Remembering Rahwa
And sending love to all of our folks.
It’s been one year, today, since Rahwa Habte left this plane of existence. I’m still not used to the idea that I’m not gonna hear from her soon and everything she’s been up to these last 12 months. It’s hard to put into words everything that Rahwa means to me, although I’ve been trying for the last 15 years.
This is what came out of me the day the news went public:
When we became friends, I had never felt so seen by another Habesha person that I wasn't related to. Our experiences from culture to how we grew up, to the music we loved, to what we wanted to see for the world. We found out years later that our families even had history, and that we went to the same church as kids. Our connection transformed both of us, and it transformed the world around us too. Rahwa is a part of the Lovework album. I mean in every track, it wouldn't of been the same album without her. That album took me around the world and is foundational for my career and so much of what I've done in my adult life. (There's even a UW class named after it right now.) One day we wanted to get some Ethiopian food, and wanted Rahwa to join us. If you knew her, you knew how stubborn she could be for no reason at all. She insisted that we go to an Eritrean place instead. We said "name a place" and she said there was one on 20th & Jackson. That was the first time any of us walked into Hidmo... the previous owner looked at Rahwa's face and named both of her parents, and he looked at my face and named both of mine. He said he was thinking of selling the place if we knew anyone who wanted to buy the business. Later that night, Rahwa, Asmeret and me stayed up all night envisioning what we could do with that place. It could be a hub for organizers, an all-ages venue for up & coming hip-hop artists, and so much more. Less than a month later Rahwa & Asmeret bought the place, and for the first night I was the worst bartender you'd ever want to meet. (I don't drink alcohol and never have.) Hidmo became the first place that every community I came from lived under one roof. It was a community center, cleverly disguised as an Eritrean restaurant in the CD. We changed the city. All of us. Together. And Rahwa never stopped having a positive impact on my life. Every album I've recorded since, Rahwa got one of the first listens. No matter how much time passed, we still caught up like no time passed at all. If it wasn't for Rahwa, and by extension Naomi, Karen and Mijo... I would of moved to Montreal in 2016. I had already purchased a one-way ticket and everything. Probably would of never landed on KEXP, and I don't know how I would of ended up with Ijeoma, in the best relationship of my entire life. This doesn't feel real. I can't believe this is the last photo we'll have. I'm just heartbroken right now. Love to all of us.
We recorded this back in 2011 for the Children of The Dragon album, it's one of 20 something songs we made that summer, only half of which got released. We had closed Hidmo 6 months before I wrote these lyrics, and the building was just empty at the time. Jimi Hendrix's childhood home and been moved from it's original location and was sitting in an empty lot, right next to an empty Hidmo building. A neighborhood and a legacy in flux. I was thinking a lot about how it's the people and not the buildings that make our communities that we hold sacred. Rahwa heard this song. She heard everything.
This last piece is something Hollis Wong-Wear and me wrote together for The Seattle Times. We sat on Zoom with a Google Doc open writing and editing in the same document… just going line for line.
Rahwa Habte, community organizer and cultural innovator
Rahwa’s name meant “the calm after the storm.” She was born into a family of leaders and resistance fighters, born when her family was displaced by a war in their native Eritrea. She grew up between cultures that at times felt like different planets, and as she moved through these worlds she found a way to make place out of placelessness, and homes for the forgotten and left out.
When Rahwa and her sister Asmeret took over Hidmo Eritrean Restaurant on 20th and Jackson in 2006, they grew a restaurant and bar in Seattle’s Central District into an all-ages music venue and an organizing hub, while never displacing the regulars who already came to Hidmo. She believed that everyone in the neighborhood was important, and she worked hard to meet the needs of everyone who walked through her door. From ad hoc board meetings to all-ages hip-hop shows, Rahwa ensured Hidmo practiced radical hospitality, even when it came at the expense of her business. She was a global connector, hosting music and culture from Detroit to Palestine. Her green chicken was unmatched. She was an intuitive organizer, intersectionality embodied, arms outstretched, smile wide and laugh crackling, warmth radiating, melting the Seattle freeze. She created space that hasn’t been replaced.
In her work with OneAmerica and the city of Seattle, Rahwa was deeply trusted by the most marginalized, and unrelenting in her advocacy, introducing the framework of participatory budgeting (in which community members determine how city money is spent) that is now at the center of work being done among Seattle abolitionist organizers working to transform unjust systems. She was a visionary civic leader, and would await just-naturalized citizens with a voter registration form in hand. Rahwa planted possibility that has grown into a vibrant, defiant community of organizers and artists, refusing to let our city be gobbled up by corporate white-collar complacency.
Rahwa was a connector. A wounded healer. She used humor and courageous honesty to tear down walls between people. We miss her so much and we also feel her everywhere, her legacy breathing through our city, her spirit now an ancestor.