The African Flower of Zion

It was midday. The blazing sun set in the middle of the sky as we boated across the deep alabaster waters of lake Tana. “See that island over there,” the boat man pointed towards a small secluded island in the middle of the lake, “this is where many Orthodox monks take refuge after ordination. They spend the rest of their lives alone, away from the hustle of everyday life. They plant their own food, spend the hours of the day praying, and sleep under the open sky. “  

We headed towards Zege peninsula to visit one of the oldest Orthodox convents. The boat anchored and the guide took our hands to help us up the slippery trek towards the convent. After fifteen minutes of hiking the muddy trail amid thick bushes and strongly scented shrubs , we finally reached the convent of mercy.  Just before the entrance, we hardly made our way through a nagging crowd of sellers trying to force us to buy their colorful handcrafts. A young child followed me holding Jesus and Mary’s painting on a piece of hairy sheep skin leather; another two girls besieged me while holding cross pendants made of buffalo bones and leather. Eventually, we made our way through the entrance, and suddenly the noise and haste were replaced by a peaceful silence. 

A round bamboo cottage stood alone in the middle of the convent, surrounded by greenery. “This is Ura Kidane Mihret, one of the oldest and most enchanting churches in Lalibela.” The guide said. There was nothing enchanting in its exterior, and I wondered what made it so special. Before stepping into the church, the guide asked us to take off our shoes. 

The moment I stepped through the church’s door, I froze, eyes wide open. The whole interior of the church was covered with breathtaking murals up to the ceiling down to the floor. I was overwhelmed by the sudden waves of beauty and colors- bright red, yellow, and royal blue- that overflooded my eyes. The murals told the story of Christianity from an Ethiopian perspective.“When this church was built, people didn’t read or write, and so the monks painted these murals to educate people about Christianity.” The guide explained. 

I stood there in silence, my eyes raced through the paintings of black Jesus and Mary with their Ethiopian features, and the fragnance of burned incense and old wood invaded my nose.  I heard soft murmurs coming from the other side of the church, a monk was praying. “What is he saying?” I asked the guide. He answered;

“Stand tall, stand tall, my African flower of Zion.

For I am your guardian lion, an armored Lord on his throne.”