I was born in Ethiopia (I’m Eritrean, that complicates things) into a privileged position by Ethiopian standards, and in some ways, even American standards. I had access to education, relative safety, proximity to whiteness, and many comforts that didn’t reach most of the population. I was the son of a pilot and a nurse and they were the only ones that worked for industry other than themselves. Everyone else in my family, distant or otherwise, had their own enterprise—-from owning small businesses to large corporations. I was raised to be a capitalist to an extent, and later in my life I learned why.

Money was needed to fuel the revolution, and every member of my family was part of the resistance. If they weren’t in the field fighting or providing medical support, they were finding ways to fund the fight. Along with this, some of my relatives traveled overseas to gain support in any way possible. Half of my family were incarcerated as political prisoners—both men and women. Early on, I learned that women weren’t part of the revolution - they WERE the revolution - and to this day I’m still learning about the struggles that each member of my family endured to get to the point where we are now.

My father, Teclai Keleta, was born in a mud hut village and worked his way up to becoming a pilot after leaving his home to live in larger cities. He went from villager to mechanic, to working on flights, to finally becoming a captain of the main, state-run airline. A source of pride for all those around him, he inspired others to follow in their footsteps and find their calling. Eventually those he inspired also found ways to be a part of the resistance. All of this took place during the early days of the war for independence against Haile Selassie (I struggle with Rastas that revere him). My kinfolk educated themselves during this time in efforts to find ways to dismantle the imperial regime.

In the mid-seventies the emperor was killed by one of his top generals and a new “communist” regime was instated, despite it being another dictatorship through and through. The next seventeen years or so were times of terror, but they were also times of unity for many of us. People fled in droves, with some leaving the country in search of safer areas to support the resistance. Others went to the fields to fight head-on. This was around the time when I was born.

I know I’m giving y’all a book report here but this is a key part of my early life and generational history that radicalized me. My father was killed when I was about three years old. He was flying a cargo plane loaded with guns was shot down. How and why it was him is another story, but if it wasn’t him in that plane it would’ve been another plane. Such is life in love and war I guess. My mother did not take to this well, which led to the decision to relocate us to Italy when I was six years old. We only stayed for about six months, however, before making the move to the United States.

The next chapter of my radicalization begins here. In the U.S. I quickly learned that my blackness was something I needed to be aware of. It was shocking to go from not having to acknowledge this aspect of my identity for it to suddenly be at the forefront of my life. It took years for me to understand this shift but the experience of it was instant. Along with this I endured feelings of awkwardness and confusion due to my mother’s mental decline.

When I was fifteen my mother and I returned to Eritrea after the war had ended and we had won our independence. We were excited to see her surviving brothers, their wives and their children, and her parents. The last memory I had of my grandfather up to then was when my grandmother and I brought him food while he was serving a five-year prison sentence, after being caught with a letter that contained information about financing the resistance. I remember the honey we’d bring him and the concrete slabs that surrounded us. I remember learning he was given a lighter sentence (essentially evading a death sentence) out of respect for him being an elder. It brought me joy to be reunited with my grandparents and to be surrounded by people that looked like me. There was excitement in the air, as if it was my first time breathing. I was there for ten months celebrating freedom for my people but at the same time I found myself fighting for my own freedom. My mother ran out of her medication a week after arriving and a lil’ ol’ country in East Africa didn’t have the meds she needed or any that could have helped. My mother could no longer travel in her state so the adults in my life decided that I should live there. Despite the blissful return, I did everything I could to convince them to let me return to the United States. Stockholm Syndrome is a motherfucker.

Fast forward a few years to me going from a planned life as a “professional” to hitchhiking across the States. After getting arrested a few times I ended up in New Orleans in my late teens, where I partook in my fair share of partying, drugs, and enough criminal matters to wind myself in jail. After some back and forth, all while running out of money and connections, I finally did some time. I served two and a half years of a three year sentence for paraphernalia for a crime that should’ve resulted in a misdemeanor with a maximum of six months. The D.A. at the time was Cannizzaro, who strangely was also my judge. When I got out, I hustled legally and worked to survive. All I wanted to do was forget everything and live in peace, but that never happened. Not a single day.

Everyday I was black and everyday I was and still am a fucking disenfranchised felon in the United States. Each day that passed was one that I couldn’t stand. I’ve always dreamt of taking down the government, along with every corporation and institution that upholds this very bullshit. Every religious symbol and system is a reminder of why I love fire so much. I was full of rage and I still am. For many years after that prison stint I tried to live a normal life by actively trying to become a part of this decrepit system, all while numbing the rage. I did okay for a while until ICE came and locked me up. I spent three more months incarcerated, wondering if my case would eventually win and free me. In the end I won a little something.

After receiving an active deportation order, I was able to change the status of my case to a “Withholding of Removal” because I managed to prove how bad things would be for me if I returned. It’s a win, but even that win is a prison. After my release and a few years of not-fighting-the-system, I went full fuck-it mode and returned to a life of drugs, guns, and “financial” crimes. Credit cards, bank fraud and the like. It brought me joy learning of ways I could live my life at the expense of imaginary “money” and banks. It was fun while it lasted. I was sentenced to five years in prison and I spent three of those years in an Angola extension camp. There I worked my way up to a “trusty”, which granted me the privilege to work directly for the warden of a prison that was in a hybrid-like state and run by a for-profit company.

Before landing myself a year of parole, I spent one year in a work release camp that was the closest thing to slavery that I’ve ever experienced and it was just as bad, if not worse, than prison itself. I should rewind back to the three years part. During that time I was recruited to be part of a leadership group by some brothers that saw potential in me. There were all sorts of “programs” and groups that focus on music, sports, faith-based activities, etc. and I was fortunate enough to get plucked by some black men in the prison that were guiding other black men. They taught me to not just be better but to educate others so that they may understand the systems at play and to work towards change. Up to that point I had never organized but instantly, I was now in a position to speak what I knew and felt. There were so many brothers that were eloquent, charismatic, and knew how to raise a fucking roof. I aimed to learn from them, and I did.

I was able to share my knowledge, experience, and understanding of history, and along with a solid desire to move us forward, continue to learn how to fight a most oppressive system behind bars. We led hunger strikes and work strikes though I wouldn’t say they were a success. We crumbled under their full weight and influence. I take responsibility for the failures of our leadership that couldn’t sustain the momentum. We failed at conveying and convincing others about the power of solidarity because we felt that our ability to teach and mobilize would be sufficient. It wasn’t. We failed at solidifying resolve to hang strong through time and withstand the pushback. I took it personally every time we didn’t reach our objective and yet I hesitate to say I was part of the leadership then with so many amazing men there, men who constantly reminded us of what we each brought to the table whenever we doubted ourselves. I was taught that we all needed to play our parts no matter how many parts we had to play. I learned a lot from my brothers then that I still find strength from. Today I can proudly say that I learned to organize in prison, even though I still struggle at calling myself an organizer. Organizing out here is a different animal and I’m still learning the ways from others again.

I loved working in the warden's office— the “master’s” house, per say. I used the fuck out of it to benefit my people behind the fence. My ability to navigate white spaces and my proximity to whiteness helped temporarily create a better situation for my people because I shared the benefits with them. That group operated this way before me and it continued after I left. Since my release in 2016, I’ve chilled in ways of reflection and observation and have dealt with the issues that come with being a black immigrant and felon with an active deportation order. In some ways I’m luckier than many because I don’t take my experiences lightly, but I’ve also worked to not take them heavier than I should. I’ve since labored to find ways to ground myself and channel my energies more constructively. I’m educating myself and finding ways to accept that this is the world I live in while also understanding that this is the world I want to dismantle.

I found Southern Solidarity because of Jasmine after I saw the mutual aid work she had started on Facebook. A few days later I offered to volunteer. The joy my heart felt when I found out that this was on some anti-imperialist shit was the day I found a new heaven. Excited for the work ahead y’all!