“Voices Jammed, Truth Suspended”: Ethiopia’s War on Journalism and the Literacy of Power
1
0
By Sewasew Teklemariam, Ethiopian Tribune columnist
In the long shadow of Ethiopia’s political history, journalism has never been a neutral craft. It has been a battleground, a lifeline, and a liability. The recent suspension of Deutsche Welle’s local correspondents by the Ethiopian Media Authority, citing vague threats to “national security,” is not a rupture but a continuation, a familiar gesture in a state that has long treated independent media as a foreign intrusion rather than a democratic necessity. The act, cloaked in bureaucratic language, signals more than regulatory enforcement. It is a declaration of discomfort with scrutiny, a reflex of regimes past and present that have sought to control not just the narrative but the very conditions of knowing.
For over half a century, Ethiopia’s governments have oscillated between revolutionary rhetoric and authoritarian impulse, often collapsing the distinction when confronted by dissent. In this context, foreign broadcasters, BBC, VOA, DW, have served as both witnesses and antagonists. Their coverage has exposed famine, war, repression, and electoral violence. Their microphones have carried the voices of the silenced, the displaced, and the bereaved. And their presence has provoked successive administrations to respond with jamming, vilification, and license revocation. The pattern is unmistakable. The Derg accused BBC of imperial distortion when Michael Buerk’s 1984 Korem report forced the world to reckon with Ethiopia’s famine. Meles Zenawi compared VOA to Rwandan genocide radio, admitting to jamming its Amharic service while insisting it was a matter of national survival. And now, in 2025, DW’s local operations are suspended under the banner of sovereignty, with no clear evidence, no transparent process, and no public hearing.
Government officials argue that foreign media often operate with ulterior motives, framing Ethiopia through a lens of instability and dysfunction. They point to selective coverage, disproportionate focus on ethnic conflict, and what they describe as “narrative engineering” that undermines national cohesion. One senior official, speaking on condition of anonymity, stated that “DW’s reporting has consistently portrayed Ethiopia as a failed state, ignoring our development gains and peace efforts. We cannot allow external actors to destabilise our society under the guise of journalism.” Supporters of the government echo this sentiment, accusing foreign outlets of amplifying diaspora grievances, platforming rebel narratives, and eroding public trust in national institutions. They argue that media freedom must be balanced with national interest, and that Ethiopia, like any sovereign state, has the right to regulate its information ecosystem.
Yet the public response tells a different story. In Addis Ababa, a university lecturer laments the narrowing space for critical inquiry. “We teach media ethics, but we don’t teach survival,” he says. “Our students learn how to write balanced reports. They don’t learn how to dodge surveillance.” In Bahir Dar, a taxi driver confesses that he trusts DW more than EBC. “If they’re suspended, it means they were telling the truth,” he says, half-joking, half-resigned. In London, a diaspora activist mourns the dismantling of VOA’s Horn division, describing it as “losing a relative.” And in Dire Dawa, a young journalist admits to writing under a pseudonym. “My real name is too dangerous,” she says. These testimonies reflect a literacy born not of curriculum but of necessity, a literacy that reads between the lines, tracks signal jamming, and archives deleted broadcasts.
The government’s concern with sovereignty is not without precedent. Ethiopia’s geopolitical position, its internal diversity, and its history of foreign intervention have made it wary of external influence. But the conflation of journalism with subversion is a dangerous impulse. It reduces the press to a threat, not a pillar. It treats questions as provocations and facts as weapons. And it fosters a culture where truth is not discovered but authorised. In such a climate, media literacy becomes a form of resistance. It is the ability to discern not just what is said, but what is unsaid. It is the capacity to recognise euphemism, to decode official statements, and to understand that censorship is not just the absence of information but the presence of fear.
The historical record is instructive. BBC’s famine coverage in the 1980s catalysed global humanitarian response but drew ire from the Derg, which accused Western media of exaggeration. VOA’s broadcasts during the Cold War provided uncensored news to Ethiopians under Mengistu, but were later jammed by Meles Zenawi, who feared their influence on public opinion. DW’s Amharic service has long covered Ethiopia’s political shifts, spotlighting dissent and human rights, and was cited in Human Rights Watch’s 2015 report “Journalism Is Not a Crime.” Each outlet has faced accusations of bias, interference, and destabilisation. Each has also documented atrocities, amplified marginalised voices, and held power to account.
The tension between state control and media freedom is not unique to Ethiopia. But in Ethiopia, it is particularly acute. The country’s legal framework for media regulation is often vague, its enforcement opaque, and its consequences severe. Journalists face harassment, detention, and exile. Licenses are revoked without due process. Broadcasts are jammed without explanation. And public trust in domestic media is eroded by politicisation and censorship. In this environment, foreign media become both refuge and risk. They offer alternative narratives, but their presence invites retaliation. They inform, but they also provoke. And their suspension signals not just a regulatory decision but a political posture.
The implications for journalism are profound. When media are punished for reporting inconvenient truths, the public loses access to information. When licenses are suspended without transparency, accountability is undermined. And when governments treat scrutiny as sabotage, democracy suffers. Journalism is not a threat to sovereignty. It is a safeguard against its abuse. It is not a destabilising force. It is a stabilising one. And it is not a foreign intrusion. It is a domestic necessity.
For Ethiopia, the path forward requires more than regulatory reform. It requires a cultural shift, a recognition that media freedom is not a luxury but a foundation. It requires legal clarity, institutional independence, and public engagement. And it requires a commitment to truth, even when it is uncomfortable. The suspension of DW’s license may be justified in the eyes of the state, but it is unjustified in the eyes of democracy. It may protect power, but it does not protect the people.
In the diaspora, the response has been swift and vocal. Activists, journalists, and academics have condemned the move, calling it a violation of press freedom and a setback for transparency. They have organised forums, published op-eds, and launched campaigns to defend independent media. Their mobilisation reflects a broader concern, that Ethiopia is retreating from openness, that it is criminalising critique, and that it is silencing the very voices that could help it heal. Their advocacy is not just about DW. It is about the principle that truth should not be licensed, and that journalism should not be punished for doing its job.
Government officials insist that the suspension is temporary, that it is part of a broader effort to regulate media conduct, and that it does not reflect hostility to press freedom. They point to domestic outlets that continue to operate, to reforms in media law, and to efforts to engage with journalists. But critics argue that these gestures are cosmetic, that they mask a deeper discomfort with dissent, and that they fail to address the structural issues that undermine media independence. They call for international scrutiny, for diplomatic pressure, and for solidarity with Ethiopian journalists who risk their lives to report the truth.
In the end, the question is not whether DW violated media regulations. The question is whether those regulations are just, whether their enforcement is fair, and whether their impact serves the public interest. Journalism is not perfect. It makes mistakes. It has biases. But its value lies in its independence, in its capacity to challenge power, and in its role as a watchdog. When that independence is compromised, the consequences are not just professional. They are political. They are societal. And they are personal.
Ethiopia stands at a crossroads. It can choose openness or opacity. It can embrace scrutiny or suppress it. And it can treat journalism as a partner or as an enemy. The suspension of DW’s license is a test, a test of Ethiopia’s commitment to transparency, to accountability, and to democracy. It is a moment of reckoning, not just for the government but for the public. And it is a reminder that the truth, however inconvenient, is not the enemy of the state. It is its foundation.
“In Ethiopia, journalism is not just a profession. It is a form of protest. And every suspended license is a badge of truth.” The badge may be revoked, but the truth remains. It circulates in whispers, in exile, in encrypted messages and diaspora broadcasts. It survives jamming. It outlives censorship. And it endures, because the public demands it, because democracy requires it, and because journalism, at its best, is not a threat to power. It is its conscience.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official position of Ethiopian Tribune or its editorial board.
