A piece of home: How one Seattle church has become a familiar sanctuary for Ethiopian immigrants

Inside Washington Hall, located in the South Central District of Seattle, 500 people sing prayers in unison. Sounds of Amharic spill from the auditorium into the basement below as volunteers pack traditional lunches of injere, a traditional Ethiopian bread, into foam containers.

A variety of shoes are placed neatly upon the stairs leading up to the auditorium. A pair of women’s gold pumps and men’s Nikes, lay in a corner of the entrance.

Outside the doorway, worshippers bow, kissing the floor before entering the sacred church.

The rhythmic sounds of the priest’s voice echoes within the large establishment and excited whispers of children are heard from the back of the room. This service is performed without instruments, completely relying on the voices of the worshippers singing a cappella.

Early on Sunday mornings, St. Michael’s Ethiopian Orthodox Church meets within the walls of the historic structure. It’s one of three Ethiopian Orthodox churches in Seattle, and offers a place for Ethiopian Seattleites to praise God while preserving their culture.

Sofonias Estifanos, who immigrated to the United States from Ethiopia nine years ago, has been coming to the church since it was established nearly five years ago. He attends service every Sunday. Being able to speak Amharic, bond with other Ethiopians and continue religious traditions specific to his church are all important to him.

“Without the church here, I don’t know how I would survive,” Estifanos said. “This is the only piece of Ethiopia we have here.”

Bare feet are cushioned by decorative rugs covering hard wood floors. A young girl twirls around in circles using her scarf as a cape, behind pews in the back. Men stand on the left and women on the right. The majority of the members wear white scarves. Women wear them wrapped around their faces, and men drape them around their shoulders.

The service goes through several phases, starting with prayers and singing. It finishes with a sermon by the Abatachen, the equivalent of a high priest in Amharic. It is not uncommon for people to stand, kneel or sit during different times of the service. At one point, the priest walks around the room with the Bible, and offers it to be touched by each member of the congregation. Members gently press their foreheads against the book as a sign of respect.

In 2000, the census reported that more than 4,000 people of Ethiopian decent were living in Seattle. Today, it is difficult to determine the number of the growing population, but local community members predict that the amount has more than tripled.

The church frequently holds about 500 people, but on religious holidays like Easter, up to 1,000 squeeze into the building.

Every Sunday feels like a vacation back home, Beyene Ayenew said. The Ethiopian immigrant misses everything about home, except for the school system.

For Ayenew and many Ethiopian other immigrants in Seattle, the opportunity to attend college was a huge factor in moving to the United States.

“At home in order to attend college you have to be very rich,” he explained. “Student loans do not exist; you have to pay for college in cash.”

Since college was not an option in Ethiopia, Ayenew worked for 10 years as a carpenter and a portrait artist to pay the bills.

The opportunity to come to the United States was presented when Ayenew fell in love with a U.S. citizen who was visiting her family in Ethiopia.

Three months after meeting, the two married. After the ceremony, his wife returned to the United States. It was two years before Ayenew was able to gain citizenship and finally be with his wife. The pair had differing opinions and plans for the future. Ayenew wanted to attend school and start a family; she wanted to work and buy cars, he explained. Two years later, she filed for divorce.

“I am feeling very alone, and I am all by myself during the week,” he said. But at church he feels like he is part of a strong community.

Many of his friends are busy working, so his days consist of using the computer, watching television or painting alone in his apartment.

The former carpenter remains positive. He often thinks about his ultimate goals of attending the University of Washington for architecture, starting his own business and raising a family.

After the service, the basement is packed for a celebration. On this day Ayenew eats a plate of traditional Ethiopian food consisting of beans and vegetables on injere, a soft, circular pancake-like bread. There is barely room to stand, and each person in the room is touching. In the Ethiopian church, there is no such thing as “personal space.” Holding foam containers, they share food and stories from their weeks.

“When I am here everything feels the same … I feel like I am back home,” Estifanos said. “Except for the weather, of course.”

At the end of the lunch, Ayenew and Estifanos hug goodbye. They both look forward to next Sunday, when they can spend another few hours back at “home.”

[Reach reporter Chantal Anderson at features@thedaily.washington.edu.]