IN THE CITY OF SAINTS

On a journey to Ethiopia, SARAH KHAN wanders the ancient alleyways of Harar and finds a new link to her faith—one that makes even the most far-flung place feel familiar.

- SARAH KHAN

MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Harar was through a late-afternoon haze, a balmy veil that blurred the pinks, blues, and greens of the old city’s walls. It was a few days before Ramadan, and around every corner, residents were rejuvenating sun-blanched façades with fresh coats of paint in preparation for the holy month.

Harar Jugol, the labyrinthine walled quarter, seemed to twist the sunlight like a prism, beaming it out into a rainbow of lanes. One colourful path deposited me at a spice market perfumed with frankincense, berbere, cloves, and cardamom. Another led to a mansion with a grand exterior of mahogany and stained glass. It had wood carvings of the Hindu gods Krishna and Ganesh over the threshold, a legacy of the Indian merchant who built the home.

Elsewhere in the medina, I took respite from the heat under a sycamore tree and murmured a prayer at the tomb of Harar’s patron saint, Sheikh Abadir. A stroll down Mekina Girgir—a street that gets its onomatopoeic name from the rhythmic rattle of sewing machines—ended at a busy square, where I caught a marching band parading past, led by a baton-twirling majorette.