A Tale of Two Drum Beats: The ‘Wollo Model’ of Religious Tolerance
(First appeared on www.theethiopianamerican.com)
Whenever I hear Tewodros Kassahun’s (aka Teddy Afro’s) classic song “Shemedefer,” it reminds me of my friend Mohammed Ali. Did the name Ali trigger a memory timeline and bring to life an image of a legend? I thought so. But let me save you the surprise: the young, flamboyant, greatest boxer of all time—“king of the world” (as he deservedly called himself)—is not the Ali I’m writing about. My friend Ali wasn’t even born when the great boxer became a champion not only of professional boxing, but also of the struggle against the grim reality of racial segregation in 1960s America. The legendary Ali took his name, like Malcolm X, when he converted to Islam and renounced his former name, Cassius Marcellus Clay, as a “slave name.” My friend, however, received his name from his Christian parents.
For the champion, his name was a central part of his fight against the political and social realities of his time—realities that justified themselves along predetermined racial lines. For Ali, my friend, his name carries a totally different implication, devoid of the preconceived meaning most people attach to it. For the legendary Ali, knocking out his contenders by pounding them like sacks of sand was his hallmark; for my friend Ali, the actual drum is his expertise.
Are you from Wollo?
One thing my friend Mohammed Ali is getting used to when he meets people outside Ethiopia is a frequently asked question. In such circles, where he sometimes needs to reveal his religious background and then state his name, he gladly answers the most frequent query: “How could that be?” Among Ethiopians, the same revelation triggers another common question: “Are you from Wollo?” Though he was born and raised in Addis Ababa, hundreds of kilometers away from Wollo, I understand why people make the connection between his name, religious background, and a place.
Wollo, located in northeastern Ethiopia in the Amhara regional state, has a distinctive character that makes it known as a place of tolerance and harmony. In addition to the exemplary coexistence of different ethnic groups—Oromo, Amhara, Tigre, and Afar—Wollo is most renowned for its religious harmony, to a degree that seems impossible to parallel elsewhere in the world, except perhaps in many parts of Ethiopia itself.
If the legendary Ali had visited Wollo during the height of his championship and heard the names Mohammed, Idris, or Ali, he might have assumed he was hearing only Muslim names. But his guesses would have been right only about fifty percent of the time. Surprised? Don’t be—and here’s why: it’s commonly said that in Wollo, one can meet a Christian priest called Ali and an imam named Gebre Meskel (which translates as “Servant of the Cross”). This tradition, which flourished out of centuries-long tolerance and intermarriage among ethnic groups transcending religious lines, has created a generation in Wollo—like my friend Mohammed Ali—who might have a Muslim name while practicing Christianity, or a Christian name while practicing Islam.
As a mark of its colorful tradition, this apparent chemistry and brotherhood between the two Abrahamic religions reflects the connection they should share, given their very inceptions in the Arabian Peninsula and their roots in the same family (Ishmael and Isaac). Unlike in many parts of the world where religion, at best, is vested in hardline, discriminatory, and hate-fostering rhetoric, in Wollo it’s virtually unheard of—and considered irrelevant—to label one’s neighbor as “the lethal other” simply for calling on God by a different name. For the religious people of Wollo, faith inspires them to act humanely toward one another. That’s why there are countless instances of Muslims willingly contributing to the construction of churches in their communities, and Christians participating in Muslim festivities with joy.
My friend wasn’t born in Wollo, but he is an example of the religious tolerance that manifests throughout Ethiopia. Like many in Wollo, his family tree includes both Muslim and Christian names. That’s why his Christian faith paired with a Muslim name was no surprise to his parents. But it didn’t save him from occasional wide-eyed reactions when he shares his family heritage—especially in church circles where he serves as a choir member in Sunday school, then goes home to his wife, who is Muslim. “What world are you talking about?” you might ask. Well, that’s the routine—though by no means exhaustive—reality of religion in Ethiopia, especially in Wollo.
Beating the Drum
My friend Mohammed Ali is an expert drummer. If you can picture the large, double-headed drum played during Ethiopian Orthodox Christian festivities, imagine Ali skillfully beating it with heart-throbbing, exhilarating rhythms. For him, the drum is much more than a musical instrument. According to Orthodox Church tradition, the drum represents both the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Ali once told me the leather straps connecting the drum’s smaller and larger faces symbolize the lashes Christ endured before his crucifixion. I’ve heard similar explanations of how the beats and rhythmic sequences represent both mourning and the declaration of the good news of the resurrection. Thus, he plays the drum with deep care and understanding.
If you thought such intricate meanings were exclusive to Christian drumming, you’d be mistaken. During a visit by Ali’s Muslim in-laws from the countryside, I witnessed something remarkable. At Ali’s home, eager to participate in the “Dua” (a musical prayer asking for God’s blessings), I watched his Muslim in-laws skillfully play the “Debbe”—two small side-by-side drums, one larger than the other—beating them in rhythm with devotional songs. The experience reaffirmed my belief in humanity’s capacity for openness and limitless tolerance.
“Kidase ena Azanun” – Liturgy and Azan
I’m always fascinated by the intimacy between music and the sublime in religious and mystical traditions, which is evident in Ethiopia as in other parts of Africa. Christian hymns and Islamic menzuma (chants) show how the threads of religious morality are woven into the social fabric of people’s lives.
Drums are arguably among the oldest musical instruments mastered by humans. More than any other instrument, drums appear universally across cultures, fashioned in diverse ways but always played to rhythms imbued with meaning. Perhaps that’s why drums transcend cultural, religious, and geographical divides—differences that are often artificially erected.
Since the dawn of humanity, our attempts to interpret nature and define our purpose—through religion or other systems—still linger as powerful forces shaping our lives. These ideas, though ancient, compete in today’s marketplace of ideals, still influencing our collective path forward. Music and its instruments remain some of the most potent ways humanity expresses spirituality and the quest for meaning.
If someone asked me what music is, even without credentials, I’d venture that music is one of humanity’s countless attempts at transcendence. “What transcendence?” you might ask. I mean the transcendence of the physical into recognition of the inner self, or of the human into the awareness of the “supposed” or “felt” superhuman. Imagine one of our early ancestors stumbling upon strings stretched between two poles—maybe even a trap—and realizing the unique sounds they made. That moment of awareness was a transformation: the perceptive self becoming a productive self, marking one of our first steps away from the monotonous past.
Have you ever found yourself, as I sometimes do, marveling at the joy and ecstasy radiating from religious festivities of different faiths and wishing that religion could always emit only the music of happiness?
A Word of Caution
I’m not under any illusion that religion in Ethiopia has always followed the “Wollo model.” There are, and have been, regrettable pockets where both Christianity and Islam have inspired division and conflict. My point is that the delicate teachings of religious belief should be used to strengthen humanity’s inherent tendency toward togetherness, as exemplified in Wollo. As Teddy Afro sang in “Shemedefer,” religious leaders and believers should not fall prey to hardline, hateful rhetoric, but instead preach the brotherhood of humankind—like my friend Mohammed Ali lives every day.
As a Nigerian proverb wisely says, “When the music changes, so does the dance.” In Ethiopia’s current religious climate, any misstep—whether by government intervention or religious groups—that undermines our long tradition of tolerance risks changing the positive rhythm of coexistence into something alien and disastrous.
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