By Endex, Ethiopian Tribune editor in chief

In the Mexico district of central Addis Ababa, where concrete modernity jostles uneasily with imperial memory, the sale of the Wabi Shebelle Hotel marks more than a routine commercial transaction. Completed in 1960 and now acquired by Sheikh Mohammed Ali Al-Amoudi, the hotel’s transfer of ownership closes a long, unresolved chapter in Ethiopia’s uneasy relationship with private property, monarchy, and the state.

Wabi Shebelle was built at the height of Emperor Haile Selassie I’s modernising ambitions. The hotel was not merely another hospitality venture; it was conceived as a source of income for the children of Prince Mekonnen, the Emperor’s son who died tragically in a car accident. In that sense, the building was both personal and political, a blend of dynastic responsibility and developmental optimism. At the time, Addis Ababa was positioning itself as Africa’s diplomatic capital, and hotels were instruments of national projection as much as commercial assets.

The overthrow of the monarchy in 1974 severed that lineage abruptly. Under the Derg military regime, Wabi Shebelle, like much private property associated with the imperial family was nationalised. Ownership became ideological rather than legal, and value was subordinated to revolutionary symbolism. What had once been a private income-generating asset was absorbed into a command economy that neither invested in nor preserved it adequately.

The hotel’s eventual return to the heirs during the EPRDF era was part of a broader, halting attempt to reconcile socialist expropriation with market reform. Yet restitution did not bring closure. Like many returned assets, Wabi Shebelle remained caught between sentiment and strategy. The heirs inherited not only bricks and mortar, but also decades of deferred maintenance, regulatory uncertainty, and political sensitivity.

Several attempts to sell the property failed. At one point, a prospective buyer reportedly offered more than two billion birr, an extraordinary sum by Ethiopian standards, but negotiations collapsed. Later, the value of the property declined after part of its land was taken for Addis Ababa’s corridor-development programme, a reminder that urban renewal in Ethiopia often proceeds with scant regard for historical continuity or private ownership. Even a near-purchase by a private bank fell through once it became clear the building would be repurposed primarily for financial services rather than hospitality.

The eventual buyer, Sheikh Mohammed Ali Al-Amoudi, is no stranger to Ethiopia’s economic landscape. Through MIDROC Investment Group, he has become one of the country’s most consequential private investors, straddling mining, agriculture, manufacturing and hospitality. His acquisition of Wabi Shebelle therefore carries both commercial logic and symbolic weight. It reunites a historically charged asset with a figure who has often functioned as a bridge between Ethiopia’s political elites and global capital.

The transaction was signed by Prince Beede Mariam Mekonnen on behalf of the sellers, and by Mr Jamal Mohammed, Chief Executive Officer of MIDROC Group, for the buyer. While the sale price has not been publicly disclosed, the emphasis has been placed elsewhere: preservation. MIDROC has announced that the hotel will be renovated without altering its historic character, and will operate under the Marriott Autograph Collection, a brand that trades precisely on narrative, heritage and distinctiveness rather than uniform luxury.

This matters. Addis Ababa’s recent redevelopment has often favoured demolition over adaptation, erasing buildings that once anchored the city’s memory. To retain Wabi Shebelle’s architectural and historical identity while upgrading it to global standards is to make a quiet but consequential argument: that Ethiopia’s past need not be an obstacle to its commercial future.

For MIDROC, the renovation offers reputational as well as financial returns. For the Mekonnen family, it provides a dignified exit from an asset whose emotional significance has long outweighed its economic utility. And for Ethiopia more broadly, the sale underscores an unresolved truth: property in the country is never merely property. It is history made tangible, politics rendered in concrete.

That Wabi Shebelle has survived revolution, nationalisation, restitution and urban redesign is itself remarkable. That it will now be reborn as a high-end hotel within a global brand network suggests a partial reconciliation between Ethiopia’s imperial inheritance and its market-driven present. Yet the story also raises quieter questions. How many other restituted properties languish, unsold and underused, because legal certainty remains fragile? How often does development proceed by subtraction rather than preservation?

In the end, Wabi Shebelle’s sale is less about who owns the hotel today than about what Ethiopia chooses to do with its past. The building has outlived emperors and regimes alike. Its next chapter will test whether memory can be monetised without being erased and whether history, in Addis Ababa, can finally be treated as an asset rather than an inconvenience.

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Ethiopian Tribune editor

editor@ethiopiantribune.com

https://ethiopiantribune.com

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The first week of 2026 arrives with the usual rituals of forced optimism. Governments issue their polished greetings, citizens make resolutions they know they won’t keep, and the world pretends that the calendar’s turning is a kind of cosmic reset. But for Ethiopia, the new year does not feel like a beginning. It feels like a continuation a long, unbroken thread of crisis, mismanagement, external meddling, and narrative manipulation. The fireworks have barely faded, yet the country already finds itself back on the docket of global concern, its name invoked not with solidarity but with suspicion.

The past year has left Ethiopia bruised, exposed, and increasingly spoken for by others. And as 2026 begins, the international commentary has taken on a tone that is both familiar and ominous: a mixture of pity, exasperation, and managerial disdain. Ethiopia is no longer treated as a sovereign nation navigating hardship; it is treated as a problem to be managed, a risk to be contained, a pretext waiting to be used.

The new year begins with Ethiopia under review, not in celebration.

The world’s capitals have already begun their annual ritual of diagnosing Ethiopia’s ailments. Reports circulate with the same weary vocabulary: instability, humanitarian crisis, debt distress, regional tension, governance failure. The country is spoken of as though it were a malfunctioning machine rather than a living society. And behind the language of concern lies something sharper the quiet preparation of a narrative that could, if needed, justify intervention.

Because if a powerful state ever wished to remove Ethiopia’s leadership under the guise of humanitarian necessity or regional stability, it would not need to invent a justification. The ingredients are already being assembled, neatly packaged in the headlines of the past months, waiting for someone to stitch them together into a story of inevitability.

The pretext is already written; only the timing remains undecided.

Take the United States’ recent decision to terminate legal protections for roughly 5,000 Ethiopian refugees. The official explanation is bureaucratic, procedural, and conveniently bloodless. But the political meaning is unmistakable: Ethiopian lives are being quietly downgraded in the American administrative imagination. This is not merely cruelty; it is choreography.

First, strip protections from vulnerable Ethiopians.
Then, allow their precarity to deepen.
Later, point to that precarity as evidence of Ethiopia’s dysfunction.
Finally, use the dysfunction as justification for political pressure.

It is a sequence so elegant in its cynicism that one almost admires the craftsmanship. The refugee becomes both victim and evidence, first abandoned, then exhibited. Their suffering is not alleviated; it is curated.

When a refugee becomes a prop, the script has already been written.

Germany’s return of historic Ethiopian artefacts was celebrated as a moral gesture and it was. But in the context of Ethiopia’s current fragility, it also functions as soft‑power positioning. Repatriation is not merely an act of justice; it is an investment in moral credibility. It allows Berlin to say, in the future, should Ethiopia’s crisis deepen: “We have always respected your heritage; our concerns now are about governance.”

The artefacts return home, but the present remains negotiable. Ethiopia receives its past, but its future is quietly placed under review.

Meanwhile, Ethiopian peacekeepers remain in Somalia until December 2026, a fact that gives external actors significant leverage. Aid, training, and diplomatic goodwill are calibrated against Ethiopia’s willingness to behave as a “responsible partner.” But this partnership is conditional. The same troops who are today described as stabilising forces could, tomorrow, be reframed as agents of regional instability. The boots do not change; only the narrative does.

In geopolitics, yesterday’s partner is tomorrow’s liability.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the escalating “war of words” between Ethiopia and Eritrea over Red Sea access. Ethiopia’s desire for maritime access is not irrational; it is existential. Eritrea’s suspicion is not surprising; it is historical. But the international commentary has already begun to frame the situation in prosecutorial terms: Ethiopia is “reckless,” “provocative,” “destabilising.” Eritrea is “alarmed,” “reactive,” “forced to withdraw from regional cooperation.”

The complexity of the situation is flattened into a morality play. And morality plays are useful. They allow external actors to position themselves as arbiters, guardians, or if the moment demands , interveners.

A narrative of recklessness is the first step toward a narrative of removal.

Inside Ethiopia, the picture is no less bleak. Reports of ongoing abuses in Tigray, renewed attacks in Afar, and fears that the 2022 peace deal could unravel continue to circulate. The suffering is real, deep, and immeasurable. But the international reaction is inconsistent, oscillating between indifference and alarm depending on geopolitical convenience.

When Ethiopia is needed as a partner, atrocities are described as “complex challenges.” When Ethiopia becomes inconvenient, the same atrocities are described as “evidence of state failure.” The pain of civilians becomes a dial, turned up or down according to foreign interests.

Selective outrage is the currency of modern diplomacy.

Even the absurd becomes political ammunition. The arrest of nine TikTok creators for “indecent attire” would be comical if it were not so revealing. It shows a government obsessed with controlling the trivial while failing to address the catastrophic. To the outside world, such incidents are easy to caricature: a state policing hemlines while the economy collapses; a government arresting dancers while regions starve; a leadership cracking down on influencers while inflation devours household incomes.

These images are not just embarrassing; they are useful. They feed a narrative of a government that is both authoritarian and absurd a perfect combination for those who wish to argue that Ethiopia’s leadership is unfit to govern.

When a state polices skirts but not starvation, the world takes note.

Economically, Ethiopia enters 2026 in a state of profound vulnerability. The preliminary agreement to restructure a defaulted $1 billion bond is framed as a step toward stability, but debt restructuring is never neutral. It is a negotiation conducted under duress, with creditors holding the stronger hand. The National Bank’s attempt to address 445 billion Birr in unrealised forex losses only deepens the sense of crisis.

These are not abstract numbers. They translate into medicines that cannot be imported, factories that cannot operate, households crushed by inflation, and a government forced into policy concessions. For external actors, this fragility is a gift. It allows them to say: “We are concerned about Ethiopia’s economic mismanagement. We must ensure accountability.”

And “accountability,” in this context, often means political pressure.

Debt is not just a burden; it is a leash.

Yet even amid this economic turmoil, Ethiopia continues to pursue megaprojects — Africa’s largest airport, a new Free Trade Zone in Dire Dawa, as though ambition alone could substitute for stability. These projects are presented as visionary, but to many observers, they look like denial on a grand scale. How does a country struggling with famine, displacement, and debt justify a megaproject of this magnitude?

The answer is optics. Megaprojects are political theatre. They allow leaders to stand before blueprints and say, “We are building the future.” But to external critics, these projects are easy targets: misplaced priorities, economic irresponsibility, prestige projects amid humanitarian collapse.

A runway cannot take off when the nation is grounded.

Then comes the Marburg virus outbreak a genuine public health emergency, but also a narrative opportunity. Health crises have a way of being repurposed. A virus becomes not just a medical issue, but a moral indictment: the state cannot protect its people; the health system is collapsing; international oversight is required. Fear is a powerful tool, and Ethiopia’s outbreak will not be wasted by those who know how to use it.

As if that were not enough, a volcano in the Afar region erupts after 12,000 years, disrupting international flights. The global reaction is telling: the primary concern is not the affected communities, but the inconvenience to aviation. Ethiopia’s land itself is treated as a logistical problem, a hazard to global mobility.

When even the earth beneath your feet is framed as a nuisance, imagine how easily your government can be framed as one.

And so, as 2026 begins, Ethiopia finds itself in a precarious position. Its crises are real, but the way they are narrated is strategic. Its suffering is profound, but the way it is interpreted is opportunistic. Its government is flawed, but the way it is judged is selective.

If a powerful state ever wished to argue that Ethiopia’s leadership must go, it would not need to fabricate a case. The case is already being assembled:

Refugees abandoned.
Peacekeepers questioned.
Red Sea tensions amplified.
Tigray and Afar suffering highlighted.
TikTok arrests mocked.
Debt and forex losses condemned.
Megaprojects ridiculed.
Marburg fears magnified.
Volcanic disruptions dramatised.

From these threads, a story can be woven: a reckless, incompetent, authoritarian government endangering its people and the region. And once that story is accepted, intervention becomes not an act of aggression, but an act of responsibility.

Modern regime change does not begin with troops; it begins with narratives.

The tragedy is not only that Ethiopia is suffering. The tragedy is that its suffering is being catalogued, interpreted, and weaponised by those who see the Horn of Africa not as a home to millions, but as a strategic chessboard. Ethiopia deserves better than this. It deserves a government that respects its people, a region that values its stability, and a world that treats it as a sovereign nation, not a pretext waiting to be used.

Until that happens, Ethiopia will remain trapped in the cruelest of positions: too important to ignore, too weak to resist, and too useful to be left alone.

The new year has begun, but Ethiopia is still waiting for its beginning.

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Ethiopian Tribune editor

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Can Infrastructure Forge Stability Where Politics Has Failed?

By E Frashie, Ethiopian Tribune Columnist

About an hour south of Addis Ababa, on farmland that has sustained communities for generations, Ethiopia is preparing to construct what would become Africa’s largest airport, a $12.5bn megaproject that crystallises both the audacity and the contradictions of modern African development. The Bishoftu International Airport, as envisioned by Ethiopian Airlines and the African Development Bank, would eventually accommodate 110m passengers annually, more travellers than passed through Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson in 2024, the world’s busiest airport for most years since 1999. Yet beneath the renderings of gleaming terminals and the projections of continental connectivity lies a more troubling question: can a nation build its way to stability when the foundations, political settlement, social cohesion, and basic governance, remain dangerously fractured?

The strategic logic underpinning Bishoftu is formidable, rooted not in fantasy but in the demonstrable success of Ethiopian Airlines, a rare African state enterprise that has consistently defied the continent’s norm of chronically loss-making carriers. As The Economist notes, Ethiopian Airlines has maintained profitability for nearly two decades. In 2024, its passenger-carrying capacity roughly equalled that of Africa’s second, third, and fourth-largest airlines combined. When travelling between African capitals or onward to Europe, Ethiopian often provides the cheapest option, and frequently the only one. The airline reported record revenues of $7.6bn in its 2025 fiscal year, positioning it as a genuine continental champion.

This success creates genuine constraints that Bishoftu would address. The current Addis Ababa Bole International Airport, with capacity for 22m passengers annually, faces imminent saturation. Ethiopian Airlines expects to handle 66m passengers by 2035, nearly triple Bole’s capability. Moreover, Bole’s location at 2,300 metres altitude forces aircraft to depart lighter, reducing cargo and fuel capacity. This prevents profitable direct long-haul flights to North America with full payloads. Bishoftu, positioned approximately 400 metres lower, eliminates this technical handicap. For a carrier whose “Vision 2035” strategy aims to join the world’s top 20 aviation groups, the new hub represents operational necessity, not mere ambition.

The African Development Bank’s involvement lends institutional credibility. As lead arranger, the AfDB is committing $500m and aims to mobilise nearly $8bn from commercial lenders, development institutions, and export-credit agencies. The bank explicitly frames Bishoftu as aligned with the African Union’s Agenda 2063 and the Single African Air Transport Market continental integration agendas requiring precisely the kind of seamless hub infrastructure Ethiopia proposes to build. Finance Minister Ahmed Shide announced that $4.8bn has been pledged following investor presentations at the Africa Investment Forum in Rabat, with Ethiopian Airlines chief executive Mesfin Tasew Bekele revealing an additional $500m commitment from a Chinese bank. For international financiers, the project represents a bankable African infrastructure asset backed by a profitable corporation’s balance sheet a rarity on the continent.

The geopolitical dimension further strengthens the case. United States support for Bishoftu, explicitly framed as counterbalance to years of Chinese infrastructure dominance in the Horn of Africa, aligns with the Partnership for Global Infrastructure and Investment. For Washington, backing a successful African private-sector entity represents a shift from aid-based engagement towards high-value economic partnership. For Ethiopia, US involvement diversifies international partnerships, reducing overreliance on any single power whilst enhancing negotiating sovereignty. The airport becomes not merely infrastructure but a statement of strategic agency in the complex geopolitics of East Africa.

Yet The Economist’s reporting and critical academic analysis converge on a troubling reality: the project’s commercial soundness collides violently with Ethiopia’s political fragility. The fundamental counter-argument is stark: large-scale infrastructure cannot manufacture stability, it requires stability to succeed. As Ethiopian scholars bluntly observe, “growth without peace is a mirage.” Ethiopia’s recent history validates this warning. The two-year Tigray war, alongside persistent conflicts in Amhara, Oromia, and elsewhere, has devastated infrastructure, displaced millions, and eroded the investor confidence that megaprojects depend upon. Data from the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project recorded 1,105 political violence events in Ethiopia during 2023 alone, resulting in more than 5,428 reported fatalities.

The Economist highlights that political instability and ongoing conflicts, coupled with tensions with Eritrea over Ethiopia’s pursuit of sea access, could jeopardise the entire undertaking. These are not peripheral challenges to be overcome through airline resilience but existential threats to the project’s operational future. Construction of this scale requires secure supply chains, predictable logistics, and sustained public investment capacity. An international hub depends on confidence from global airlines, freight forwarders, and tourists. As conflict diverts increasing budget shares towards defence and security, Ethiopia’s fiscal pressures are acute, the state’s capacity to co-finance and guarantee long-term infrastructure ventures deteriorates.

The airport’s construction will displace approximately 15,000 people from their land, a scale of dispossession that crystallises deeper tensions about who benefits from Ethiopia’s modernisation. According to The Economist, whilst Ethiopian Airlines has allocated $350m for livelihood restoration and resettlement, and some residents have received promises of housing, others fear losing land without adequate compensation. Activists who have raised concerns about the displacement process have reportedly faced harassment and arrests. Mesfin Tasew indicated that resettlement sites should be completed and farmers relocated by late 2025, framing this as evidence of project momentum. Yet for displaced communities, Bishoftu represents not opportunity but dispossession, potentially fuelling precisely the centre-periphery grievances that have ignited conflict across Ethiopia.

The displacement process reveals the project’s fundamental political character. In a functioning democracy with strong civil society protections, large-scale land acquisition generates robust public debate, transparent compensation mechanisms, and genuine community participation. Ethiopia’s approach suggests a more authoritarian model where state development imperatives override local consent—a recipe for resentment that can metastasise into resistance. The project’s promoters acknowledge “regional and global challenges” but frame them as external obstacles. This risks catastrophic underestimation of how internal state fragility constitutes fundamental risk to financial models predicated on decades of stable operation.

Perhaps the most profound critique concerns what economists call opportunity cost: the value of alternatives forgone. In a nation where poverty has increased significantly in recent years and millions depend on humanitarian assistance, directing $12.5bn towards a single aviation facility represents an extraordinary allocation choice. The World Bank and international agencies focus their Ethiopian interventions on basic healthcare, food security, and social services, the unglamorous infrastructure of human development. Whilst Bishoftu may generate specialised aviation jobs and foreign currency for Ethiopian Airlines, it offers limited pathways from poverty for the rural majority or unemployed urban youth.

A critical question confronts policymakers: is this concentration of capital in a single node the most effective development path, or would distributed investment in agriculture, light manufacturing, and rural infrastructure yield broader socioeconomic returns and more durable stability? The airport will certainly transform Bishoftu into an urbanised economic centre, complete with expressways, rail links, hotels, and retail complexes. Such development may deepen rather than bridge the gap between a globally connected capital region and an impoverished, conflict-affected hinterland exacerbating the very centre-periphery divisions underlying Ethiopia’s conflicts. This represents a classic top-down, capital-intensive development model. Whilst Ethiopian Airlines benefits operationally and the state gains symbolic prestige, the project does little to address the agrarian crisis fuelling discontent in regions like Oromia or the youth unemployment driving radicalisation nationwide.

Even assuming political stability materialises, the project faces substantial market headwinds that The Economist identifies. Regional competitors are expanding aggressively: Kenya, Rwanda, and Tanzania are all upgrading aviation infrastructure. Meanwhile, Gulf carriers Emirates and Qatar Airways, along with Turkish Airlines’ expanding African network through Istanbul’s massive new airport, directly threaten Ethiopian Airlines’ connecting traffic. Ethiopian Airlines’ competitive advantage has partly rested on offering the sole connection between many African city pairs. As regional competitors build capacity and Gulf/Turkish carriers add African routes, that near-monopolistic position erodes. The Economist notes these competitive pressures could significantly affect the project’s timeline and scope.

There are execution risks as well. The financing structure, though advanced, remains incomplete. Long-term debt service must be carefully managed to avoid exacerbating Ethiopia’s existing debt pressures, particularly given reduced fiscal capacity from ongoing conflicts. Construction delays, cost overruns, or political disruptions could transform a bankable project into a fiscal albatross. Whilst US backing provides crucial financing, it also entangles Bishoftu in great-power competition, creating new vulnerabilities. Ethiopia has skilfully navigated relations between the United States, China, and Middle Eastern powers. However, making Bishoftu a centrepiece of US “counterbalance” strategy could expose it to shifts in American foreign policy or complications in Ethiopia’s other crucial relationships.

The government’s parallel strategic ambition aggressive pursuit of sea access has already raised tensions with Eritrea. Bishoftu, as a symbol of Western-aligned development, could inadvertently become a target in regional rivalries, exposing the project to security and diplomatic risks beyond Ethiopia’s control. Ethiopian scholars argue compellingly that the project’s success as a tool for “returning the country to stability and development” the framing used by international partners is fundamentally not an aviation or finance question. It is a governance question.

The airport will succeed only if accompanied by parallel, equally urgent efforts to achieve genuine political settlement. This requires addressing root causes of conflict that analysts identify as land disputes, resource competition, and questions of political representation. It demands a state capable of guaranteeing security not merely at the airport perimeter but throughout supply chains and communities nationwide. Large-scale infrastructure in fragmented states can exacerbate existing tensions, divert scarce resources from basic needs, and create rents fuelling corruption and elite competition. Without foundational political stability and inclusive governance, megaprojects risk becoming monuments to misplaced priorities rather than catalysts for transformation.

Bishoftu ultimately serves as a test case for a development model increasingly popular across Africa: using signature infrastructure as both economic catalyst and political statement. From Lagos to Nairobi, governments pursue projects meant to signal arrival on the global stage whilst attracting investment and creating jobs. Ethiopia’s version is among the most ambitious and, given the country’s fragility, among the riskiest. The African Development Bank’s characterisation of Bishoftu as embodying “speed and scale” in national development captures both appeal and danger. Speed and scale in infrastructure mean little if underlying political architecture remains fractured.

For international financiers and development institutions, the calculus involves weighing Ethiopian Airlines’ proven track record against Ethiopia’s unproven peace. For ordinary Ethiopians, particularly the 15,000 being displaced and millions facing poverty, the question is simpler: does this megaproject serve immediate needs, or does it prioritise elite ambitions and corporate growth over basic human development? The Bishoftu International Airport will almost certainly be built. Ethiopian Airlines needs it operationally, the government wants it symbolically, and international financiers see a bankable project led by a competent corporate champion. Groundbreaking approaches, financing is being mobilised, and resettlement is underway.

Whether it achieves its grander ambition, strengthening Ethiopia’s stability and catalysing inclusive development, remains profoundly uncertain. The technical specifications will be met: four runways, 110m passenger capacity, modern terminals with cutting-edge technology. Whether those runways serve a stable, prosperous nation or merely provide infrastructure in a continuing crisis will be determined not by aviation engineers but by political leaders, peace negotiators, and the millions of Ethiopians whose voices are largely absent from these infrastructure deliberations.

The airport represents a powerful bet on a particular future for Ethiopia, one of global integration and centralised, infrastructure-led growth. This bet’s success depends almost entirely on actions taken far from the construction site: in peace dialogues, in equitable economic policies, and in the difficult work of building legitimate and inclusive political institutions. Without progress on this governance front, Bishoftu may stand as a world-class island of connectivity in a sea of instability, fulfilling its corporate purpose for Ethiopian Airlines whilst failing its national aspiration as a stability catalyst. As The Economist notes, conflict, competition, and government interference cloud prospects for what remains, on paper, a compelling aviation project.

The megahub’s legacy therefore remains suspended between the runway’s promise and the nation’s peril. It could vindicate the infrastructure-led development model, demonstrating that bold investment in connectivity can help stabilise fragile states. Or it could stand as a monument to misplaced priorities, tangible proof that pouring concrete cannot substitute for building peace. For now, the fundamental question remains unresolved: can you build an airport to the future when the present remains so violently contested?

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By Sewasew Teklemariam

There is something almost tragicomic about watching great powers rediscover Ethiopia every few decades, dusting off the same old script: brave ally, reliable troops, convenient geography. One might be forgiven for thinking that somewhere in Washington, a filing cabinet labelled “Break Glass in Case of Unpopular War” contains a single index card reading: “Try Ethiopia.”

And so here we are again. Seventy-four years after Ethiopian soldiers froze in Korean trenches defending a principle called “collective security,” Addis Ababa finds itself courted once more, this time for Gaza, that graveyard of diplomatic ambition and geopolitical vanity. The Americans, it seems, have run out of takers. The Arabs are squeamish. The Europeans are preoccupied. Enter Ethiopia: loyal, militarily competent, and crucially still returning phone calls.

One almost admires the symmetry.

Let us begin with an uncomfortable fact that tends to disappear from polite diplomatic conversation: Ethiopia earned its stripes as an international actor not through hashtag solidarity or conference-room grandstanding, but by sending young men to die in someone else’s war. Between 1951 and 1954, over 6,000 Ethiopian troops served in Korea under the United Nations Command, personally authorised by Emperor Haile Selassie. The Kagnew Battalions fought at Pork Chop Hill, Old Baldy, and other places whose names now exist only in military histories and fading monuments. They earned a distinction almost quaint by today’s standards: not a single Ethiopian soldier was left behind or captured. Not one (United Nations Command historical records; US Army Center of Military History).

This was not theatre. It was war, and Ethiopia bled for it. The casualty figures, whilst modest by Korean War standards, were significant for a country of Ethiopia’s size and resources. Ethiopian field hospitals treated wounded Americans, Britons, and Turks alongside their own. Ethiopian officers coordinated with UN commanders in conditions that would test any alliance. And when the armistice was signed in 1953, Ethiopia remained in Korea for another year, because that was what collective security demanded.

Why? Because Haile Selassie, having watched the League of Nations abandon his country to Mussolini’s poison gas in 1936, believed, perhaps naively, that multilateralism might actually mean something if smaller nations upheld it. Ethiopia, he reasoned, must defend collective security abroad so that collective security might one day defend Ethiopia. It was a wager on principle over pragmatism, idealism over cynicism, the sort of bet that history tends to punish with exquisite cruelty.

It didn’t, of course. But more on that shortly.

The Korean deployment was not merely military. It was deeply symbolic. Here was an African nation, barely a decade removed from Italian occupation, standing shoulder to shoulder with the West not as a supplicant or protectorate, but as an equal partner in defence of international law. Ethiopian diplomats at the United Nations made much of this. So did American officials, who found Ethiopia’s participation useful for demonstrating that the Korean intervention was a truly international effort, not merely Western imperialism in multilateral drag.

Yet even then, cracks were visible. Ethiopian requests for military aid and modernisation assistance were met with warm words and modest gestures, but nothing approaching the largesse showered on more strategically located allies. The message, subtle but unmistakable, was clear: Ethiopia’s contribution was valued, but not valuable enough to fundamentally alter the transactional calculus of Cold War patronage.

Fast forward to December 2025. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi arrives in Addis Ababa, all smiles and Memoranda of Understanding. Bilateral relations are elevated to a “Strategic Partnership” that most elastic of diplomatic phrases, meaning everything and nothing simultaneously. There is talk of customs cooperation, digital infrastructure, peacekeeping training, and G20 debt relief (Government of India press briefings; Ethiopian Ministry of Foreign Affairs statements). All very modern. All very multilateral. The optics are impeccable: two ancient civilisations, both asserting themselves on the global stage, forging bonds of South-South cooperation untainted by colonial baggage.

Then, almost on cue, the other shoe drops.

US Secretary of State Marco Rubio, according to the Times of Israel, has asked Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed to consider contributing Ethiopian troops to a proposed International Stabilisation Force for Gaza (Times of Israel, 19 December 2025). Not a UN mission, mind you. Not even a particularly coherent coalition. Just a hastily assembled fig leaf for President Trump’s latest ceasefire plan, which Arab and Muslim states are treating like a radioactive briefcase (Reuters, 17 December 2025).

Pakistan has demurred. Indonesia is dodging calls. Saudi Arabia is suddenly very interested in Yemen again. Egypt, despite its own security concerns in Sinai, has made its discomfort plain. Jordan, normally America’s most reliable Arab partner, is keeping a careful distance. Even the Gulf states, usually amenable to American security requests when sufficiently incentivised, have found reasons to be elsewhere.

And so Washington, in its infinite resourcefulness, has turned to Ethiopia: that reliable old warhorse, still standing after everyone else has bolted from the stable. One might call it flattering, if it weren’t so depressingly familiar.

To be fair, Ethiopia is a serious peacekeeping nation. It currently ranks among the top global contributors to UN missions, with troops in Abyei, Darfur, and Somalia (UN Department of Peace Operations data). Ethiopian soldiers are disciplined, experienced, and, unlike certain Western contingents, unlikely to flee at the first whiff of cordite. They have earned respect in some of Africa’s most challenging environments, operating in conditions that would give European defence ministers nightmares and human rights lawyers apoplexy.

But Gaza is not Darfur. And the proposed ISF is not a UN mission.

It is a politically contested, regionally explosive, militarily ambiguous intervention in one of the world’s most volatile theatres. Trump’s ceasefire framework explicitly links stabilisation to Hamas disarmament, a condition that Hamas rejects, Arab states won’t enforce, and no serious analyst believes can be achieved without catastrophic escalation (Reuters; public statements by Pakistan’s Foreign Minister Ishaq Dar, November 2025). The very premise of the mission is contested. The rules of engagement are undefined. The exit strategy is non-existent. The political legitimacy is questionable at best.

In other words, it’s a deathtrap wrapped in a press release. And Ethiopia is being asked to walk into it.

The parallel to Korea is instructive, but not in the way American officials might hope. Korea, whatever its horrors, was a UN-mandated mission with broad international support, clear opposing forces, and a defined military objective. Gaza would be none of these things. It would be an occupation masquerading as stabilisation, a political arrangement imposed by force and sustained by the presence of foreign troops whom neither side particularly wants. Ethiopian soldiers would find themselves policing a ceasefire that nobody believes in, enforcing a disarmament that cannot be achieved, and serving as convenient targets for any faction seeking to demonstrate its resistance credentials.

Then there is Egypt, which watches all of this with the cold attentiveness of a creditor studying a debtor’s new car. Relations between Addis Ababa and Cairo are hardly warm. The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam remains a source of existential anxiety for Egypt, which views Ethiopian control over Nile waters the way Britain once viewed German control of the Channel: intolerable.

Ethiopian troops in Gaza, right on Egypt’s doorstep, would be read in Cairo not as burden-sharing, but as triangulation. Ethiopia securing American goodwill in the Middle East whilst remaining immovable on the Nile. Geopolitical judo. Egypt might publicly welcome the assistance, might even offer logistical support and coordinated border security. Privately, it would seethe. And mistrust, once entrenched, is devilishly difficult to dislodge. Every Ethiopian patrol near Rafah would be interpreted through the prism of Nile politics. Every American commendation of Ethiopian reliability would be seen as a subtle rebuke to Egyptian inflexibility on GERD.

The broader Arab world would face similar contradictions. How does one explain to a restive population that African troops are being deployed to stabilise Gaza when Arab armies stood aside? The optics are appalling. The politics worse. Ethiopian participation, however well-intentioned, risks becoming a symbol not of international cooperation but of Arab impotence and Western manipulation.

To understand why many Ethiopians regard these American overtures with the enthusiasm one reserves for unsolicited timeshare presentations, one must confront an inconvenient historical truth: the West has form. The overthrow of Ethiopia’s monarchy in 1974 was not merely a domestic revolution. It was Cold War opportunism dressed in Marxist rhetoric. Haile Selassie, having served as a steadfast American ally, hosting Kagnew Station, America’s largest communications facility in Africa, supporting Western positions at the UN, maintaining open trade and diplomatic channels, found that loyalty evaporated the moment his utility did.

Western powers, suddenly squeamish about imperial anachronism and distracted by Vietnam, Watergate, and oil shocks, stood aside. The Soviets, delighted, moved in with advisors, weapons, and ideological support (Bahru Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia; declassified US and Soviet Cold War records). What followed was not liberation, but systematic dismantling. Ethiopia’s historical state structure was replaced by a Derg regime whose brutality matched its incompetence, and then by an ethno-federal system whose long-term consequences are still being violently litigated in Tigray, Oromia, and Amhara.

The lesson? Loyalty rewarded when convenient. Sovereignty negotiable when inconvenient.

Nor did the post-Cold War era offer correction. Instead, Ethiopia became a laboratory for externally endorsed political engineering, celebrated when stable, condemned when fractured. Critics argue, with some justice, that the international community prioritised short-term manageability over long-term cohesion, tolerating governance models that institutionalised division whilst ignoring their destabilising effects. Western donors pumped billions into Ethiopia during the Meles Zenawi years, praising “African Renaissance” and “developmental state” whilst carefully averting their gaze from political repression and ethnic manipulation.

When the system finally collapsed into civil war in 2020, those same donors expressed shock, shocked!that such instability could emerge from a framework they had spent decades endorsing. It is within this historical memory that fears of a “second disintegration” must be understood, not as paranoia, but as pattern recognition.

If Ethiopia commits troops to Gaza without a clear UN mandate, defined rules of engagement, and regional consensus, it risks becoming once again, the geopolitical equivalent of a hired extra: visible in the frame, expendable in the edit. The question is not whether Ethiopia can contribute to global peace. Korea answered that. The question is whether selective internationalism, driven by great-power convenience, will once again leave Ethiopia holding the bag whilst others collect the applause.

There is also the domestic dimension to consider. Ethiopia is hardly in a position of domestic tranquillity from which to project military power abroad. The Tigray conflict may have formally ended, but its political, economic, and humanitarian consequences continue to reverberate. Ethnic tensions remain acute. The economy is strained. The military itself has been stretched thin by years of internal conflict. Deploying thousands of troops to Gaza whilst Amhara and Oromia simmer would be the diplomatic equivalent of reorganising the deck chairs whilst the hull takes on water.

Ethiopia’s history, from Korea to Cold War abandonment, from peacekeeping leadership to domestic fragmentation, offers a lesson that extends beyond Addis Ababa. It is a lesson about the limits of loyalty in an international system that rewards power and punishes principle. Strategic partnerships grounded in development and mutual respect, such as the one recently signed with India, strengthen sovereignty because they assume equality of agency and mutuality of benefit. Security arrangements imposed by geopolitical necessity do not, because they assume hierarchy and instrumentality.

If there is to be another chapter in Ethiopia’s long record of international service, it must be written with historical memory as strategy, not sentiment. The Kagnew Battalions deserve better than to be remembered as a cautionary tale of loyalty unrequited. Ethiopia’s current generation deserves better than to repeat their predecessors’ mistakes in a different desert, under a different flag, for similarly nebulous reasons.

The filing cabinet remains open. The index card remains tempting. But perhaps this time, Ethiopia might politely suggest that someone else take a turn. After all, there are plenty of nations who have benefited from American patronage over the decades. Perhaps it’s their turn to demonstrate that special relationships involve actual reciprocity, not just convenient deployment schedules.

History, as they say, doesn’t repeat itself. But it does rhyme. And Ethiopia has heard this particular verse before.

Key Sources:
United Nations Command & UN Department of Peace Operations historical records; US Army Center of Military History (Korean War archives); Times of Israel, 19 December 2025; Reuters, 17 December 2025; Government of India and Ethiopian Ministry of Foreign Affairs press releases; Bahru Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia

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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.

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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.

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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.

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By Kalkidan Yibeltal

BBC News, Addis Ababa

A top Ethiopian opposition figure has been shot dead and his body found on the side of a road in his hometown in Meki, in the troubled Oromia region.

Bate Urgessa, 41, was an outspoken critic of the government and had been jailed on several occasions.

Family members told local news site, Addis Standard, people who “looked like government security forces” took him from his hotel room on Tuesday night.

The Oromia regional government denied that security forces were involved.

In recent years Ethiopia has seen an increase in the killing of political and cultural figures. 

Mr Bate was a senior official of the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) – one of the biggest political parties in Ethiopia.

The OLF condemned the “brutal murder” of Mr Bate and said he was a “eloquent, brave and selfless Oromo soul”.

“The unwarranted and extrajudicial killing of conscious and active Oromo political and cultural figures has been a systematic and irresponsible act of silencing the Oromo throughout years and decades,” the statement said. 

His death has sparked outraged across social media, while human rights groups are demanding justice.

Chief commissioner of the Ethiopian Human Rights Commission (EHRC) Daniel Bekele posted on X, formerly known as Twitter, that the federal authorities need “to hold perpetrators to account”.

Phone lines are cut off in the town but it is unclear if the killing of Mr Bate will trigger protests.

Mr Bate has been jailed several times in recent years, but has remained an advocate of non-violent dissent.

In February security forces accused him of “working to incite unrest.” He was arrested while being interviewed by French journalist Antoine Galindo and later released on bail. 

Galindo was released after a week in jail and returned to Paris.

The OLF boycotted the last general election, in 2021, saying the political space was too narrow to operate. 

At the time it accused the government of arresting several of its members, supporters and leaders. 

The Oromo ethnic group is the largest in Ethiopia but some of its leaders say they have suffered discrimination from the country’s traditional elites.

The OLF used to be an armed group but laid down its weapons in 2018 after Abiy Ahmed, an ethnic Oromo, became prime minister.

However, the OLF has since become disillusioned with Mr Abiy

Source: https://www.bbc.co.uk

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Ethiopian Tribune editor

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