When the Digital Megaphone Becomes a Battleground: Ethiopia’s Uneasy Dance with Online Freedom
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By Sewasew Teklemariam
There was a moment, not so long ago, when Ethiopia’s digital awakening felt like an unambiguous triumph. Young voices, long silenced by state broadcasters and the prohibitive cost of print media, found sudden amplitude on platforms that asked for nothing more than a smartphone and an opinion. The internet promised what politics had denied: a public square where a student in Bahir Dar could debate a doctor in the diaspora, where a farmer could broadcast his harvest directly to consumers in Addis Ababa, where satire and grievance and aspiration could coexist without editorial gatekeepers or government minders.
That promise has not disappeared entirely, but it has curdled. What began as liberation has become a labyrinth of competing anxieties a space where expression and erasure, celebrity and suspicion, viral fame and arbitrary detention exist in uncomfortable proximity. The state watches. The algorithms amplify. And somewhere in between, the truth struggles to breathe.
In December 2025, the Ethiopian Federal Police announced the detention of five social media influencers following the TikTok Creative Awards, an event that had drawn young creators and their fans into a glittering celebration of digital success. The authorities framed the arrests as a defence of “Ethiopian cultural and ethical values,” pointing to clothing and performances deemed incompatible with conservative norms. Those detained included figures with substantial followings among Ethiopia’s youth and diaspora people who had turned dance routines, comedy sketches and lifestyle content into livelihoods.
The reaction was predictably polarised. To some, the arrests represented a long-overdue reassertion of moral boundaries in a society they believe is losing its compass. To others, it was yet another instance of the state deploying vague cultural justifications to police expression it finds inconvenient or threatening. Both readings carry weight. Both miss something essential.
To understand what is happening in Ethiopia’s digital sphere, one must first appreciate the twin forces reshaping it. On one side stands the democratising potential of social media the fact that platforms like TikTok, Instagram and YouTube have genuinely empowered voices that traditional media would never have reached. Regional languages, once marginalised in national discourse, now flourish in video essays and livestreams. Young women from conservative communities use Instagram to challenge gender norms. Diaspora Ethiopians maintain cultural ties through YouTube channels that blend nostalgia with contemporary critique.
On the other side stands a state apparatus deeply unsettled by the unruliness of this new public sphere. Ethiopia’s government, grappling with internal conflicts that have claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, fragile political settlements and persistent ethnic tensions, has expanded its understanding of what constitutes a threat. Where once the concern was armed insurgency or opposition parties, now it extends to online commentary that deviates from official narratives of unity, progress and order.
This tension is not unique to Ethiopia. Governments across Africa and beyond have sought to regulate digital content, often invoking cultural preservation or national security. But in Ethiopia, the stakes feel particularly acute. The country experienced a brief, intoxicating moment of media liberalisation in the late 2010s, when reformist rhetoric suggested that editorial independence might finally be possible. Addis Ababa hosted World Press Freedom Day in 2019, an occasion that now seems almost painfully optimistic given what followed.
The subsequent retreat has been precipitous. Ethiopia’s ranking in the World Press Freedom Index has plummeted to 145th out of 180 countries, placing it alongside nations with far more entrenched authoritarian traditions. Reporters Without Borders cites mass arrests of journalists, the shuttering of independent outlets and the weaponisation of legal statutes particularly broad “terrorism” and “harmful content” laws as key drivers of this decline.
For Ethiopia’s professional journalists, the cost has been severe and personal. Dozens have been arrested, imprisoned or detained without charge in recent years. Some have been held for months under state of emergency provisions, often without access to legal counsel or clarity about the accusations against them. A few have been released following international advocacy campaigns; many remain in judicial limbo, their cases stalled in a system that appears designed more to intimidate than to adjudicate.
The charges, when they materialise at all, are often alarmingly vague. Journalists covering regional grievances, public service failures or political dissent find themselves accused of “inciting violence” or “spreading false information” elastic terms that can be stretched to fit almost any critical reporting. In at least one documented case, journalists who reported on healthcare workers demanding better conditions were detained shortly after their coverage aired. Officials offered few specifics; critics saw a deliberate message aimed at deterring scrutiny of government performance.
This climate of fear has reshaped what journalism is possible in Ethiopia. Self-censorship has become routine. Editors weigh every headline, every interview, every investigative lead against the risk of detention. Young reporters, who might once have pursued careers in accountability journalism, instead drift toward safer territory lifestyle features, entertainment coverage, content that avoids the political altogether.
It is into this vacuum that social media personalities have stepped, often without intention or preparation. These are not trained journalists. They lack the editorial oversight, the fact-checking protocols, the ethical frameworks that professional newsrooms however imperfect provide. What they have instead is reach, charisma and an intuitive understanding of what makes content viral.
The result is a curious inversion. While trained journalists operate under constant threat, influencers, at least initially, seemed to occupy a different category, one that authorities viewed as trivial or apolitical. A dance video, a makeup tutorial, a comedy skit: these seemed harmless enough. But as some creators began to amass followings that rivalled traditional media outlets, and as their content occasionally edged into social commentary or satire, the state’s attention sharpened.
The recent arrests of TikTok influencers signal that this grey area is closing. Authorities now view digital creators not as harmless entertainers but as potential vectors of cultural or political challenge. Whether the issue is immodest clothing, irreverent humour or commentary that questions prevailing norms, the message is clear: visibility comes with vulnerability.
Yet here is where the story becomes murkier still. Alongside these documented detentions, there circulates a parallel universe of online rumour and speculation, claims about arrests, scandals and legal troubles involving various influencers that spread rapidly across platforms but remain unverified by credible news sources.
Take, for instance, the case of a popular agricultural content creator known in diaspora circles, Bereket Geberewa, whose YouTube videos have generated significant traffic and speculation. Online forums and social media feeds are awash with dramatic claims arrest warrants, fraud allegations, international manhunts. Yet a search of established Ethiopian and international news outlets yields nothing. No confirmation from Addis Standard, no coverage from Reuters or BBC, no statement from Ethiopian authorities. If such an arrest had occurred, particularly involving a figure with international visibility, it would almost certainly have been documented by the sort of outlets that have painstakingly tracked every detention of journalists and activists in recent years.
This absence is revealing. It underscores a phenomenon that is both symptom and cause of Ethiopia’s information crisis: the erosion of shared reality. In an environment where traditional media is suppressed and audiences have lost faith in official sources, social media becomes the default news feed. But platforms optimised for engagement rather than accuracy are ill-suited to this role.
Algorithms reward sensationalism. A sober analysis of agricultural policy will not generate the same traffic as a video titled “SHOCKING ARREST: YouTube Star EXPOSED.” For creators chasing visibility and revenue, the incentive structure is clear. For audiences, particularly younger ones navigating a fragmented media landscape, the line between reportage and entertainment, between verified fact and viral rumour, becomes dangerously blurred.
This dynamic creates a vicious cycle. As trust in professional journalism erodes—whether through state repression or institutional failure—audiences migrate to alternative sources. These sources, lacking editorial standards, amplify misinformation. The resulting confusion further undermines trust in any authoritative account, making the work of serious journalism even harder.
In Ethiopia, where ethnic and political tensions are rarely far from the surface, the consequences are tangible. Rumours can inflame. Defamation can catalyse retaliation. A false claim about violence in one region can trigger real violence in another. The digital sphere, which promised connection and understanding, instead becomes an accelerant for mistrust and division.
Yet to lay all blame on social media platforms or their users would be to miss the other half of the equation. The Ethiopian state’s approach to online expression has been characterised not by nuance but by blunt force. Rather than distinguishing between harmful misinformation and legitimate criticism, authorities have cast an increasingly wide net.
The justification is familiar: national security, social cohesion, cultural preservation. And there is some truth to these concerns. Ethiopia has endured devastating conflicts, most notably the war in Tigray that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives and displaced millions. Regional tensions simmer. The spectre of ethnic violence looms over political calculations. In such circumstances, an unmoderated internet may well appear as a threat multiplier rather than a democratic asset.
But this securitised logic has a cost. When the state treats every critical voice as a potential enemy, when it deploys terrorism laws against journalists covering labour disputes, when it arrests influencers for wearing inappropriate clothing at an awards ceremony, it forfeits legitimacy. It signals that power, not principle, is what matters. And in doing so, it fuels precisely the cynicism and alienation it claims to combat.
There is a profound irony here. The state worries about misinformation eroding social trust, yet its own heavy-handed tactics achieve the same result. When authorities offer no clear criteria for what crosses the line, when enforcement appears arbitrary and politically motivated, citizens lose faith not just in government but in the possibility of a shared public sphere governed by rules rather than power.
Social media companies, for their part, have proven ambivalent partners in this unfolding drama. Their business models depend on engagement, and engagement is most reliably generated by content that provokes strong emotion outrage, fear, tribal loyalty. Algorithms designed in Silicon Valley for maximising advertising revenue are poorly suited to the complexities of societies like Ethiopia, where a careless recommendation can amplify ethnic hatred or a poorly moderated comment section can become a staging ground for real-world violence.
The problem is compounded by language. Content moderation systems are sophisticated for English, less so for languages like Amharic, Oromo or Tigrinya. Hate speech, misinformation and incitement can spread unchecked simply because the platforms lack the resources or willingness to invest in moderation for lower-revenue markets. Academic research has documented how this under-investment exposes users in countries like Ethiopia to harmful content at rates far higher than their counterparts in wealthier nations.
For young Ethiopians scrolling through TikTok or Instagram, this creates an environment where the spectacular and the spurious coexist without clear markers. A video making serious allegations about corruption sits alongside a comedy sketch, both presented with the same algorithmic neutrality. The platforms offer no help in distinguishing between them. And so audiences, lacking better tools, rely on instinct, tribal affiliation or sheer curiosity none of which reliably leads toward truth.
The way forward is neither simple nor certain, but the contours of a better path are visible. From the state, it would require greater tolerance for dissent and a more proportionate approach to regulation—one that distinguishes between genuine harm and uncomfortable opinion. Ethiopia needs laws that protect citizens from incitement to violence and coordinated disinformation campaigns, but not laws so broad that they criminalise journalism or satire.
From social media platforms, it would demand meaningful investment in content moderation for Ethiopian languages, greater transparency about algorithmic curation, and collaboration with local civil society to develop context-appropriate responses to harmful content. The current model, where platforms reap revenue from Ethiopian users while offering minimal safeguards, is both unethical and unsustainable.
From audiences, it would require a renewed commitment to critical consumption. Digital literacy is not merely a technical skill but a civic one. Citizens must learn to demand evidence, to distinguish between reporting and rumour, to resist the dopamine hit of viral outrage in favour of the harder work of understanding.
And from journalists and media institutions, both traditional and digital, it would require resilience and renewal. Independent outlets, despite immense pressure, continue to operate in Ethiopia and the diaspora. Their work has never been more essential. They are the bulwark against both state propaganda and viral misinformation, the institutions that insist truth still matters even when it is costly to pursue.
The detention of TikTok influencers and the rumour mills surrounding various online personalities are symptoms of a deeper transformation. What was once a conversation about connectivity and creativity has become a charged struggle over power, legitimacy and narrative control. The digital sphere, far from transcending Ethiopia’s political conflicts, has become their newest theatre.
As the country navigates ongoing security challenges, economic pressures and the complexities of building democratic institutions in a deeply plural society, the question of who gets to speak, and on what terms, has never been more urgent. The old model of state-controlled media is dead, but what replaces it remains contested and uncertain.
In the digital agora, where every phone is a newsroom and every viewer a potential publisher, the quest for truth is both more urgent and more elusive than it has ever been. Whether Ethiopia’s future will be shaped by informed citizens engaging in good faith, or by algorithmic fury and authoritarian reflex, remains to be seen.
What is certain is this: the megaphone has been distributed. The question now is whether we will use it to speak or merely to shout.
Sewasew Teklemariam is a columnist for Ethiopian Tribune, focusing on media, technology and governance in the Horn of Africa.
