This past Friday, the historic Gebi Gebriel Church in the heart of Addis Ababa’s Kasanchiz area became the setting for an emotional farewell unlike any it had ever seen. Followers, many of whom had grown up attending the church, gathered for a final service before they would be forced to leave their homes due to the ongoing corridor demolitions in the city. The neighborhood, which had stood for generations, is being cleared for new developments, leaving residents displaced, communities scattered, and the church they have known as a spiritual home increasingly empty.

The farewell was not just a goodbye to the physical church or even to the neighborhood—it was a farewell to a way of life that had tied the community together for decades. In the somber atmosphere, preachers and followers alike struggled to contain their emotions. What had once been a house of worship filled with joyful songs of praise now echoed with the sound of weeping. As the church’s pews emptied one last time, the deep grief of the community hung heavily in the air.

The farewell service at Gebi Gebriel was unlike any regular sermon. Preachers, who typically offered messages of strength and hope, found themselves choking back tears as they addressed their congregation. Their voices quivered as they urged the followers to remain strong in faith, even as they faced the loss of their homes and the uncertainty of an unknown future. The reality that many of these families would never gather in this church again weighed heavily on everyone present.

Followers sat together, holding hands, comforting one another, and sharing stories of their connection to the church. Many spoke of how Gebi Gebriel had been central to their lives—where they had been baptized, married, and where they had mourned loved ones. For years, it had been a place of spiritual and emotional refuge. Now, they were being forced to leave that behind. As the service came to an end, the tears of the congregation flowed freely, a powerful expression of the collective grief shared by the church’s community.

The preachers, visibly shaken, offered words of encouragement, reminding the followers that their faith could sustain them through this difficult time. But even they couldn’t hide the pain of seeing their congregation dismantled. Many leaders spoke of their struggles to reconcile their teachings of hope with the harsh reality of displacement. One preacher admitted, “I have never faced a more difficult moment in my time here. How can I tell my people to have faith when everything they know is being taken away from them?”

The fate of Gebi Gebriel Church reflects a broader, painful trend across Addis Ababa. As the city undergoes rapid urban development, churches once filled with vibrant congregations are becoming what some are calling “city monasteries”—spiritual sanctuaries left standing but eerily empty, relics of a community that has been pushed out. As families are forced to leave their homes due to demolitions, churches that were once filled with life are slowly becoming vacant.

Gebi Gebriel Church is on its way to becoming one of these “city monasteries.” Once a hub for the spiritual and social life of Kasanchiz, it now faces the prospect of being a large, silent monument in a neighborhood that no longer exists. Its halls, which once echoed with prayers, will soon stand empty, a stark reminder of the human cost of progress.

The farewell at Gebi Gebriel was a heart-wrenching reminder of the emotional and spiritual toll of the corridor demolitions, but another story from a nearby neighborhood underscores the devastating personal consequences of this upheaval.

Addisu Kasahun, a young man living in the Urael area of Addis Ababa, had been struggling to maintain his livelihood after being repeatedly forbidden by security personnel from conducting his business near Urael Church. His situation worsened when he was informed that his house, located along the road from Urael Church to Atlas Hotel, would be demolished the next morning. Feeling trapped and hopeless, Addisu took his own life in the house he was about to lose.

Local residents revealed that Addisu was a father of a young child and a husband to a woman who had just given birth. His family had hoped to start a new chapter in their lives, but the demolition order destroyed any sense of stability they had. After his tragic death, Addisu was buried at Urael Church, where the grief of his loved ones reflected the growing despair felt by so many who are facing displacement.

The tragedy of Addisu Kasahun is just one of many stories unfolding in the wake of Addis Ababa’s development boom. As the city clears neighborhoods to make way for new infrastructure, communities are left fractured and displaced. In this context, the role of churches like Gebi Gebriel becomes all the more significant. These churches are not merely religious institutions; they are the very heart of the communities they serve.

For many, churches represent continuity, stability, and connection to something greater than themselves. The farewell service at Gebi Gebriel made it painfully clear just how much will be lost as the neighborhood is demolished. Without their congregations, these churches are left as empty buildings, monuments to a way of life that is being erased by the march of progress.

The preachers at Gebi Gebriel, struggling to provide solace to their congregation, voiced the same concerns that many community members feel: Where will they go? How will they rebuild their lives and their sense of community? And what will happen to the church when the people who gave it life are gone?

As Addis Ababa’s urban landscape continues to change, the human cost of this development becomes increasingly visible. The demolition of homes and displacement of communities is not simply about physical relocation—it represents a profound emotional and spiritual upheaval. As seen in the case of Addisu Kasahun, the pressure of losing one’s home, livelihood, and stability can have devastating effects. For others, like the congregation of Gebi Gebriel, it means losing the social and spiritual bonds that have sustained them for generations.

The emotional toll was evident in the faces of the congregation as they said their final goodbyes at the farewell service. Many expressed their deep sadness at the thought of leaving behind the place where they had found comfort, connection, and community for so long. Some, like Addisu, are struggling with the overwhelming burden of displacement. Others are trying to find hope amid the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

The farewell at Gebi Gebriel Church and the heartbreaking story of Addisu Kasahun are stark reminders that progress must not come at the expense of humanity. While urban development is inevitable, it is essential that city planners, policymakers, and religious leaders take a compassionate approach that prioritizes the well-being of the people affected by these changes.

Addis Ababa’s churches are not just historical landmarks—they are living, breathing parts of the communities they serve. If we allow them to become empty “city monasteries,” we are losing more than just buildings. We are losing the spirit of the city itself.

As the bells of Gebi Gebriel Church rang out one last time for the families of Kasanchiz, they carried with them a plea—a call for the city to remember its people, to ensure that in the pursuit of progress, the human cost is not forgotten. These churches, these communities, deserve more than to be swept aside. They deserve to be heard, to be supported, and to be remembered.