FROM KEROSENE LAMPS TO GLOBAL IMPACT:
The Legacy of Gidda Ayana’s Class Of 1983
Worku Burayu (Ph.D.)
Dedication: To the Class of 1983 of Gidda Ayana High School, the dreamers, the doers, the resilient and relentless. From studying under kerosene lamps to making a mark around the world, our light never faded, it only grew brighter with time. May these reflections honor our journey and inspire future generations to rise from humble beginnings and reach greater heights.
Why do I write these memories? In a world increasingly consumed by political noise and division, we often forget the quiet power and personal importance of our own stories. Article published in Communication Research even suggests that excessive news consumption can lead to heightened political hostility. Rather than being swept away by today’s endless controversies, I choose instead to look inward to reflect on the beauty and meaning found in the simpler, more formative chapters of life. As the years pass and memories fade, I feel an urgency to document the experiences that shaped my high school years. These reflections are more than nostalgia, they are a testament to resilience, ambition, and the strength of community. This article is my way of honoring a remarkable class and the environment that forged us. Our shared journey was one of the struggles, determination, and eventual triumph. I hope it inspires current and future generations to appreciate their opportunities and strive for greatness, no matter how modest their beginnings.
Why do high school memories surface so vividly now? Is it because I miss my old friends, or is it simply a sign of growing older? These questions often linger in my mind and perhaps they echo in yours too. Though this recollection is rooted in my personal journey, I believe it speaks to something universal: the lasting impact of our formative years, the shared struggles, enjoyment, and dreams that continue to shape who we are. This is an effort to preserve the spirit of a time when hope, resilience, and ambition first took root in us.
Why do high school memories matter? High school is not just about academics. It is a time of discovery, challenges, joy, and personal growth. It is a ride filled with ups and downs, triumphs and failures, friendships and rivalries. We laughed, cried, danced, and created memories that will last a lifetime. No matter where we go or what we achieve, these memories remain part of our identity. At the time, we didn’t realize we were making memories of simply living. High school is where we found and lost ourselves, only to rediscover who we were meant to be. The friendships we formed became the threads that weave through our lives. Even after decades, it is the laughter, adventures, and shared dreams that make high school unforgettable.
Reflecting on the memories: This story holds deep personal meaning for me, and I sincerely welcome your honest reflections. Whether it comes as encouragement, constructive criticism, or a shared memory it recalls, your input is valuable. If you notice any bias or see opportunities for improvement, please share them openly. I also encourage you to share this article so it can reach young people and the broader community. Together, we can help lift the next generation from a mindset of victimhood toward one of triumph and success.
Note: I have not used the real names of my classmates or teachers in this story, as I have not obtained their permission. What follows is a sincere recollection of my high school memories. It is drawn solely from my own experiences and has no political, or other implications. These are actual and genuine memories, not fictionalized or altered narratives.
Introduction
In the quiet hills of Gidda Ayana, where the rhythm of life once echoed with the cadence of chalk on blackboards and the dreams of young students, there existed a class that would go on to shape futures far beyond the walls of their modest school. This is the story of Gidda Ayana’s Class of 1983, a generation that not only weathered the storms of scarcity and adversity but transformed those very challenges into steppingstones for success. From studying by the faint glow of kerosene lamps (locally called Kurraazzi or Laamba) to making meaningful contributions on the global stage, our determination endured, and our light grew ever more radiant with time.
I graduated from Gidda Ayana High School in 1983. If my memory serves me right, the number of students in both the Science and Arts classes was less than 100, and the average age was around 20. In the United States, students typically graduate at 17 or 18, but in my birth country, age disparity in education was common due to socioeconomic factors and limited access to schools. Many started schools late, and in the 12th grade, some were already married or older than their classmates.
The Setting and the Times
The Gidda Ayana High School was a relatively new beacon of opportunity, having produced its first graduating class only in 1981. It was the second high school in Horo-Guduru Awraja, serving students from multiple districts including Eebbantuu, Limu, Gidda-Kiramu, and Amuru. Before its establishment, Shambu High School was the only option, often too distant for many families. Thus, in the early 1980s, Gidda Ayana High School was not characterized by privilege or abundance, but it pulsed with hope and quiet determination, especially among those students who came from the whole corners of the four districts.
Inside the school, material conditions were basic. The school operated with limited resources, minimal infrastructure, and an educational system still in its formative stages. Facilities were scarce. There were no projectors, no science labs, no libraries. Our classrooms were furnished with simple wooden benches and desks. No textbooks, even a guidebook were shared among three or four teachers and much of our learning was recorded by hand in well-worn exercise books. Chalk and blackboards were our primary teaching tools. Students often scribbled every word the teacher uttered, treating those handwritten notes like sacred texts.
Students journeyed from all corners of the four districts, often walking tens of kilometers across unforgiving landscapes through semi-arid lowlands or high mountains rising above 2000 meters, dense forests, and rugged, uneven terrain or relocating to live with relatives, just to have a chance at education. These journeys were not only physically exhausting but also extremely dangerously unpredictable. Students braved extreme temperatures, from blistering heat in the lowlands to bone-chilling cold in the highlands. Torrential rainfalls often transformed narrow paths into muddy, treacherous channels, soaking their clothes and exercise books and making the steep climbs even more risky. Along the way, they were often exposed to life-threatening encounters with wild animals, including venomous snakes, hyenas, and other predators native to the region that roamed freely. The routes they took were remote and poorly marked, with no shelter from the elements of wildlife. Students frequently traveled alone or in small groups, making them even more vulnerable.
Families who relied on modest farming incomes made significant sacrifices, understanding that every lesson learned, every opportunity seized, could change the course of a life. In a world where every grain harvested was precious, so was every page of knowledge, treasured like gold. Yet the spirit of the people, especially the youth who walked miles to attend school, was rich beyond measure.
Despite these challenges and dangers, our commitment to learning never wavered. With resilience and courage, we faced each day’s journey, often barefoot or in tattered shoes, driven by the hope that education would open doors to a better future. Though the physical environment was sparse, the intellectual spirit was vibrant, students were eager to learn, driven by ambition, and inspired by the belief that education could transform their futures.
Because of that Gidda Ayana High School stood proudly with quiet dignity, upheld not by wealth, but by the collective resolve of its students, educators and communities. Education was not taken for granted; it was fought for, preserved, and cherished.
Despite the bare walls and the absence of modern educational tools, our classrooms pulsed with vibrant energy. Our minds were alive, hungry for knowledge, driven by ambition, and fueled by dreams much larger than the town itself. In the absence of luxury, we discovered creativity, resilience, and a profound sense of purpose. We were not just learning subjects; we were learning to believe in ourselves against all odds.
Healthy Competition and Experiences
There was a positive rivalry among students from the three administration districts: Eebantuu, Limu, and Giddaa. The socioeconomics of those districts are almost similar; there were some unique characters though. Majority of us came to the high school from rural areas and some of us from very remote areas.
Every week, most of the students walked 4-10 hours to and from school, carrying barely enough food to last us the week. Mondays, the day we walked to school, felt like the darkest day, while Fridays, when we returned home, were filled with excitement.
After school, many of us enjoyed chewing local sweet sorghum (Agadaa) at our study areas that were nestled between eucalyptus trees, now replaced by houses. There were many varieties of local sweet sorghum, notably those with white and brown grain. These local varieties are indigenous and widely cultivated in the area.
Figure1. local sweet sorghum varieties as white Agadaa (left), brown (middle) and stalk (right)
Some were lucky enough to enjoy grilled or roasted corn (waaddii) or fried corn (akkawwii). Back then, homemade roasted maize was a common treat. Today, open flame roasted maize on the street and sprinkled with salt and chili makes maize a wonderful street food.
Figure 2. Waaddii (Open flame roasted Corn)
The Everyday Moments That Defined Us
While the struggles of our schooling years were real and tangible, so too were the everyday joys that sustained us. Life at Gidda Ayana High School was stitched together by countless small moments of friendship, perseverance, and shared dreams. There was a friendship that transcended textbooks and exams, a bond forged not just through academic pressures but through a profound sense of community. Helping each other with tough subjects, sharing meals, walking home together along dusty roads, or simply laughing under the shade of trees after school, these were the true building blocks of our experience.
I still vividly remember a chilly morning during math class when our math teacher was busy with other duties but when the frost seemed to linger in the air. One of our classmates, affectionately nicknamed “Unkuraa” had a particular habit of bringing what he called “challenge questions.” These weren’t ordinary problems; they were challenges, problems, intentionally missing key steps to test how sharp we were. We used to tease him good-naturedly: “You’re not solving problems, Unkuraa, you’re creating new ones!” Yet, no matter how tricky his problems were, we always rose to the challenge, wrestling with the questions until we cracked them. Looking back, those exercises built not just our mathematical skills, but our critical thinking, resilience, and a fierce spirit of teamwork that would carry us far beyond those classroom walls.
Sometimes necessity turned us into teachers ourselves. When our biology teacher was busy with other duties, he would call upon “Dangaboo” one of our own to step in and teach the lesson. He stood at the front of the class, chalk in hand, explaining concepts with a clarity that surprised even the teacher. In math class, it was “Bongaasse” who often took up the role, confidently walking us through complex equations.
Language, too, became a source of both pride and amusement. Among us was a classmate known as “the dictionary” because of his astonishing command of English. Whenever a tough word or expression came up, all heads would instinctively turn to him for clarification. Even though Amharic was our second language after Afaan Oromo, many of us became so proficient that we could easily hold our own against native speakers, impressing them with our grammar, our vocabulary, and even our creative writing and the highest score we had. In our chemistry class, one student stood out as a true prodigy. He wasn’t content with simply memorizing formulas or conducting routine experiments. With almost no materials at hand, he drew intricate chemical structures and explained the periodic table with the confidence of a university lecturer. His passion was contagious and inspiring.
Meanwhile, those who majored in Social Science, commonly called Arts, excelled in History and Geography. One student, in particular, shared his world history knowledge as if he had traveled to every country himself. In an era without GPS, GIS, or modern tools, another classmate amazed us with his world map reading skills, listing nations and their capitals from memory before the class. At times, it felt as though we knew more about the other world than about our own country.
This peer teaching wasn’t just a matter of convenience; it built leadership, sharpened our understanding, and gave us a deep sense of ownership over our own learning. We were not passive recipients of knowledge; we were active participants in it.
Resilience as Our Superpower
At the time, we didn’t have the word “resilience” in our everyday vocabulary, but we lived it, breathed it, and wore it like armor. Resilience was not something we were taught from a textbook; it was a way of life, embedded in every step we took and every challenge we faced.
Many of us walked long distances to school, kicking up red dust in the countryside or trudging through sticky town mud often with worn-out shoes or none. Coming home didn’t mean rest. Girls fetched water and prepared meals, boys looked after animals and worked in the fields. before even opening a book. Those renting rooms in town often struggled to eat, making simple flatbread from teff flour called kitta, or the preserved food they brought from home called Galaa or “Kotoroo” usually without stew or sauce. Our nights weren’t lit by electricity, but by the soft, flickering glow of kerosene lamps. We leaned over our handwritten notes, battling sleep, driven by the hope of a better tomorrow.
Some of us who spent the night outdoors guarding cattle in a barn used maize stalks and firewood as our source of light for reading and doing assignments. Those who stayed indoors primarily relied on wick-based kerosene lamps. We used traditional oil lamps, often called kurazi or lamba, which typically consisted of a small bowl to hold the oil and a spout for the wick. Burning kerosene lamps released soot, or black carbon, into the air, something we unknowingly inhaled. This often led to respiratory infections and eye strain. The kuraz lamp also posed a fire hazard, especially when students, exhausted from studying, accidentally fell asleep while the lamp was still lit. When available, we also used kindle lights. These lamps and kindles played a vital role in our lives, both in rural and urban settings, as electricity was simply not an option. It was common to inhale soot while studying at night and cough it out in the morning. Some of us felt more energized and focused during the evening hours, while mornings made us sluggish and unfocused. Our sleep cycles and routines varied. As for drinking water, it usually comes from small rivers like Laga Dheera. Don’t ask me about luxuries like electricity, clean tap water, or paved roads, we simply didn’t have them.
Yet, through it all, we never allowed hardship to define the limits of our dreams. We treated adversity not as a barrier, but as a forge shaping us, strengthening us, and sharpening our ambitions. We didn’t feel sorry for ourselves, nor did we expect life to be easier. Instead, we embraced every opportunity with gratitude and fought for every inch of progress with unwavering tenacity.
Today, as we look back, the Class of ’83 stands out not merely as a graduating class but as the beginning of a movement. Many among us have gone on to become leaders in diverse fields: agriculture, economics, engineering, education, academia, and public service. Our classmates are now spread across continents, from North America to Europe, from Africa to Australia contributing to society, leading institutions, building communities, and shaping the future with the same spirit of determination that was born in those humble classrooms of Gidda Ayana.
Our journey is a living testament to what can be achieved when resilience becomes second nature. It reminds us that where you begin in life matters far less than the strength of the spirit you carry along the way.
Was Our Generation Unique?
I believe our class was exceptional, as evidenced by the high number of students who passed the national exam and pursued successful careers. Students who followed in our footsteps have confirmed this over the years. Some of our teachers even remember our student ID numbers of decades later testament to the impact we had. I met my high school teacher in 2019 who reminded me of the ID number of mine and that of the other two students, things totally I forget. Some of our classmates were known for their enthusiasm and ability to initiate deep discussions, particularly in solving challenging math problems. When I met two of them in 2019 in Finfinnee, we reminisced and laughed about those moments. However, they expressed doubts about whether such camaraderie and intellectual passion still exist in today’s generation.
Why We Became the First
Looking back, many have asked how the Class of ’83 from Gidda Ayana high school managed to achieve such an extraordinary milestone, becoming the first class to pass the national examinations in high numbers for the entire then Wollega Province. The answer lies not in wealth, resources, or convenience, but in the strength of our character and the values that shaped us.
First and foremost, it was our mindset. We approached education not as a duty, but as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We knew the stakes. For many of us, education was the bridge between a life of scarcity and a future filled with possibility. That urgency fueled an unmatched work ethic.
Second, we had peer-driven motivation. We were each other’s support system, pushing and pulling one another forward. Study groups formed naturally. Peer teaching wasn’t an assignment; it was a lifeline. No one wanted to be left behind, and so success became a shared goal rather than a solitary pursuit.
Third, our teachers’ commitment was nothing short of heroic. Despite limited formal training, they poured their hearts into their work. They saw potential in us that we didn’t always recognize. Their high expectations became our expectations for ourselves.
Fourth, discipline and sacrifice were non-negotiable parts of our lives. Entertainment was minimal, distractions were few, and the hardships we faced taught us early how to focus, endure, and prioritize what truly mattered.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, we had a deep cultural respect for learning. Knowledge was revered, and education was seen as a noble pursuit. Parents, elders, and the entire community, though often illiterate themselves, encouraged us in ways both big and small sending us off with blessings, excusing us from chores during exam periods, and celebrating our achievements with genuine pride.
These factors combined created a perfect storm not of comfort, but of hunger, grit, and community spirit that propelled us to succeed against all odds. They forged within us a deep hunger for change, an unshakable work ethic, and a strong sense of community. It was this combination that became our driving force, a perfect storm not of ease, but of resilience and collective ambition. Despite the odds, we pushed forward with purpose.
Today, the legacy of that struggle is evident. Our class has produced more than eight PhD holders, three of whom now reside in the United States, and some holding professorial positions at respected institutions back home. Many others have earned master’s and bachelor’s degrees, building successful careers in international organizations, as well as in federal and state governments. But their achievements go far beyond academic or professional success.
Many are also passionate advocates for the Oromo cause. They have used their education, voices, and positions to speak out for justice, identity, and freedom. Many have made significant sacrifices both personal and professional in their unwavering commitment to the Oromo people. Their story is not just one of personal success, but of purpose, sacrifice, and service.
Lessons for Today’s Generation: Reflections from the Class of ’83
In the early 1980s, education in our region looked very different from what students experience today. At that time, the entire Horo-Guduru Awraja had only two high schools. Just two. Students traveled long distances always on foot, facing challenges that would seem unimaginable now. We studied in overcrowded classrooms, with limited access to textbooks, no labs, or modern facilities. Yet, despite those limitations, we persevered.
Today, each district hosts at least one high school. Access has improved, infrastructure has developed, and opportunities are more abundant, but qualities are significantly deteriorating. Here’s the truth: while improved conditions are valuable, they are not what define success. Passion, perseverance, and purpose still matter more than anything else.
Each generation is shaped by the social, political, and economic forces of its time. Today’s youth are no different, but they face new challenges, excessive screen time, social media dependency, and declining reading habits. In contrast, we spent hours walking, working, and studying.
Comparing the present generation to ours, there are noticeable differences in social life, education, and values. In our time, personal interactions were more direct, as technology had not yet dominated communication. Friendships were built through in-person conversations, shared experiences, and strong community ties. Today’s generation, however, is more digitally connected, relying on social media and online platforms to maintain relationships. While this has broadened global connections, it has also reduced face-to-face interactions, sometimes weakening deep personal bonds.
Education has also evolved. In the past, learning was heavily dependent on books, teachers, and hands-on experiences. Students had to search for knowledge through extensive reading and direct engagement. The current generation, on the other hand, has easy access to vast information through the internet. While this provides convenience and a wealth of knowledge at their fingertips, it also poses challenges in critical thinking and information filtering.
Values and lifestyle choices have shifted as well. The older generation often prioritized tradition, discipline, and communal responsibilities, whereas modern youth tend to focus on individual expression, innovation, and adaptability. While both have their strengths, the challenge is to find a balance, preserving the wisdom of the past while embracing the advancements of the present.
Technology has brought convenience but has also introduced isolation, anxiety, and a decline in traditional values. One of the most significant losses is the erosion of safuu, our cultural values and respect for elders. Disrespecting or arguing with elders was once taboo. Reverence for wisdom and experience was deeply ingrained in our upbringing. Maintaining these traditions is crucial for a balanced and harmonious society.
To the students of today: let our story be a reminder that you don’t need perfect conditions to grow. Don’t wait for ideal circumstances, new buildings, or the latest gadgets to begin your journey. The world rarely offers perfection. What matters is how you respond with grit, creativity, and a strong sense of purpose.
At the same time, don’t take this to mean that we didn’t fight for something better. We did. Even as we studied under difficult conditions, we never stopped dreaming of a better education system not just for ourselves, but for the generations to come. We stood up, spoke out, and worked hard to create change in our schools and communities. We knew that while individual perseverance was important, collective progress mattered just as much. Some of us were even actively involved in politics, sometimes taking different paths and holding opposing views. But having different political opinions never made us enemies. Politics was just one part of life, while our friendships, family ties, and social bonds were rooted in shared experiences, mutual respect, and understanding. Differences in political views should never divide people or stop them from enjoying life together. In fact, healthy debate and diverse perspectives can strengthen society, so long as they don’t come at the expense of personal relationships.
So, don’t stop pushing for progress. Don’t forget to fight for your right to demand quality education, better infrastructure, and a fairer society. Strive to improve your conditions not just for yourself, but for those who will come after you.
Cherish your classmates; they are not your competitors. They are your future colleagues, collaborators, and lifelong friends. The bonds you form now can shape your future in profound ways. Learn to lift each other up.
Honor your teachers. They are not just delivering lessons; they are planting seeds of potential that will bloom over a lifetime. Many of us in the Class of ’83 still carry the values, wisdom, and inspiration of our teachers in everything we do.
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. Education remains the most powerful tool you will ever own. It can open doors, break barriers, and change lives, including your own and those around you.
Conclusion
We, the Class of 1983, stand as living proof that greatness is not born from privilege but forged through perseverance, vision, and purpose. Our circumstances were difficult, yet our mindset remained unshakable. We dared to dream and worked tirelessly to turn those dreams into reality, not only for ourselves but for our community and our people.
That is how we journeyed from studying under the dim glow of kerosene lamps to making a global impact, our light has never faded; it has only grown brighter with time.
To the generations that follow carry that torch forward. Believe in your future, work for it with integrity and courage, and always stand for something greater than yourself.
Worku Burayu, Ph.D.
Agronomist by Profession,
Steward of the Oromo Cause by Purpose.
