tempo of his beats. This lasts about 10 minutes; then the priest again leads a chant- response session. While this is on, a young man disappears through a door with the loaves of bread. At the end of the chant-response session a small till box and a bag are passed round for donations, they say, towards acquiring their own worship place. Then the congregation rises and sings a hymn. The worshippers spread out their hands in the manner of Muslims at prayer, and while still singing, go down on their knees, touch their foreheads to the ground and say prayers in that position for five minutes. Sliced bread is passed round. Announcements for the day are made and the Mass comes to an end. One of the announcements that the congregation wildly applauds is that of the September 3 visit of Bishop Melketesdike, secretary general of the synod-in-exile. A letter from him confirming the visit is read to the worshippers. Melketesdike’s eventual visit and sermon at the breakaway faction of the EOTC underlined the political crisis rocking the church. A day after he arrived, he issued a radio announcement inviting all “true” members of the EOTC in exile to worship with him at Saratoga Avenue. More than 200 more worshippers responded, many of them seizing the opportunity to sever links with Petross.
While a worshipper and council member of the Doris Street faction insists that there is no conflict in the church – “because we don’t mix politics with religion” – the history and reality of the church puts the lie to that claim. The EOTC has always been linked to or affected by the politics of the Ethiopian state. Following the first- century conversion in Israel of an Ethiopian eunuch who returned home and in turn converted the monarchy to Christianity, church and state have been inseparable. In the second quarter of the fourth century, King Ezana (later renamed Abreha, a variant of Abraham, the Christian patriarch) declared Christianity the state religion and caused the sign of the cross to be engraved on Ethiopian currency coins. Church and state had a cosy relationship until Mengistu Haile Mariam overthrew the monarchy of Haile Selassie in 1974. While his Marxist regime formally distanced religion from the state, he nevertheless took more than a passing interest in it. Religion Today describes the situation under the 17-year dictatorship: “Churches were shut and Christians were sentenced to years in prison.” After the overthrow of Mengistu, Zenawi promptly sacked Merkorioes as patriarch of the EOTC and installed Paulos. Merkorioes fled to the United States to establish a synod in exile. His followers at home, meanwhile, resisted the appointment of Paulos, which flew in the face of church succession guidelines that forbid the appointment of a new patriarch while the incumbent is still alive. Sekedsallse was in the vanguard of the anti-Paulos campaign. He carried the resistance to a 1997 Mass presided over by Mekorioes. He was in the middle of addressing the estimated gathering of 20 000 worshippers on the subject when he was gunned down. Most of the Ethiopians who have fled since Zenawi came to power have invoked Section 41(1) of Act No 96 of 1991 to obtain temporary asylum permits to stay and work in South Africa. The Department of Home Affairs says it has received 3E052 asylum applications since 1994. Only three have been granted. The claim common to most is that they are escaping the undemocratic government back home, which has been repeatedly slammed for its human rights record.
The question for Tegegne, who is one of 26 Ethiopian journalists listed by the International Freedom of Expression Exchange as having been forced into exile by 1998, is that of a fundamental contradiction in the position of the estimated 300 compatriots who went with Petross. He cannot understand how people who claim persecution at home feel comfortable in exile with a bishop and church administration appointed and controlled by the same government. He maintains that it is the drive to keep politics perpetually separate from religion that made his camp split from the larger body. The action however underscores the very political nature of the struggle over control of the spiritual lives of members of the EOTC in South Africa. Interestingly, Petross approaches the contentious issue of political interests from a similar perspective. He says the division between religion and politics could not have been more defined than now. His appointment to head the South African branch of the church by patriarch Paulos – or “my father” – was strictly on merit, he says. And further: “I have no problem with Zenawi.” He dismisses suggestions that not every member of his flock feels the same way. “I don’t know of any problem [in the church].”
Mulgeta Alebachew, a worshipper, expanded on the denial, emphasising first that there is no breakaway faction of the church known to him. Also, while the Saratoga Avenue faction charge that the Paulos era has witnessed the running down of the church – exemplified in the mysterious disappearance of treasured ancient church artefacts and symbols – the Berea group says all treasured materials are safe in the custody of the patriarch in Ethiopia. But without a reliable inventory of the church’s treasures, it is difficult to determine whom to believe. In May 1997 the Belgian ambassador to Ethiopia, Stephane de Loecker, handed back to Paulos the 5kg golden cross donated by Emperor Lalibela in the 11th century. It had been stolen and sold for $25 000 to a Belgian art collector. The rock-hewn Lalibela church, which housed it, had been declared a Unesco world treasure more than three decades ago. The recovery of stolen church artefacts may not be the most pressing problem facing the EOTC. Split as it is down the middle, opposing factions claiming divine authority continue at home and abroad, to square off in a battle of wits for political ascendancy.