A Night in an Ethiopian Monastery

By Michael J. Barrington

Debre Damos had always fascinated me. I’d visited several monasteries in Ethiopia on previous visits, including several in Lake Tana, but never this one. Getting there by road was only the beginning of my adventure! Having flown into Axum, I drove towards Adigrat, on a reasonably well surfaced road, passing deep canyons and terraced barley fields. Then, taking the road running southeast with its distant views of the Adwa Mountains, I traveled on what must be one of the most scenic drives in the country. My friend Marcos dropped me at the entrance to a rough-looking side road with the plateau of Debre Damos in the distance, insisting that the hike was all part of the experience — he had been there twice previously. It took an additional one hour hard ascending trek to the foot of the escarpment. And then a climb up more than 500 stone steps to reach the rock face.

Debre Damo is unique. It’s an oval-shaped flat-top plateau, 7,000 feet high and measuring about 3,300 feet in length and 1,200 in width, but it is part of a flat-topped mountain with sheer-sided cliffs. There is a tradition that Debre Damo had also housed heirs to the Emperor of Ethiopia. It was the custom that when the Emperor assumed the throne, his brothers and other male relatives would be taken to a royal prison, where they would live until either they were called forth to become the new emperor or died, thus removing possible threats to his reign. 

The monastery is dedicated to Saint Abba Aregawi, one of nine Syrian Christians who came to spread Christianity in Ethiopia in the 6th Century. While Aregawi settled on Debre Damo, the other “Nine Saints” all settled in this region and have similar churches dedicated to them. Legend has it that Saint Aregawi flew to the top of the mountain on a winged serpent under the direction of St. Michael, thus avoiding the need to be hauled up on a rope! 

The bare rock walls drop off steeply on all sides, and access to the monastery on top is accessible only by using a rope hanging from a small hut high up on the cliff face It was thick, almost too wide for my hands to hold, and made from local materials which did nothing to assuage my anxiety. I waited in line. The ascent looked scary to me as I watched monks and young men, who I later discovered were monk ‘trainees’, simply grab hold and, using both feet and hands, shimmy up the rock face. When it was my turn, I dropped my backpack, trying to lighten my weight. A second leather rope made up of sections of plaited cowhide was thrown down and, after one of the boys tied it around my waist, signaled to the monk in the hut high above me. Hanging on for dear life, while trying to use my feet against the slippery rock, I could feel the rope tighten around my body as I was unceremoniously hauled up. Inside a tiny doorway, a young monk clothed in white smiled at me. Skinny with sinewy arms, he didn’t look as if he could lift a hundred pounds let alone haul a grown man up a cliff face. I learned he was a novice. I also noticed that the main rope was not tethered to anything and realized that if I had fallen off the main rope, I doubted very much if he could have held me. My backpack containing four liters of water, and my cameras came up next.

The novice monk said something to a young boy who led me up a tortuous narrow path and a hundred steps cut into the rock. We passed a maze of low stone buildings and entered a tiny room where Yonas was waiting for me. A skinny, bearded man dressed in a tan colored robe and matching round hat, his disarming smile and piercing dark eyes belied a sharp and sophisticated mind. I was expected. Marco had delivered a letter to the Abbe Minet, Yonas the Abbot, explaining that I had lived for a year as a hermit and spent time in a Trappist monastery in Northern Ireland and asking if I could spend a night there. I wanted to experience a full twenty-four hours with these very special monks.

After a brief greeting, I asked, “Where did you learn to speak English? You have almost no accent.”

“Here,” he replied softly. “Here.” 

After leading me through a collection of walled, small ‘houses,’ each one with a tiny yard where it looked like vegetables were growing, he stopped and opened a door. “As you can see, there are three rooms, for study, eating and sleeping.” It felt cool inside.

My tiny house was made out of stone, mud and wattle, with a small window. It contained a handmade wooden frame bed, lashed together with rope. A second rope was wound in criss-crossed fashion, forming the ‘box spring.’ It was covered by a single goat’s skin. It was very basic, but since I was going to be up most of the night, I wasn’t particularly bothered. The only other furniture was a tiny handmade table upon which were a metal plate and cup. 

“I hope you will be comfortable here. In about three hours, our daily meal will be served. But first, let me show you around. We have about 120 monks in the community now, but most prefer to live in isolation. A few attend the daily prayers and community mass.” 

As we walked, he showed me what looked like a dining room, several workshops, a kitchen where about ten boys were working and what looked like a laundry managed by more boys. He then said I should see their library. It was locked and Yonas produced a large old-fashioned looking key. I was amazed at what I saw – stacks of large, ancient, and probably priceless books. It was more of a storeroom than an organized library. Debra Damo has been a prominent Ethiopian monastic and spiritual educational center for centuries. The monks have written many books, copied manuscripts on animal skins, translated them into Ge’ze the ancient liturgical language, and distributed them throughout the country. He casually opened one and showed me hand painted pictures that were dazzling with their bright colors. I was almost holding my breath as he opened page after page with his bare fingers — shouldn’t he have been wearing protective gloves, I thought? 

“And do you actually use these volumes?” 

“Of course. You will see them tonight when we pray and say Mass.”

“But they must be priceless,” I said, my voice obviously registering incredulity.

“Yes, they are, but they are also liturgical and are meant to be used. But don’t worry, the Ministry of Antiquities comes out from Addis Ababa each year to inspect them to ensure they are not deteriorating.”

Returning into the sunlight, we passed several water ponds now covered with a green algae cut into the rock where rainwater had collected – duckweed I Iater learned. It protects the water against sunlight and evaporation.

“It’s perfectly safe to drink it,” Yonas said. “It has been blessed. It is holy water. We have no other water source.” Having lived in many primitive situations, I had learned never to trust local water unless I saw it boiled first. I hadn’t the heart to tell him I had come prepared and brought my own! 

“The monks eat once a day in the afternoon, usually a simple meal in stark contrast to Western monasteries where monks always eat in common. In Ethiopia, we eat separately. After mid-afternoon prayers, food is brought from the kitchens by students who prepare all our meals. The monks take it to their cells and eat it as and when they please. We normally eat bread and boiled beans with a cup of barley beer or, for sick monks, a cup of milk.”

“And what about fasting? I know it’s a universal feature of monastic life, but understand in Ethiopia it is a key element for all Christians.”

“Yes, it is. Most people fast minimally 55 days a year; here we fast for 252.” 

I had noticed a fairly large group of young boys, mainly teenagers, and wondered what they were doing. Yonas explained they were in training and, in addition to managing all the domestic work, were learning the basics of monastic life. It would take five or six years before they would become official novices and allowed to wear the all-white robe. It might take several more years before they could be ordained as deacons and allowed to assist at mass and the church services. Yonas explained that most of the community was not ordained deacons or priests. They were simple monks, and many chose to live alone like hermits. The majority had progressed through the monastery ‘school’ but others were farmers, widows, teachers and educated men who felt called by God. The intending monk has a long initial interview with the Abbe Minet who does all he can to discourage him from his vocation, explaining the rigors of the monastery compared to life in the world.

 For the many monks living as hermits, food is brought to their hut or cave each day by a monk permanently designated to the task, and the hermit only emerges for the Mass in church on Sundays and feast days. Usually, their cells are within the monastery compound, though sometimes they are a short distance away. Yonas took me to where I could see several apparently inaccessible caves in the sheer cliff beneath the monastery occupied by hermits. He also showed me several empty caves where previous dwellers had painted interesting artwork. Another was full of skulls and bones, the last resting place of many monks. In one there was a body wrapped like a mummy, an obvious recent addition to this strange graveyard.

Back at the main ‘monastery,’ he took me to a place that was used as a bathroom then we went inside the church. I had both heard read about this Axumite building reputedly one of the oldest free-standing churches in Ethiopia and different from the circular ones seen all over the country. This one was a rectangle. I marveled at the interior. It is the only existing proof of Aksumite art. Its walls alternate layers of stone and wood. Numerous animal and plant figures are engraved on the wooden sectioned ceiling. The shape of its doors and windows are similar to those found in the reliefs on Aksum’s obelisks. We climbed the bell tower where the view was breathtaking, an experience I will never forget. 

A bell sounded and about fifteen monks trasped into the church and began chanting in a disorderly fashion and by heart  — there were no books. We joined them. Then, twenty minutes later, they left as quickly and as silently as they had arrived. Where were the other 105 monks? I wondered.

“Mealtime,” Yonas announced and by the time I arrived at my cell, there was a large piece of bread on my plate and a helping of black beans. The liquid in my cup, he informed me, was milk, a special treat since I was a guest. I was surprised since I had not seen any cows. 

“No, we don’t have any,” he said. “No females of any kind are allowed in the monastery, and that includes animals. The only exceptions are dead women. We have a few holy women buried here. But enjoy your meal and I will leave you so you can have time to pray.”

I managed the bread but didn’t trust the milk but so as not to offend him, poured it away when I went to the bathroom area. Just as back up, Marco had also given me three energy bars and, of course, I had my water.

Night came quickly, and it was breathtaking watching the sunset give the whole plateau an ethereal quality. It was easy to meditate, to pray, the real reason I had wanted to be here. There was not a single sound, just silence as deep and unbroken like that of a forgotten tomb. 

Sleep did not come easily as I tossed and turned on the uncomfortable and unusual bed, and I was also cold. At an ungodly hour, there was a tap on my door and my flashlight revealed Yonas’ smiling face. Time to go to church. My watch showed it was 2.40 AM. I followed him in the darkness into the church. There were long tapered candles burning and the smell of incense. It was difficult to see clearly what was happening. Even though there was electricity in the main buildings and a single light in the church, it was not used. 

  About thirty-five monks, all standing and leaning on long prayer sticks, were already assembled. In Ethiopian culture, the handle of a prayer stick is shaped like a tau cross. The tau cross is a T-shaped cross that’s named after the Greek letter tau and looks similar to the Latin letter T when written in uppercase. It’s also known as Saint Anthony’s cross because of its connection to Saint Anthony of Egypt. The stick is used like a crutch to rest on during long services where the priests and worshippers must remain standing. Yonas handed me one as we entered.

Two monks standing before a podium, each holding a tall, tapered candle, began reading or rather chanting from a huge book. Standing next to them was a deacon in brightly colored robes holding a colorful umbrella over them, a symbol of the Holy Spirit. As a former priest and monk, I was allowed into the inner sanctum part of the church and stood next to Yonas throughout the rituals. With so little light, it was difficult to observe everything. Until about three hours into the ceremony when the first light started to show through the curtained windows, high up in the wall. By that time I had been standing for three hours leaning on my prayer stick, but almost without moving. My knees ached, my eyes burned with the smoke and incense. And the chanting continued.

By 7:30 Mass was over. The monks dispersed, and I was left to gather my thoughts. This was my first experience of the Coptic liturgy, and it was difficult to follow anything. Even apart from the language, which was Ge’ez, there was almost nothing I recognized. 

I walked to the most eastern tip of the plateau and sat on a rock watching the sun extend my shadow westwards. A new day. I don’t know how long I remained there trying to make sense of it all. One day was clearly insufficient for me to grasp the totality of life in Debra Damo. What I had just experienced was a tiny piece of a particular lifestyle, repeated day after day by a group of men completely dedicated to a life of prayer and fasting. It was the summation of it all that boggled my mind. Life here was reduced to its barest minimum to allow the Spirit of God to permeate the lives of these monks.

There was one final thing I needed to do before returning to Axum. Marco had asked me to greet Abuna Gebresilase, a monk he had met on two previous visits. I asked Yonas if it was possible to speak with him. It was the way he looked at me that I thought I had stepped over a red line.

“Let me see if he is available. Sit here in the shade and I will talk with him.”

A few minutes later, he returned with a short smiling man dressed in the tan colored robes of a priest and the typical round hat on his head. He sat down on the stump of a tree serving as a stool facing me, and I turned to Yonas to interpret.

“It’s alright,” he said, “he understands English very well.”

“My friend Marco sends his best wishes to you,” I began.

The monk took out what looked like a block of sticky notes and started to write. A minute later,  he handed me one and I read, “Thank you and please thank Marco for me. I remember him well. I cannot speak just now.”

“Are you ill I asked?” not wishing to impose myself any further.

He started to write again and handed me the note with a beatific smile. “I am in good health. The Angel Gabriel came to me in a dream a year ago and told me I can only use my voice to pray to God. I cannot speak to anybody else.”

I was completely taken aback. “And for how long will you do this?” Again, he scribbled down a note. 

“Until the angel comes back and tells me I can talk.”

He held up a small wooden cross as a blessing, smiled and retreated into the monastery.

To say I was stunned by the encounter would be an understatement. But it was time for me to go. I felt privileged to have been invited to live with these monks, albeit for only twenty-four hours. I was both touched and grateful for the openness and willingness of Abba Yonas to treat me like a member of the community, to share everything with me and answer all my questions. I would need time to digest all my experiences that were already forcing me to ask existential questions.  

“So, how was it,” Marco asked after he picked me up at the roadside, “was it what you expected?” I couldn’t answer at first. After just twenty four hours on the plateau, I found both his voice and the noise from the motor deafening.

Michael Barrington lives near San Francisco and writes mainly historical novels: Let the Peacock Sing, The Ethiopian Affair, Becoming Anya, The Baron of Bengal Street, No Room for Heroes. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.