photography stories
Lalibela: More Than a Place
Growing up in Ethiopia, Lalibela was everywhere for me. I saw it on TV, in magazines, and in our school textbooks. I thought I knew it well, almost too well. So when I finally decided to visit after I started university, I honestly didn’t expect much. I thought it would be just another church, familiar and ordinary, since I had already “seen” it countless times through photos and screens.
But the reality was completely different.
Standing there for the first time, Lalibela was nothing like the images I grew up with. The architecture and the way the churches are carved into rock are, of course, astonishing but for me, it was something far deeper. There was a spiritual presence, a connection that caught me off guard. I felt something I had never felt before, something I still cannot fully put into words.
I’ve had the chance to experience Lalibela both during great celebrations and in moments of quiet. When it’s alive with thousands of people, it feels as if angels themselves are singing the air almost vibrating with devotion. And when it’s quiet, almost empty, it feels like walking in another dimension, like stepping onto a planet I had never visited before. It may sound like an exaggeration, but trust me it isn’t.
I’ve traveled across Ethiopia, seen landscapes that take your breath away, and visited many cultural and religious sites. Each is special in its own way. But Lalibela is different. The feeling I had on my first visit returned every time I went back, unchanged and just as powerful.
Lalibela is more than a place. It’s an experience, a presence, a mystery. It cannot be captured fully in a photograph or explained completely in words. It must be felt. And I am grateful it exists.
PS. These photos were taken in 2018, when I first visited Lalibela. At the time, I had absolutely no idea about photography I thought I was a pro with my tiny phone (pretty sure it was a Huawei, but don’t quote me on that). Looking back now, it makes me laugh, but hey, these are my ‘early masterpieces,’ so I’m attaching them here in a new way
Daughters of the Light – A Father and Daughter
Daughters of the Light: has always been close to me. It is not just a project; it feels like a mirror to my own spirit.
One afternoon, I was sitting with my aunt, Emahoy Meaza Mariam. We were talking about life in the monastery silence, prayer, the rhythm of devotion. In her soft way, she told me about a friend of hers, another nun. She said, “Her story is special, you should hear it.”
Not long after, I went with my aunt to visit this friend Emahoy Tensai. She welcomed me with quiet eyes and gentle hands. I told her about my project, and she nodded, ready to share.
Her story unfolded like a prayer. After her mother passed away, her father came to visit her at the monastery. He was just a visitor, a grieving husband, an old man carrying loss. But as he saw his daughter’s life of devotion, her peace, her quiet strength, something shifted inside him. At 89 years old, he decided to become a monk. To leave behind the noise of the world and live where his daughter lived in prayer, in discipline, in light.
Now they live side by side. Father and daughter, bound not only by blood but by the same calling. She prepares him for liturgy, she cares for him as a daughter, and together they pray as two souls walking the same path.
I watched her, later, stitching a simple monastic head covering. The thread passed slowly through the cloth, her fingers moving with patience. It was not just sewing it was devotion, a rhythm of faith hidden in everyday work. Each stitch felt like a quiet hymn.
That day stayed with me. It reminded me that faith is not only in great acts or rituals. Sometimes it is in a daughter’s hands dressing her father. Sometimes in the slow movement of a needle through cloth. Sometimes in the silent decision of an old man who chooses God because he has seen God alive in his child.
This is what I want to share. These are the daughters of the light. Women who do not seek to shine, yet shine. Women whose devotion is carried in their hands, their voices, their care. And in their light, others find their way home.
Sept, 29, 2025
