I am the proud child of an Ethiopian mother and an Eritrean father. My earliest memories of Ethiopia are tied to my grandmother’s home, where I spent days tucked into her world while family and friends came and went. Every visit felt significant, from the welcome at the airport to the last tearful goodbye.
At the center of it all was my grandmother, Adey. To me, she was light. She was always draped in radiant head scarves and beautiful clothing, she carried herself with a quiet elegance that made me stare in awe. Only later did I learn that much of what she wore came from others—pieces brought from near and far by those who loved her. She never asked for anything, but because she gave so much of herself to her family and community, people brought her gifts from their travels. Not out of obligation, but out of love. She was the one people trusted, the one they leaned on, the one who held everyone close. She was loved by so many.
I remember the rhythm of her mornings: she would rise early, already dressed in a flowing dress and a bright scarf, her colors filling the room before the sun had fully risen. I never knew what she would wear next, but I always knew it would feel like her. And that, I think, was what I loved most—her truth. What she believed, what she said, and how she lived were always aligned. She never performed. She never pretended. She was simply, unapologetically herself.
The photograph I share here captures her essence: Adey wrapped in her traditional Eritrean scarf, holding a phone close, headphones pressed to her ears. Centuries of wisdom meeting the pulse of the modern world. A bridge between what is carried forward and what is newly created.
When I think of House of Bahel, I think of her. She taught me that beauty is never just the fabric on our bodies, but the spirit that animates it. She showed me that tradition isn’t a relic, it’s a living force, meant to be worn into the future. Adey was, and will always be, the original muse.
With love,
Hayat Adem
House of Bahel
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