Baking Injera and Breaking Barriers

Stretching her wrinkled hands, my grandma encouraged me, "You can try," as she stepped back and stood to my right, eyes fixed on my hands. I felt the weight of her unspoken expectations; any imperfection would disrupt everything. Fear coursed through my body, causing me to tremble. Carefully, I held the white jug filled with liquid dough over the brownish griddle, trying to intuitively grasp where to start and end. As I began pouring the batter, spiraling outward from the center, it didn't come out as expected. My first attempt at making authentic injera, a traditional Ethiopian flatbread, turned into a complex, rhombicosidodecahedron shape. Despite my initial failure, a spark of passion for baking injera ignited within me.

My love for baking injera had been kindled by the divine aroma that greeted me every Sunday morning, emanating from the smoky kitchen where my beloved grandma tirelessly prepared this staple Ethiopian cuisine. I would quietly watch her for a few moments before summoning the courage to ask if I could try. Her response was always a gentle shake of the head and a smile, as though she was bemused by the idea of me attempting this sacred task. Back then, I believed it was because I was just a child, but as I grew older, I came to understand that her reluctance was rooted in Ethiopian tradition.

In our culture, it is the responsibility of young women to learn the art of making injera. A woman skilled in this craft is seen as someone who can manage a household adeptly. Recalling what I had learned about gender equality, I argued vehemently that the knowledge of making injera should not be restricted to girls. I engaged in countless debates with my conservative grandma. While many of my arguments may not have swayed her views significantly, these exchanges taught me valuable debating techniques, from choosing the right tone to identifying the smallest flaws in my opponent's arguments.

In addition to upholding the tradition of injera-making, the antique kitchen was a place where I imbibed values like empathy, humility, and social consciousness. The memorable discussions we shared during those baking sessions covered a wide range of topics, from the prime minister's briefings to the rising cost of living and the day's antics of our noisy neighbors. Despite my youth, I actively participated in these conversations, which helped me gain confidence in my perspectives and opinions. What set these discussions apart was our commitment to finding solutions, not just engaging in empty talk.

Last year, I played a key role in coordinating a three-day community assistance program at a local charity organization. Alongside my responsibilities, I happily baked our delicious food for the elderly orphans and homeless individuals residing there. The blessings and radiant joy I witnessed on their faces were immensely satisfying; my actions felt insignificant compared to their gratitude. The simple skill I had developed for fun had equipped me with a valuable life asset: the ability to give freely from what I had.

The fear and trembling I experienced during my first attempt at baking injera have since vanished. I am now as proficient at making injera as most Ethiopian mothers. This mastery did not happen overnight; it took me numerous Sundays to perfect it. Perhaps if it had not been labeled as "women's work," I might not have considered learning it, and these crucial life lessons may have remained hidden in that small kitchen.

Through the art of injera baking, I learned not only how to cook but also how to stand up for my beliefs. Most importantly, I embraced the value of sharing, a lesson that is invaluable to the world. That's why I eagerly anticipate the opportunity to share my knowledge and teach my college peers how to bake injera.