A Dialogue of the Deaf: How London Became the Stage for Ethiopia’s National Farce

By Ethiopian Tribune chief editor.

It was a crisp October morning in London, one of those days where democracy feels vaguely possible, until one attends an Ethiopian National Dialogue Commission (ENDC) session. The Park Plaza Victoria, a venue known for hosting weddings, corporate retreats, and now political theatre, was the chosen stage for what officials described as a “historic moment of civic engagement.” Historic indeed: rarely has a dialogue begun with such a chorus of slogans, interruptions, and diplomatic sarcasm.

The ENDC, tasked with healing Ethiopia’s fractured political soul, arrived in London on 11 October 2025 to collect agenda items from the diaspora. According to its official website, it had already achieved “100% reach in Oromia” and “265 districts in Amhara” a logistical miracle, considering both regions are currently under military siege. One might ask how one dialogues with districts under drone fire, but such questions are considered impolite in diplomatic circles.

Outside the venue, hundreds of protesters gathered, many from the Amhara diaspora, waving placards that read “Stop Amhara Genocide” and “Abiy Ahmed is a killer.” According to Borkena News (21 August 2025), this was part of a Europe-wide mobilisation against what protesters describe as systematic violence in the Amhara region. Inside, the mood was less revolutionary and more theatrical. The session was interrupted not once, not twice, but three times, each time by diaspora activists who apparently mistook the event for an actual dialogue.

One such interruption came from Fitsum, a community leader from Birmingham, who asked the commissioners why they were dialoguing while the country was collapsing. “Shouldn’t stopping the war come before collecting agenda items?” he asked, presumably under the mistaken impression that logic had a seat at the table. His question was met with the kind of silence usually reserved for awkward family dinners.

Enter Ambassador Mohammed Dirir, a man fluent in six languages but apparently deaf to the seventh, the language of peace. When asked why the Commission excluded the protesters outside, Dirir replied that they were “only here to strengthen their asylum cases.” This remark, delivered with the finesse of a man who once wept on camera while praising Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, was not well received. Ethio Forum’s video analysis, “Mohammed Dirir’s Weeping and Mockery,” recalled Dirir’s Khartoum press conference in 2012 E.C., where he cried in Arabic and then again in Amharic, leading the channel to mock him as “crying by appointment and for translation.”

The irony was not lost on the diaspora. Here was a man who could cry in two languages but could not hear the cries of exiled Ethiopians. The Commission’s stated values “Inclusivity, Clarity, Credibility, Neutrality” were recited like a prayer, even as protesters were dismissed as asylum opportunists. One might call it cognitive dissonance; others might call it policy.

Anchor Media’s coverage added further spice to the stew. Their video, “The Commission’s Encounter with Protest,” documented the three interruptions and noted that some commissioners appeared exhausted, with one allegedly falling asleep. The video suggested that the officials were present not to engage, but to “fill their bellies” a metaphor that, while crude, may be the most accurate summary of the day’s proceedings.

The Commission’s alleged purpose, according to both Ethio Forum and Anchor Media, is not national healing but political survival. The real agenda? Facilitating Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s transition from parliamentary leader to President under a new constitution. Ethio Forum cited Abiy’s own remarks about needing “his own constitution,” viewing the current one as a “mere game of letters.” One assumes Scrabble is now a governance model.

The diaspora, however, was not playing games. Their slogans were not asylum strategies but soul-songs of a people denied peace. And beneath the chants, another rhythm pulsed: Pamfalon’s “Hagere (ድል ለ democracy)”, a sonic manifesto that has become the unofficial anthem of diaspora defiance. The song samples four voices Malcolm X, Abiy Ahmed, Eskinder Nega, and Jawar Mohammed creating a five-part fugue of resistance

Malcolm X universalises the struggle, reminding Ethiopians that justice is not granted but seized. Abiy’s early promises of reform are sampled ironically, a haunting echo of betrayed hope. Eskinder Nega delivers the moral imperative, speaking of justice, truth, and unity. Jawar Mohammed warns of internal decay, cautioning against tyranny cloaked in reform. And Pamfalon fuses it all into a rhythmic cry for youth to rise and reclaim.

“Dil” is not just victory. It is memory, mourning, and mobilisation.

As Ambassador Dirir mocked protesters for seeking asylum, the song’s message rang louder: they seek asylum because the state failed to offer safety. They chant because silence is complicity. They sing because the Constitution has become a game of letters, not a contract of dignity.

And while the ENDC commissioners were busy dodging questions and sipping diplomatic coffee, the British police were outside, performing their own version of crowd control one that felt less like public safety and more like a tutorial in institutional paranoia.

As I filmed the protestors diaspora voices chanting against genocide and repression I was met not with courtesy, but with suspicion. Officers loomed, questioned, and hovered, as if journalism were a crime and tripods were weapons. It was a scene familiar to anyone who’s watched Auditing Britain, the YouTube channel run by Reda Bouadi-Clifton, whose viral encounters with UK police have exposed a pattern of unlawful stops, intimidation, and rights violations. His videos reveal officers who bend the law with the flexibility of yoga instructors except with less grace and more hostility.

The irony, of course, is that while Ethiopia’s commissioners were being accused of suppressing dissent, British policing itself has been under fire for institutional racism and misogyny. A recent BBC investigation laid bare the rot within the ranks: discriminatory practices, sexist cultures, and a tendency to treat accountability as optional. One might say the Met Police and the ENDC have more in common than either would care to admit both allergic to scrutiny, both fluent in deflection.

So there I was, camera in hand, documenting a protest against authoritarianism, while being gently nudged by the local enforcers of democracy. It was a moment of transnational irony: the Ethiopian state represses dissent with arrests; the British state does it with polite harassment and paperwork.

And yet, amid the interruptions, slogans, and diplomatic sarcasm, one must pause to offer credit where it’s due. Ambassador H.E. Biruk Mekonnen and his team, including the ever-graceful deputy, managed to host the London ENDC session with a level of elegance that would make Buckingham Palace blush. The coffee was hot, the chairs were symmetrical, and even the protesters, those unruly diaspora truth-tellers, were allowed into the hall. Yes, allowed, despite their vocal opposition to the government’s war in Amhara. It was a rare moment of civility in a political landscape better known for detentions than decorum.

Among the attendees were Oromo activists, including veterans of the infamous embassy flag swap of 2020, when protesters stormed the Ethiopian embassy in London and replaced the national flag with that of the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF).

The footage, recorded by The Ethiopian Tribune on 3 July 2020, shows a crowd demanding justice for slain singer and activist Hachalu Hundessa.

Five years later, some of those same voices were inside the ENDC hall, not to swap flags, but to demand recognition. One Kerro representative recounted how his relatives had spent over nine years in prison for the crime of possessing an OLF flag. “It’s not the state flag,” he clarified, “but it is our symbol. Our blood is in that cloth.”

The debate over flags, it turns out, is not just about vexillology, it’s about memory, identity, and the right to mourn without being criminalised. The OLF flag, demonised by Ethiopian authorities and now state of Oromiya replaced for the Egyptian tricolour, but they requested OLF flag presented not as a threat, but as a symbolic representation of Oromiya’s suffering and resilience.

The Commission, to its credit, listened. Or at least nodded politely. Whether this nod translates into policy remains to be seen, but for a moment, the hall was not just a stage, it was a forum.

Of course, no Ethiopian political gathering would be complete without a parade of ghosts. Ambassador Biruk’s team extended invitations not only to diaspora activists and community leaders, but also to a who’s who of yesteryear’s regime operatives. Former Dergue diplomats, retired military personnel, and even a few ex-spies were spotted sipping coffee and nodding solemnly, presumably reminiscing about the good old days of state surveillance and ideological purity.

Religious leaders were also invited though conspicuously absent were representatives of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church, the institution that once crowned emperors and now struggles to get a seat at the table. Perhaps the Commission felt that the Church’s centuries of theological nuance might interfere with the streamlined messaging of corridor development and constitutional rebranding.

One lone female participant, armed with more clarity than the entire panel, noted that most attendees hadn’t done their homework. “They don’t even know what the ENDC is supposed to do,” she whiskered, as another speaker launched into a five-minute Q&A.

Indeed, when handed the microphone, many attendees treated their five minutes not as an opportunity to engage with Ethiopia’s political crisis, but as a chance to audition for a memoir. Instead of probing the ENDC’s mandate or challenging its metrics, they waxed lyrical about their personal achievements, diplomatic escapades, and corridor development theories that bore no relevance to the Commission’s mission. One gentleman recounted his role in a regional infrastructure project with the solemnity of a Nobel laureate, while another praised the government’s urban landscaping as if potholes were a form of reconciliation. The result was less a dialogue and more a talent show, minus the talent. And as the clock ticked, the silence of former Ginbot Seven leaders loomed large, their revolutionary pasts now reduced to polite nods and zipped lips, as if someone had quietly slipped them a gagging order with the coffee.

Not all commissioners, however, were there to serve the Prime Minister’s constitutional ambitions like loyal scribes in a palace court. Ambassador Dirir, for instance, demonstrated impressive linguistic dexterity, translating Afan Oromo commentary into Amharic with the flair of a seasoned diplomat. But his sarcasm, directed at former diplomats and protesters, betrayed his true role: not as a seeker of inclusion, but as a loyal commissioner serving his master’s voice. His remarks were less about dialogue and more about damage control.

In fairness, the other four commissioners offered a different tone, one that suggested a flicker of independence from the invisible hands of power. Their public statements, while cautious, reflected a genuine desire to listen, not just to perform.

Most notably, Deputy Chief Commissioner Hiroute Gebreselassie, a former UN Peacekeeping Head and Special Envoy for the Sahel, brought something rare to the hall: empathy. Having lost a close family member to violence, her gestures and tone carried the weight of lived grief. She did not speak in slogans or bureaucratic platitudes. She spoke as a mother, a mourner, and a mediator. Her credentials—Master’s in Law from Sorbonne, peacebuilding roles across Africa, are not just impressive; they are earned.

Then there was Commissioner Dr. Ayrorit Mohammed, a legal scholar with a PhD and Master’s in Law from Amsterdam University, and experience as a judge, lecturer, and police research director. Her presence was quiet but grounded, a reminder that law, when not weaponised, can still be a tool for justice.

Commissioner Dr. Ambaye Ugato, with postdoctoral credentials from the Max Planck Institute and a career in peace and dialogue advising, brought academic rigour to the table. His work with MIND-Ethiopia and the Ethiopian Elders Council Network suggests a commitment to grassroots reconciliation, not just top-down mandates.

Commissioner Melaku WeldeMariam, a legal advisor and former Secretary of the Ethiopian Human Rights Commission, added institutional memory to the mix. His background in law and human rights gave the Commission a veneer of credibility—one that must be protected from political erosion.

Together, these commissioners represent the possibility of dialogue, even as the machinery around them groans under the weight of cynicism. They are not flawless. But they are not hollow. And in a hall filled with slogans, sarcasm, and corridor consultants, that is no small thing.