Rebranding the Abyss
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By Sewasew Teklemariam, Ethiopian Tribune Columnist
Ethiopia has always been a country of many names Sheba, Abyssinia, the Land of Origins. But in the last three decades, it has acquired a new title: the Republic of Rebranding. Since the fall of the Derg in 1991, the nation has been locked in a peculiar war not of territory, but of terminology. A war fought with logos, slogans, and strategic silences. A war where the victor is not the one who governs, but the one who defines.
The architects of ethnic federalism didn’t just redraw borders; they rewrote the dictionary. “Nations, nationalities, and peoples” replaced citizens. “Developmental state” replaced centralised control. “Peace enforcement” replaced military incursion. It was governance by euphemism, a bureaucratic ballet performed for donors and diplomats, while the public watched from the wings, increasingly unsure of the plot.
This linguistic sleight of hand found its visual counterpart in 2025, when the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia unveiled a new logo. Gone was the Amharic script, gone the national iconography. In its place: a minimalist black “CBE” that looked like it had wandered in from a Scandinavian fintech conference. The redesign cost nearly 600 million Birr and lasted about as long as a TikTok trend. Public outrage was swift, federal intervention swifter. Turns out, erasing cultural memory isn’t great for brand loyalty. Who could’ve guessed?
But Ethiopia’s war on meaning isn’t limited to banks. It plays out in music halls, airport terminals, and flagpoles. Teddy Afro, the country’s most beloved and banned pop star, has spent two decades singing what the government would prefer unsung. His lyrics glorify emperors, mourn martyrs, and question authority. “Tikur Sew” celebrates Menelik II; “Yasteseryal” became the unofficial anthem of the 2005 protests. The state responded with the subtlety of a sledgehammer imprisonment, concert bans, and a prohibition on waving the Lion of Judah flag. Apparently, melody is more subversive than militia.
Even Ethiopian Airlines, the nation’s pride and profit, is not immune. Its Vision 2025 plan includes a $10 billion mega-airport near Bishoftu, designed to rival Dubai and Doha. The airline’s global reputation is soaring, but the politics of visibility remain grounded. CEO Mesfin Tasew was conspicuously absent from the airport pact signing, while Lemma Yadecha took centre stage. A reshuffle? A snub? A quiet coup? In Ethiopia, even boarding passes have subtext.
And then there’s the flag. The green, yellow, and red tricolour, once a symbol of unity and resistance, has become a political minefield. In 1996, the government introduced a golden pentagram on a blue disc at its centre, claiming it represented “equality and peace.” Most Ethiopians saw it for what it was: a visual insult. The pentagram, sterile and bureaucratic, replaced the Lion of Judah a crowned lion holding a cross, steeped in imperial legacy and spiritual symbolism.
The Lion of Judah flag wasn’t just religious, it was revolutionary. It flew at Adwa, rallied patriots against Mussolini, and became sacred to Rastafarians and Pan-Africanists worldwide. Naturally, the government banned it in 2009. Because nothing says “unity” like outlawing your most unifying symbol. To this day, the Lion of Judah flag is hoisted at diaspora weddings, Orthodox festivals, and reggae concerts. It is not just a flag it is a memory that refuses to be redesigned.
In a final flourish of performative politics, the government established the Ethiopian National Dialogue Commission in 2021. Its mission: to foster consensus and heal historical wounds. Its method: appointing middle-aged technocrats with a fondness for jargon and a proximity to power. The Commission’s composition reads like a LinkedIn reunion of “strategic consultants” and “policy advisors” who’ve never set foot in a refugee camp or conflict zone. Major opposition groups were excluded, conflict-affected regions ignored, and the whole affair quickly devolved into a donor-friendly theatre production. Dialogue without reckoning, as it turns out, is just monologue with snacks.
Internationally, Ethiopia has tried to rebrand itself as heritage-rich and future-facing. Tourism campaigns like “Land of Origins” showcase ancient churches and coffee ceremonies, while diplomatic language is carefully curated. “Peace enforcement” replaces “military incursion.” “Development corridor” replaces “displacement zone.” It’s all very polished until you scratch the surface.
The problem with rebranding is that it often requires erasure. And erasure, in Ethiopia, is never clean. It leaves behind ghosts of deported POWs, of silenced musicians, of flags that refuse to fade.
Other nations have done it better. Rwanda paired tech-driven development with visible reconciliation. South Korea exported culture without denying history. Germany turned reckoning into moral authority. Ethiopia? It’s still deciding whether to confront its past or Photoshop it.
Rebranding is not rejection, it’s reckoning. It’s not about forgetting the past, but confronting it. Ethiopia’s most powerful symbols, its flag, its music, its memory, cannot be redesigned out of existence. They persist, they provoke, and they remind us that meaning, once lost, is hard to recover.
So the next time someone tells you Ethiopia is “rebranding,” ask them: into what?
