Land of Hunger The Granaries Are Full, On PowerPoint World Food Day in Ethiopia: A Feast of Rhetoric, a Famine of Truth
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By Sewasew Teklemariam Ethiopian Tribune columnist
On 16 October, Ethiopia marked World Food Day with the usual fanfare: speeches from ministers, pledges of transformation, and a showcase of agricultural promise staged in the capital. Beneath a banner proclaiming “Water is Life, Water is Food,” officials extolled the virtues of resilience, equity, and local empowerment. The Agriculture Minister, Girma Amente, called for a “paradigm shift” in food systems, urging investment in climate-smart farming and reduced dependency on imports. The message was one of progress, sovereignty, and self-reliance. But beyond the stage-managed optimism, a different Ethiopia simmers, one where food prices have doubled, conflict has gutted rural economies, and millions face hunger not as a seasonal hardship but as a structural condition. The contrast between the government’s narrative and the country’s lived reality is not merely stark, it is indicting.
In Addis Ababa’s sprawling Merkato, the largest open-air market in Africa, traders speak of a transformation of a different kind: the vanishing of the middle class. A kilo of teff, Ethiopia’s staple grain, has surged from 40 birr to 90 in under a year. Lentils, once a modest protein source, are now priced out of reach for many. Cooking oil, onions, wheat flour, each has become a symbol of scarcity. The Central Statistics Agency reports year-on-year food inflation hovering above 30%, with no signs of abating. Currency devaluation, fuel shortages, and global supply shocks have all played their part, but for ordinary citizens, the effect is singular: hunger. “World Food Day?” scoffs Tesfaye, a minibus driver. “They should call it World Queue Day. We queue for bread, for fuel, for everything.”
The government insists that its food system reforms are bearing fruit. Wheat self-sufficiency drives in Oromia, irrigation schemes in Afar, and digital platforms linking farmers to markets are cited as evidence of progress. “We are no longer beggars,” one official told state media. “We are producers.” Yet in Amhara and Oromia, regions scarred by armed conflict and displacement, the idea of transformation feels like a cruel joke. Satellite imagery reveals scorched fields and abandoned villages. Aid agencies warn of famine-like conditions in some districts, yet access remains restricted. Farmers are not sowing seeds; they are fleeing airstrikes. Markets are not bustling; they are shuttered by curfews and fear. The silence surrounding these regions during World Food Day celebrations is not accidental, it is strategic.
The UN estimates that over 20 million Ethiopians require food assistance, with humanitarian funding gaps threatening to leave warehouses empty and rations slashed. In Amhara, the aftermath of the northern conflict has devastated food systems. Infrastructure lies in ruins, markets have collapsed, and farming communities are fractured. In Oromia, ongoing insurgencies and military operations have disrupted planting cycles and access to aid. The government’s refusal to acknowledge these realities during its World Food Day showcase is not merely a failure of messaging, it is a failure of governance.
Development partners find themselves in a bind. On one hand, they applaud Ethiopia’s ambition to localise food systems and reduce aid dependency. On the other, they face mounting criticism for enabling a government accused of weaponising hunger. The World Bank’s recent $100 million grant for food system resilience has sparked debate among diaspora groups, who argue that such funds should be conditional on access, transparency, and human rights guarantees. “There’s a risk of complicity,” says a European diplomat. “We fund irrigation in one region while another is under siege.” The donor dilemma is not new, but it is newly urgent.
World Food Day, once a moment for reflection and mobilisation, has become a performative ritual, a showcase of glossy brochures and choreographed field visits, divorced from the structural violence underpinning Ethiopia’s food crisis. The symbolism is potent, but the substance is hollow. The Agriculture Minister’s speech, peppered with development jargon and aspirational metrics, made no mention of inflation, displacement, or the criminalisation of aid workers. It spoke of transformation without acknowledging the conditions that make transformation impossible. It celebrated resilience while ignoring the state’s role in producing vulnerability.
Critics argue that the government’s food system narrative is a Potemkin village, an elaborate façade masking elite capture, donor dependence, and systemic neglect. Dr. Lulit Bekele, an agricultural economist, describes it as “a theatre of sovereignty.” “We celebrate ‘transformation’ while ignoring inflation, conflict, and the erosion of rural livelihoods,” she says. Yet others caution against cynicism. “Symbolism matters,” says Meseret Tadesse, a youth activist. “If World Food Day sparks debate, mobilises resources, or inspires a young farmer, it’s not meaningless.” The tension between hope and indictment runs deep.
In the diaspora, reactions are equally divided. Some see the celebrations as an affront—a window-dressed spectacle that erases the suffering of their relatives in war-torn regions. Others view it as an opportunity to demand accountability, to challenge the narrative, and to mobilise support for local food sovereignty efforts. The Ethiopian Tribune, among other diaspora outlets, has called for forensic scrutiny of the government’s claims, urging journalists to trace the flow of donor funds, map the geography of hunger, and amplify censored voices. The call is not merely for critique, it is for resistance.
Ethiopia stands at a crossroads. The promise of food sovereignty is real, but so is the peril of politicised hunger. As the government courts donors and touts reform, it must also reckon with the contradictions it has helped create. Until then, World Food Day will remain, for many, a day of speeches in the capital and silence in the countryside. The granaries may be full in PowerPoint presentations, but they are empty in Amhara. The irrigation schemes may sparkle in donor reports, but they are dry in Oromia. The transformation may be televised, but the hunger is lived.
In a country where famine has long been both a humanitarian crisis and a political weapon, the stakes of food system reform are existential. To transform Ethiopia’s food systems is not merely to build silos and canals, it is to dismantle the structures of exclusion, violence, and impunity that have made hunger endemic. It is to recognise that resilience cannot be engineered from above, that sovereignty cannot be declared from a podium, and that equity cannot be achieved without justice. It is to listen to the farmer in Wollega, the trader in Gondar, the mother in Shashamane, not just the minister in Addis.
The challenge is not technical; it is moral. Ethiopia does not lack expertise, resources, or ambition. It lacks accountability, transparency, and the political will to confront its own contradictions. Until these are addressed, food system transformation will remain a slogan, potent in its promise, hollow in its delivery. And World Food Day will continue to be, for many Ethiopians, a day of plenty for the few, and a day of hunger for the many.
