Reviving the Sacred
Engaging Indigenous Traditions like Wayyuu for a Feminist Future
Fayo Said
Approximate time to read: 8 minutes
Trigger warning: Mentions of sexual violence
I didn’t grow up knowing the concept of wayyuu. It wasn’t part of the stories shared over buna (coffee) or reflected in the traditions practised in our home. As an Oromo woman raised in the diaspora, my connection to heritage came through language, music, and the political struggles my parents shared with us. They filled our home with traditional objects and community gatherings, making our culture feel present and alive. But the rituals that placed women’s dignity at the centre were missing. Shaped by migration and time, practices like sinqee1 and ateete2 had faded from everyday life.
I first encountered these women-led traditions in books and essays I found in my university library. That’s where I learned about sinqee, a long stick symbolising a married woman’s authority, and ateete, a collective prayer and protest led by women. I remember reading about them with a mix of fascination and confusion. How could such impactful practices have gone unnoticed in my own life? I began asking questions, and my mother and aunties shared what they remembered. Their memories helped me piece together a picture of traditions that, while no longer (widely) practised, still live on in quiet ways.
At the heart of these traditions is wayyuu, “a moral concept of respect and sacredness3”, that guided how the Oromo relate to one another, to the natural world, and God (Waaqa). Certain people, actions, and objects are considered wayyuu, meaning they are sacred or untouchable. The land is wayyuu. In-laws are wayyuu. A married woman is wayyuu. While many things and persons can hold this status, the concept is often closely linked to women and the spaces associated with them.4 To be considered wayyuu is to be protected from harm and to be treated with care. Not only does it shape social behaviour, it is also at the foundation of frameworks through which practices like sinqee and ateete gain meaning.
Learning about traditions like sinqee and ateete opened questions not just about the past, but about the kinds of justice we imagine today. Rather than treating these practices as cultural residue, I wonder what is possible when we approach them as living philosophies. Though disrupted by colonialism and reshaped by religion, these traditions still hold ideas that are radically different from Western feminist frameworks. In revisiting them, I hope to contribute to the growing conversation on how indigenous knowledge can help shape a more just future for women.
Sinqee and Ateete: Institutions of Women's Protest and Protection
The concepts I explore come from the Oromo, the largest ethnic group in Ethiopia and the most populous in the Horn of Africa. Central to their social order was the gadaa system, an indigenous democratic governance based on rotating leadership, age-sets, and collective decision-making. Before the Ethiopian Empire’s expansion in the late 19th century, gadaa upheld equity across clans, protected rights, and prioritised dialogue in conflict resolution.
Although women held no formal political office within gadaa, their authority was institutionalised through parallel systems such as sinqee and ateete, which enabled them to respond to injustice and make their voices heard. In this way, gadaa embedded the values of wayyuu into daily life.5
The sinqee, also called ulee sinqee, is a long wooden stick that used to be given to a woman by her mother on her wedding day. Often described as a woman’s weapon, it symbolised the respect a married woman holds in her community. It affirmed her right to be heard and to live with dignity. A woman carrying her sinqee was not to be confronted and any harm against her was considered unacceptable. Marriages might or might not have been formalised through a sinqee ceremony.6 When this did happen, the woman was said to be “married by sinqee” (sinqee gurguraan), which gave her full recognition and rights in her husband’s household. Without this rite, she might have been treated with less respect and given a weaker position within the family structure.
The sinqee was used in many different contexts. It appeared in traditional religious ceremonies, particularly when women gathered to perform ateete. In these gatherings, women walked together to riverbanks to pray to God in response to community hardships such as drought, infertility, illness, or conflict. The sinqee was also used when women faced personal harm. If a woman was beaten, insulted, or sexually violated, she would carry her stick into public view to protest the injustice. The sinqee was also used during marriage ceremonies and in cases of (inter-)clan disputes.
Clearly, the sinqee was more than an object. It was part of a wider institution led by women, with social, political, and spiritual roles. In some regions, sinqee was used to describe these collective actions, while in others, the term ateete was more common. The two are often used interchangeably, both referring to gatherings where women responded to harm and violations of their rights.9
In the past, to call for ateete in cases of mistreatment, a woman begins by ululating (elelele) to signal for help. Hearing the call, other women grab their sinqee and rush to join her. As they gather, they continue the same sound, creating a collective warning. Once together, the women sit or stand in a circle and sing about the harm that was done, naming the violation and affirming the woman’s right to be treated with dignity. In one case, women performed ateete after a man used the word koonka10 (old empty milk containers), a deeply offensive insult toward a woman.11 The ritual would continue until the man admits wrongdoing and asks for forgiveness. In many cases, the process ends with a symbolic act of reconciliation, such as slaughtering a cow or sheep to restore social balance.12
Similar institutions have been documented among other East African communities, such as the Iraqw in Tanzania and the Sidama’s practice yakka in Ethiopia.13 These parallels highlight the broader cultural significance of women-led political action across the region.
When a Woman Speaks, It Is Believed
In traditional Oromo society, questions of sexual harm were addressed through customary law grounded in trust in women’s voices. One proverb captures this clearly14:
Qiriin15 obolessa kute
Yoo isiin toola gote, tola
Yoo isiin gora gote, gora.
The man untied her clothes
If she says that it is okay, it is okay
If she says that it is gora, it is gora.
When it came to sexual acts, it was the woman who defined whether harm had occurred. Her word was trusted fully. If she named it as gora16, then it was accepted as such, without the need for witnesses or further proof. This principle reflected a belief that women do not lie about such matters, because of their wayyuu status. As elders have put it, “a woman does not lie” (dubartiin hin sobdu), and her account held legal and moral weight.17 Even in cases where a man denied wrongdoing, his own kin were expected to pressure him to admit fault, to avoid a trial by oath, which carried the risk of spiritual punishment for the whole clan. This trust was rooted in ideas of honesty and in the belief that women were more humble and closer to God.18 While these customary systems have weakened over time, they offer a striking contrast to the silences and disbelief that often surround sexual violence today. In many contemporary spaces, survivors still struggle to be believed, making these older frameworks a powerful resource for imagining alternative forms of justice.
Tradition, Religion, and the Shifting Role of Women
The arrival of Christianity and Islam brought significant changes to how many Oromo communities engaged with practices like sinqee and ateete. While these traditions were once recognised as important interventions, they gradually came under pressure from religious authorities.19 In some areas, ateete has been described as a “pagan remnant” or labelled un-Christian/Islamic, and women who gather to perform it may be seen as stepping outside of religious boundaries. Because these practices developed at a time when the Oromo largely followed waqaaffennaa, their traditional belief system, they are often viewed as inseparable from it. This has led to hesitation among some to practise them, out of concern that doing so conflicts with newer religious frameworks.
These tensions are not simply about belief, but about how institutionalised religions reshaped older ways of organising social life. Although the gadaa system declined, men’s authority remained largely intact, while women’s ability to speak out and intervene in moments of crisis through institutions like ateete and sinqee grew increasingly restricted.
Although no longer widely practised, these traditions have not entirely disappeared. On platforms like YouTube, Oromo women can be seen reviving elements of sinqee and ateete through cultural showcases and performances.20 Though these may not carry the same authority as before, they reflect an ongoing effort to honour and protect what remains.
This deeply resonates with me. Even as traditions shift or lose their original form, they still carry meaning. These practices weren’t perfect, as not all women had equal access to them; sinqee and ateete centred married women, raising questions about how unmarried women were valued and how such systems reinforced patriarchal structures. Still, they offer a different starting point, showing us that other ways of caring and resisting have existed and that remembering them is itself an act of keeping those possibilities alive.
I first encountered these women-led traditions in books and essays I found in my university library. That’s where I learned about sinqee, a long stick symbolising a married woman’s authority, and ateete, a collective prayer and protest led by women. I remember reading about them with a mix of fascination and confusion. How could such impactful practices have gone unnoticed in my own life? I began asking questions, and my mother and aunties shared what they remembered. Their memories helped me piece together a picture of traditions that, while no longer (widely) practised, still live on in quiet ways.
At the heart of these traditions is wayyuu, “a moral concept of respect and sacredness3”, that guided how the Oromo relate to one another, to the natural world, and God (Waaqa). Certain people, actions, and objects are considered wayyuu, meaning they are sacred or untouchable. The land is wayyuu. In-laws are wayyuu. A married woman is wayyuu. While many things and persons can hold this status, the concept is often closely linked to women and the spaces associated with them.4 To be considered wayyuu is to be protected from harm and to be treated with care. Not only does it shape social behaviour, it is also at the foundation of frameworks through which practices like sinqee and ateete gain meaning.
Learning about traditions like sinqee and ateete opened questions not just about the past, but about the kinds of justice we imagine today. Rather than treating these practices as cultural residue, I wonder what is possible when we approach them as living philosophies. Though disrupted by colonialism and reshaped by religion, these traditions still hold ideas that are radically different from Western feminist frameworks. In revisiting them, I hope to contribute to the growing conversation on how indigenous knowledge can help shape a more just future for women.
Sinqee and Ateete: Institutions of Women's Protest and Protection
The concepts I explore come from the Oromo, the largest ethnic group in Ethiopia and the most populous in the Horn of Africa. Central to their social order was the gadaa system, an indigenous democratic governance based on rotating leadership, age-sets, and collective decision-making. Before the Ethiopian Empire’s expansion in the late 19th century, gadaa upheld equity across clans, protected rights, and prioritised dialogue in conflict resolution.
Although women held no formal political office within gadaa, their authority was institutionalised through parallel systems such as sinqee and ateete, which enabled them to respond to injustice and make their voices heard. In this way, gadaa embedded the values of wayyuu into daily life.5
The sinqee, also called ulee sinqee, is a long wooden stick that used to be given to a woman by her mother on her wedding day. Often described as a woman’s weapon, it symbolised the respect a married woman holds in her community. It affirmed her right to be heard and to live with dignity. A woman carrying her sinqee was not to be confronted and any harm against her was considered unacceptable. Marriages might or might not have been formalised through a sinqee ceremony.6 When this did happen, the woman was said to be “married by sinqee” (sinqee gurguraan), which gave her full recognition and rights in her husband’s household. Without this rite, she might have been treated with less respect and given a weaker position within the family structure.
The sinqee was used in many different contexts. It appeared in traditional religious ceremonies, particularly when women gathered to perform ateete. In these gatherings, women walked together to riverbanks to pray to God in response to community hardships such as drought, infertility, illness, or conflict. The sinqee was also used when women faced personal harm. If a woman was beaten, insulted, or sexually violated, she would carry her stick into public view to protest the injustice. The sinqee was also used during marriage ceremonies and in cases of (inter-)clan disputes.
Clearly, the sinqee was more than an object. It was part of a wider institution led by women, with social, political, and spiritual roles. In some regions, sinqee was used to describe these collective actions, while in others, the term ateete was more common. The two are often used interchangeably, both referring to gatherings where women responded to harm and violations of their rights.9
In the past, to call for ateete in cases of mistreatment, a woman begins by ululating (elelele) to signal for help. Hearing the call, other women grab their sinqee and rush to join her. As they gather, they continue the same sound, creating a collective warning. Once together, the women sit or stand in a circle and sing about the harm that was done, naming the violation and affirming the woman’s right to be treated with dignity. In one case, women performed ateete after a man used the word koonka10 (old empty milk containers), a deeply offensive insult toward a woman.11 The ritual would continue until the man admits wrongdoing and asks for forgiveness. In many cases, the process ends with a symbolic act of reconciliation, such as slaughtering a cow or sheep to restore social balance.12
Similar institutions have been documented among other East African communities, such as the Iraqw in Tanzania and the Sidama’s practice yakka in Ethiopia.13 These parallels highlight the broader cultural significance of women-led political action across the region.
When a Woman Speaks, It Is Believed
In traditional Oromo society, questions of sexual harm were addressed through customary law grounded in trust in women’s voices. One proverb captures this clearly14:
Qiriin15 obolessa kute
Yoo isiin toola gote, tola
Yoo isiin gora gote, gora.
The man untied her clothes
If she says that it is okay, it is okay
If she says that it is gora, it is gora.
When it came to sexual acts, it was the woman who defined whether harm had occurred. Her word was trusted fully. If she named it as gora16, then it was accepted as such, without the need for witnesses or further proof. This principle reflected a belief that women do not lie about such matters, because of their wayyuu status. As elders have put it, “a woman does not lie” (dubartiin hin sobdu), and her account held legal and moral weight.17 Even in cases where a man denied wrongdoing, his own kin were expected to pressure him to admit fault, to avoid a trial by oath, which carried the risk of spiritual punishment for the whole clan. This trust was rooted in ideas of honesty and in the belief that women were more humble and closer to God.18 While these customary systems have weakened over time, they offer a striking contrast to the silences and disbelief that often surround sexual violence today. In many contemporary spaces, survivors still struggle to be believed, making these older frameworks a powerful resource for imagining alternative forms of justice.
Tradition, Religion, and the Shifting Role of Women
The arrival of Christianity and Islam brought significant changes to how many Oromo communities engaged with practices like sinqee and ateete. While these traditions were once recognised as important interventions, they gradually came under pressure from religious authorities.19 In some areas, ateete has been described as a “pagan remnant” or labelled un-Christian/Islamic, and women who gather to perform it may be seen as stepping outside of religious boundaries. Because these practices developed at a time when the Oromo largely followed waqaaffennaa, their traditional belief system, they are often viewed as inseparable from it. This has led to hesitation among some to practise them, out of concern that doing so conflicts with newer religious frameworks.
These tensions are not simply about belief, but about how institutionalised religions reshaped older ways of organising social life. Although the gadaa system declined, men’s authority remained largely intact, while women’s ability to speak out and intervene in moments of crisis through institutions like ateete and sinqee grew increasingly restricted.
Although no longer widely practised, these traditions have not entirely disappeared. On platforms like YouTube, Oromo women can be seen reviving elements of sinqee and ateete through cultural showcases and performances.20 Though these may not carry the same authority as before, they reflect an ongoing effort to honour and protect what remains.
This deeply resonates with me. Even as traditions shift or lose their original form, they still carry meaning. These practices weren’t perfect, as not all women had equal access to them; sinqee and ateete centred married women, raising questions about how unmarried women were valued and how such systems reinforced patriarchal structures. Still, they offer a different starting point, showing us that other ways of caring and resisting have existed and that remembering them is itself an act of keeping those possibilities alive.
Footnotes
References
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Sinqee is a wooden staff symbolising a married woman’s authority affirming her right to be heard and to live with dignity.
-
Ateete is a traditional Oromo women’s ritual of prayer and protest, used to address harm and restore social or spiritual balance through collective action.
-
Marit Østebø, “Wayyuu: Women's Respect and Rights among the Arsi-Oromo,” in Proceedings of the 16th International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, ed. Svein Ege et al. (Trondheim: NTNU, 2009), 1275–87.
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Daniel Deressa, Continuity and Changes in the Status of Women: The Case of Arsii Oromo Living Adjacent to Upper Wabe Valley (Dodola) (MA thesis, Addis Ababa University, 2002).
-
OBN Oromiyaa. Ateetee: Oromummaa fi Safuu Dubartootaa [Ateetee: Oromoness and Women’s Ethics]. YouTube, 26 Feb. 2023, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbZkspucOKg.
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Before Christianity and Islam were introduced, most Oromos followed the traditional religion Waaqeffannaa, a belief in one omniscient God.
-
Ibid.
-
One of the most deeply offensive insults among the Arsi-Oromo, referring to a woman’s sexual and reproductive organs through the metaphor of milk containers.
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Tailee B. Fiqruu, Reviving Aspects of Ateetee: An Arsi Oromo Women’s Musical Ritual to Empower Women to Protect Their Human Rights and Participate in Society’s Social and Religious Life (Doctor of Ministry diss., 2018), 274.
-
Dilu Shaleka, Tradition, Change and Continuity in “Yakka” Institution: The Women-Only Institution, the Sidama Case (Unpublished BA thesis, Addis Ababa University, n.d.).
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Qirrin is a traditional cloth tied around a woman’s neck, exposing the shoulders. As it was considered wayyuu, men were forbidden from touching or untying it.
-
Gora is a serious violation such as rape.
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Østebø, "Wayyuu".
-
Ibid
- OBN Oromiyaa, Ateetee: Oromummaa fi Safuu Dubartootaa.
References
- Ayehu, Bacha, and Lenin Kuto. 2019. “Women and Men in Arsi Oromo Proverbs: An Implication for Gender Equality.” Kafa’ah Journal 9 (1): 74–86.
-
Deressa, Daniel. 2002. Continuity and Changes in the Status of Women: The Case of Arsii Oromo Living Adjacent to Upper Wabe Valley (Dodola). MA thesis, Addis Ababa University.
-
Fiqruu, Tailee B. 2018. Reviving Aspects of Ateetee: An Arsi Oromo Women’s Musical Ritual to Empower Women to Protect Their Human Rights and Participate in Society’s Social and Religious Life. Doctor of Ministry thesis.
-
Imana, Gutema. 2022. “The Muka-Laafaa: The Image of Oromo Women Under the Gadaa System and Its Implications for Peace.” East African Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities 7 (1): 69–84.
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Jalata, Asafa, and Harwood Schaffer. 2013. “The Oromo, Gadaa/Siqqee Democracy and the Liberation of Ethiopian Colonial Subjects.” AlterNative: An International Journal of Indigenous Peoples 9 (4): 277–95.
-
Nagara, Ginbar. 2017. “The Cultural Expression of Xunduu (Coupling) in Oromo Knowledge of Gender.” Sociology and Anthropology 5 (1): 76–84.
-
Østebø, Marit. 2009. “Wayyuu: Women's Respect and Rights among the Arsi-Oromo.” In Proceedings of the 16th International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, edited by Svein Ege, Harald Aspen, Birhanu Teferra, and Shiferaw Bekele, 1275–87. Trondheim: NTNU.
-
Qashu, Leila. 2019. “Singing as Justice: Ateetee, an Arsi Oromo Women’s Sung Dispute Resolution Ritual in Ethiopia.” Ethnomusicology 63 (2): 247–78.
-
Regassa, Megersa, Terefe Mitiku, and Waktole Hailu. 2019. “Addooyyee: Girl’s Indigenous Friendship Institution in Oromoo, Ethiopia.” International Journal of Multicultural and Multireligious Understanding 6 (1): 307–19.
-
Shaleka, Dilu. n.d. Tradition, Change and Continuity in “Yakka” Institution: The Women-Only Institution, the Sidama Case. Unpublished BA thesis, Addis Ababa University.
- Tolasa, Megersa Regassa. 2017. “Females’ Voice through Oral Poetry Among Limmuu Oromo, Ethiopia.” Journal of Ethnic and Cultural Studies 4 (2): 28–40.
Fayo Said
Fayo Said is an interdisciplinary artist and researcher from the Netherlands and Oromia, Ethiopia. Her work and research focus on African and Afro-diasporic archives, as well as material and visual culture, with a particular emphasis on the Horn of Africa. Through her artistic practice, Fayo explores the complexities of cultural memory, identity, and the intersection of history and contemporary art. She holds a B.A. in International Studies (Africa Specialisation) from Leiden University. She is proficient in Oromo, English, and Dutch and has intermediate proficiency in German and French.
