“A Professor Without Friends”: Scholarship, Activism, and the Cost of Speaking Out
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This article was inspired by a question posed by two young students during my läxhjälp (homework support) activities. They asked me a simple but profound question about friendship and whether I had many friends. In response, I spoke at length about friendship, family, and community. I also reflected on my own situation regarding friendships within the Ethiopian diaspora. This essay therefore focuses primarily on my relationships with fellow Ethiopians rather than on my social networks among Swedes or other communities in Sweden.
Over the course of my academic work and public engagement with Ethiopian affairs, I have learned that speaking openly about injustice often carries significant personal costs. One of those costs has been the gradual loss of friendships, professional relationships, and social networks.
My involvement in public debate began with a series of articles examining structural inequalities under the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF). In particular, I analysed what I regarded as the disproportionate political influence exercised by members of the Tigrayan ruling elite and the preferential access to opportunities enjoyed by individuals connected to the governing establishment. Among the issues I raised was the allocation of international scholarships, which, in my assessment, reflected broader patterns of political patronage and ethnic favouritism.
I subsequently wrote about human rights abuses within Ethiopian prisons, including allegations of sexual violence, sodomy, and the mistreatment of political prisoners and activists. These interventions attracted criticism and hostility from individuals who preferred silence or denial. It became increasingly clear that my work had rendered me unwelcome in certain political and intellectual circles. At times, even some of those closest to me appeared uncomfortable with my public positions.
The political transition that followed did not alter my commitment to critical inquiry. On the contrary, I found myself equally compelled to scrutinise the policies and conduct of the new administration. While many observers initially celebrated the promise of political reform, I became increasingly concerned about the persistence of ethnic polarisation, large-scale displacement, atrocities against civilians, and the erosion of democratic norms. My criticism of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed was based not on allegiance to any political faction but on a commitment to evidence, accountability, and universal principles of justice.
The reaction was often revealing. Some supporters of the government, including individuals within certain religious communities associated with Pentecostal and prosperity-gospel movements, appeared to regard criticism of political leadership as illegitimate or even sacrilegious. In such environments, rational debate became difficult, and personal loyalty frequently replaced critical analysis. As a consequence, some acquaintances and friends distanced themselves from me. Over time, I also withdrew from certain community gatherings and church activities because I perceived a troubling degree of opportunism, conformity, and hypocrisy.
One of my most widely discussed essays, The Many Faces of Abiy Ahmed, generated particularly strong reactions. Yet over time, some of its most vocal critics acknowledged that several of the concerns raised in the article had proven justified. A number of Ethiopian intellectuals who initially dismissed my arguments later expressed agreement with aspects of my analysis as the country’s political trajectory became clearer.
Over the past seven years, I have written approximately eighty articles addressing issues of governance, human rights, conflict, displacement, and ethnic politics in Ethiopia. Much of this work has sought to amplify the voices of communities affected by violence and marginalisation, particularly among the Amhara population, while maintaining a broader concern for the suffering of all Ethiopians regardless of ethnicity or political affiliation.
At the time of writing, reports continue to emerge of severe violence against Orthodox Christian communities in parts of Oromia, including the Arsi Zone. According to local accounts, civilians have been killed, displaced, and deprived of their homes and livelihoods. What I find particularly troubling is the limited international attention devoted to these events. The relative absence of sustained media coverage raises important questions about whose suffering receives global visibility and whose does not. These concerns motivated my recent article, The “New Auschwitz”? Targeted Atrocities against Orthodox Amharas in Arsi, Oromia, Ethiopia.
The cumulative effect of this engagement has been a growing distance between myself and many members of the Ethiopian diaspora. While some relationships were lost because of political disagreements, others dissolved because they were rooted more in convenience, conformity, or shared ethnic loyalties than in genuine intellectual exchange. I have increasingly concluded that meaningful scholarship and principled activism often require a willingness to stand apart from prevailing social pressures.
Rather than viewing solitude as a burden, I have come to regard it as a condition of intellectual independence. It provides the space necessary for reading, reflection, research, and writing. Equally important, it has allowed me to invest my energy in relationships and projects that I find genuinely meaningful, including my engagement with young people from socially disadvantaged backgrounds. These interactions have been among the most rewarding aspects of my professional and personal life.
The experience has reinforced a simple lesson: public intellectual engagement is rarely without cost. Those who challenge entrenched interests, dominant narratives, or collective myths should not expect universal approval. Friendship, professional advancement, and social acceptance may all be sacrificed in the pursuit of truth as one understands it. Whether this should be described as the cost of activism, the burden of intellectual honesty, or the price of dissent is ultimately a matter of interpretation. What remains beyond dispute is that openness carries consequences, and those consequences must be accepted by anyone committed to speaking freely.
After reading an earlier draft of this essay, a friend residing in the United States—a neurologist by profession, whom I have never met in person—offered a thoughtful observation:
“This is not unique to Ethiopia. Even in the United States, whether one is Republican or Democrat, speaking uncomfortable truths can sometimes lead to criticism, isolation, or the loss of friendships. The challenge is universal. What should guide us is not political affiliation, ethnicity, or personal loyalty, but the truth as best as we can discern it. As a professor and public intellectual, the responsibility is not to please one side or another, but to follow the evidence wherever it leads and to remain consistent in applying the same standards to everyone.
In the end, reputations come and go, political winds change, and governments rise and fall. What endures is integrity. Let truth guide the analysis, and let intellectual honesty be the legacy.”
His remarks capture an important reality. The tension between truth and belonging is not confined to Ethiopia. It is a universal feature of public life. The question each of us must answer is whether we value comfort and acceptance more than honesty and intellectual integrity. For my part, I have chosen the latter, despite the costs.
GOTHENBURG UNIVERSITY
