We lost contact with our Ethiopian Lighthouse Farm community in the Atsbi catchment in Tigray, Northern Ethiopia, towards the end of 2020.

In the news, we heard of a civil war in the north of the country, but very few details emerged. Insider reports spoke of an impending famine, with aid being stopped at the border.

When the UN was finally allowed to enter the region with satellite phones, we were relieved to learn that our immediate colleagues were alive. But how had our Lighthouse community survived?

Without knowing what to expect, we travelled to see for ourselves as soon as we were allowed. Would our community still be there?

The answer was yes. In fact, they have grown even stronger and are shining an ever-brighter light. But that has come at a terrible price.

Like every conflict, this war has been complex. It is not up to us to judge from afar, to take sides, or to tell right from wrong. Instead, we simply listened to the stories on the ground. Stories about the reality of farming inside the fog of war, echoing stories from so many conflict zones around the world.

This is what we heard: “We were waiting for the rains. Then it started raining bombs.

“We refer to the war as The Siege, because a siege it was. First the soldiers came. They came from the north, they came from the south. They burnt all crops so that we couldn’t eat. They destroyed our machinery so that we could not plant again.

“Then they closed the borders – no food was let in, no fuel. They cut the internet to stop communication. They closed the banks, so no one had any money. Almost 1m people died. We can’t be sure, because there were too many to be counted. Even rich people died, because no one had cash.

“I lived north of the city and had to go south every day for work, a trip of 26km. I had to use a push bike because of the fuel shortage. But then the drones came to the city.

"At first, people would flee inside to escape the bombing, but it was the buildings they targeted. So then we would just stay where we were whenever the drones appeared. It would be too late to flee and there was nowhere to go. I was lucky. Sometimes I would hear the bombs behind me, where I had cycled just five minutes ago.

“People fled to the countryside, on foot. Many came to our community, because our valley is remote.

“The soldiers would only travel as far as the tar road would bring them. But that meant that we had many, many more mouths to feed.

We were waiting for the rains. Then it started raining bombs

“Instead of one harvest per year during the Meher (big rains) season, we now had to get two or even three harvests, also during the Belg (small rains) season. This meant we really had to learn how to manage the water, and learn fast.

“We installed canals, captured the seasonal floods to recharge the groundwater and made agreements as to how the water would be divided.

“Then the locusts came, one of the worst swarms in decades. They tried to destroy our crops. There was no support from anyone, no chemicals to fight them. So we used traditional methods.

“We built smoky fires to divert them. We used fireworks to scare them away. In the coolness of the early morning, when the locusts would be sleepy and huddled together, we would all go out in groups to trample them.

“Through all this we learnt to be resourceful, and to believe in ourselves. There was no point in waiting for the government, or anyone else, to help us. Because there was no one to help us.

“Instead, we learnt to unlock our own potential by working together – either we all succeed, or we all die. We worked hard, very hard, but it paid off. We have learned a lot."

Times before the war

“We don’t want to go back to the times before the war. We don’t want our old lives restored. We want to transform our lives forward, and now we know that anything is possible if we work together as one community.

“Before The Siege, our youngsters used to travel across the Red Sea to work in Saudi Arabia. Now they are staying here, because they like this new way in which we farm.”