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By Girma Berhanu (Professor)

This reflection was prompted by a question from a 14–15-year-old girl who attends the homework support program (läxhjälp) at our university. Wearing a hijab and displaying both curiosity and ambition, she asked me a simple yet profound question: Why do people look at me?

My initial thought was that part of the reason might simply be her age. It is unusual to see someone so young in a university environment. Yet I was also aware of the broader social and cultural complexities that may have shaped her experience. These are not easy issues to explain to a young person who is eager to learn, full of aspirations, and still developing her understanding of the world around her.

I first encountered the concept of gazing during my time in the United States. Gazing is not simply the act of looking at another person. In human relationships, it can function as a powerful social mechanism that determines who is perceived as belonging and who is marked as different. It can signal inclusion or exclusion, recognition or marginalization. Its effects may be so penetrating that they become embedded in our bodies, emotions, and sense of self. In this sense, gazing can sometimes feel more forceful than a bullet. It becomes a form of surveillance and social control.

A master’s student of mine who wears a hijab shared her experiences of moving through streets and public transportation. She described how the gazes directed at her often left her feeling uneasy, unsettled, disgusted, and unwelcome. Only a few years ago, she dressed in what many would regard as ordinary Swedish clothing. She looked, in her own words, like any other Swedish woman: white, blonde, and confident. Yet changing her style of dress brought with it a daily experience of scrutiny and, at times, humiliation through the gaze of others.

A colleague and I are planning to study this phenomenon further. My colleague often wears clothing that challenges conventional gender expectations. He is very tall, while I am short and Black. Simply walking together, sharing meals, and moving through public spaces has taught us a great deal about how people react to difference. The responses are not always openly hostile, but they often reveal subtle forms of social regulation, categorization, and screening.

Over the years, I have spoken with many people about this powerful social mechanism. Disabled people, older adults, people experiencing frailty, individuals experiencing homelessness, members of the LGBTQ+ community, immigrants, religious minorities, and many other groups perceived as “different” often describe being subjected to gazes that categorize, regulate, and discipline them.

I plan to write more about this research in the future. For now, I would like to ask a few questions:

• How often do you find yourself gazing at marginalized groups in our society?

• How often do you gaze at people with cognitive, physical, or social disabilities?

• How often do you notice and react to a Jewish kippah, a Muslim hijab, other religious symbols, or visible markers of subcultures?

• And when you gaze, what assumptions are you making? What boundaries are you reinforcing? What forms of belonging or exclusion are you helping to create?

After reviewing an earlier draft of this piece, a former colleague who is a professor of special education offered an important reflection. He questioned how we distinguish between consciously categorizing people and the natural human tendency to notice what differs from what we expect. Is it the gaze itself that creates a sense of exclusion, or is it the attitudes and actions that sometimes follow? How can we investigate this phenomenon without assuming that every attentive glance is negative? Perhaps, he suggested, such a glance may simply be an expression of curiosity—or even an opening for dialogue.

His response prompted further reflection. It challenged the assumption that being noticed is necessarily a form of othering and raised the possibility that attention may stem from curiosity rather than prejudice. The distinction is subtle but important. While some gazes undoubtedly communicate exclusion, suspicion, or disapproval, others may reflect interest, uncertainty, or a desire to understand. Understanding where these meanings diverge may be one of the central challenges in studying gazing as a social phenomenon.

This is particularly important when considering how young people interpret the reactions of others. The question is not merely why people look, but how those looks are experienced, understood, and internalized by those who receive them.

GIRMA BERHANU
Professor

GOTHENBURG UNIVERSITY
Department of Education and Special Education

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THE ETHIOPIAN TRIBUNE

EDITORIAL FORWARD

In the arc of modern Ethiopian politics, a pattern emerges with unsettling consistency: the language of democracy deployed to mask its systematic hollowing. From the Derg’s ‘People’s Democratic Republic’ through the EPRDF’s carefully constructed ‘revolutionary democracy’ to the present era of purported liberalisation under Abiy Ahmed, the gap between nominal democratic form and authoritarian substance has only widened.

What makes this trajectory instructive—indeed, urgent—is not merely the Ethiopian example. Professor Girma Berhanu’s examination of democratic fragility and fascistic drift offers a sobering anatomy of how political systems ostensibly founded on popular sovereignty can be quietly remade from within. His analysis, grounded in the historical lessons of Weimar and attentive to contemporary risks in ostensibly liberal democracies, poses questions that demand our attention: How do democratic institutions erode? What conditions permit authoritarian actors to weaponise democratic freedoms? And critically, what vigilance do societies require to prevent such capture?

The Ethiopian Tribune publishes this essay as a contribution to precisely this kind of vigilance. Berhanu reminds us that democracy is not self-sustaining; it is a deliberately maintained practice, constantly imperilled by economic dislocation, institutional weakness, and the calculated exploitation of democratic freedoms by those hostile to democratic limits. The warning is not apocalyptic but pragmatic: recognise the mechanisms. Understand the patterns. Act to preserve the guardrails.

For Ethiopian readers especially, the stakes are familiar. We know what the erosion of democratic norms looks like. The task ahead is building a political culture where neither the language nor the substance of democracy can be so carelessly discarded.

—The Editors—

When Democracy Weakens: Fragile Political Cultures and Fascistic Drift

By Girma Berhanu

Professor, Department of Education and Special Education, University of Gothenburg

Introduction

The three political regimes I am familiar with in Ethiopia have all used the term “democracy” in their official names or ideological framing. However, in each case, the reality has differed significantly from the label.

The military regime known as the Derg adopted the name People’s Democratic Republic of Ethiopia. Despite including the word “democratic,” it was in practice a one-party authoritarian state. There were no free elections, and the government relied heavily on repression, including the period known as the Red Terror. The name suggested democracy, but the system clearly was not.

During the EPRDF era (1991–2019), the ruling coalition introduced what it called “revolutionary democracy.” Elections were held and multiple political parties formally existed. However, one coalition dominated political life for decades, whilst opposition groups and independent media faced significant restrictions. Ethiopia was officially a federal parliamentary republic, with a powerful Prime Minister and a largely ceremonial President. In practice, however, power was highly centralised.

This period also introduced an ethnic federal system that divided the country into regions based on ethnolinguistic identity. Critics argue that this structure entrenched divisions and created a hierarchy in governance, with certain groups holding disproportionate political influence.

In the recent period (2019–present) under Abiy Ahmed, initial reforms appeared to expand political freedoms. However, the situation has since deteriorated. The government has been involved in multiple internal conflicts, including wars affecting Tigrayan and Amhara populations. Thousands of intellectuals, activists, and political opponents have reportedly been imprisoned, raising serious concerns about human rights and political freedoms. Across all three periods, the regimes did not genuinely function as democracies, despite using democratic language or structures. This highlights a broader issue: in politics, labels do not necessarily reflect reality. When the term “democracy” is repeatedly used without corresponding democratic practice, it risks losing its meaning and credibility. This raises an important question: is democracy itself becoming less relevant, or are political systems increasingly exploiting its language whilst undermining its substance?

Applying “How Fascism Works” to Contemporary Sweden: The Sweden Democrats in Focus

Reading How Fascism Works by Jason Stanley has deepened my concern about how fascism can take root within democratic systems. In the book, Stanley identifies ten key pillars that enable authoritarian movements to thrive, often by dividing societies into “us” versus “them.” His analysis feels especially relevant today, as it highlights how fragile democratic cultures can become when these tactics go unrecognised.

Stanley draws clear parallels between historical fascist movements and contemporary political trends, demonstrating that these strategies are not relics of the past. Instead, they are being repurposed and adapted within modern democracies. He stresses the importance of recognising these patterns early in order to resist their influence and protect democratic institutions.

By understanding how fascism operates—through division, propaganda, and the manipulation of truth—individuals and societies are better equipped to defend civil rights and democratic values. Stanley’s work is therefore not only a critical examination of history but also a timely warning and a call to vigilance in the present.

Developments in countries such as the United States, Hungary, and India are often cited by scholars and commentators as warning signs of democratic backsliding, where institutions, norms, or freedoms face increasing pressure. The United States, long seen as a leading democratic power and global actor, is not immune to these concerns. Debates about polarisation, institutional trust, and the resilience of democratic norms raise important questions about its future direction.

Rather than suggesting that democracy is disappearing, these developments point to how it can be strained, contested, and reshaped. This makes the need for awareness, accountability, and civic engagement all the more urgent.

Even here at home in Sweden, I worry about the rise of the Sweden Democrats (SD). The party has documented roots in extremist milieus, including skinhead culture and strongly anti-immigrant rhetoric. According to the party’s own historical review (often referred to as a “white paper”), some of its early figures had connections to nationalist and far-right movements.

When Jimmie Åkesson, the current party leader, joined in the mid-1990s, SD was described as carrying a heavy ideological legacy. The historian Tony Gustafsson characterises the party’s early environment as a mix of nationalist, xenophobic, and, at times, openly extremist ideas. He also links the party’s origins to Bevara Sverige Svenskt (BSS), which has been described by researchers as a racist and far-right campaign organisation. Many of the party’s early representatives had direct or indirect ties to BSS, and some were associated with neo-fascist or National Socialist movements.

In its early years, the party was also marked by incidents involving Holocaust denial, antisemitic rhetoric, and hostile portrayals of immigrants and refugees. Over time, SD has sought to distance itself from these elements and rebrand its image, but debates continue about how to interpret its history and current political direction. With elections approaching in Sweden, there is concern amongst some observers that SD could make significant gains. This moment is seen by many as an important test for the country’s political landscape. Regardless of political position, it underscores the importance of public engagement, critical discussion, and vigilance in safeguarding democratic values.

What is Democracy?

Until I moved to Sweden, I thought democracy was mainly about elections and majority rule. It took me several years to grasp its broader conceptual foundations, as well as the importance of institutions and their real-world implications. Over time, I spoke with many people—especially young people I worked with on school assignments—about how they understand democracy. Most described it in terms of majority rule and free elections; a few mentioned freedom of speech. This pattern revealed something important: one of the most neglected areas, both in education and in public discourse, is a deeper understanding of democracy—what it actually entails and how it can be sustained. Many respondents could name voting as a core feature, but were less able to explain how a functioning democracy operates in practice or to articulate its underlying principles. A fuller picture includes several interdependent elements: free and fair elections; the rule of law, where everyone—including those in power—is bound by the same legal framework; the protection of fundamental rights such as speech, press, and religion; mechanisms of accountability that hold leaders responsible; and participation that extends beyond elections, including civic engagement and public deliberation. Democracy is not only a system of governance; it is also a set of values. It rests on the belief that people should have a meaningful say in decisions that affect their lives, that power must be limited and shared, and that disagreement is not a threat but a condition of political life—one that requires negotiation and compromise. The reality, however, is that these principles are neither automatic nor self-sustaining. They depend on institutions that function effectively and on citizens who understand, value, and actively uphold them.

I have often debated with myself whether democracy can become fertile ground for fascistic tendencies. Some argue that democracy itself does not inherently produce fascism, but that under certain conditions it can be weakened and exploited, allowing authoritarian movements to rise. Whilst this is a thoughtful distinction, I still find it somewhat unsatisfying when I look at real-world developments.

Observing political dynamics in the United States, I feel a growing concern about how individuals with significant financial resources, combined with simple and emotionally powerful political messaging, can rise to power and shape policies with far-reaching consequences. The influence of money, media, and rhetoric can sometimes overshadow more complex and thoughtful political debate. For example, there have been reports that Donald Trump has actively engaged with oil industry leaders and encouraged investment aligned with his political agenda. In the case of Venezuela, he has promoted the idea of major U.S. oil companies investing heavily in the country’s oil infrastructure, even promising favourable conditions and security for such investments. At the same time, U.S. policy towards countries like Iran has also been closely tied to energy strategy and geopolitical interests, including sanctions and control over oil flows. However, these developments are not solely about individual motives or simple cause-and-effect relationships. They reflect a more complex system where economic interests, geopolitical strategy, and domestic politics intersect.

What remains troubling is how easily democratic systems can be influenced by wealth, simplified narratives, and polarisation. When political discourse becomes dominated by fear, identity, or economic promises to powerful groups, it risks sidelining broader societal interests—especially those of vulnerable populations. This raises a difficult but important question: how can democratic societies ensure that political power serves the public good rather than narrow interests? If these trends continue unchecked, democracy may not collapse outright, but it can gradually be reshaped in ways that undermine its core principles.

Take the Weimar Republic as a classic example. It was a democratic system, yet it collapsed and gave way to Nazism under Adolf Hitler. This did not happen because democracy “naturally becomes fascist,” but because of a convergence of pressures: severe economic shocks such as the Great Depression, chronic political fragmentation and instability, weak institutional safeguards, and a widespread loss of trust in democratic governance. Anti-democratic actors also exploited democratic procedures—elections and constitutional appointments—to gain power from within. A similar dynamic can be seen in the rise of Benito Mussolini, who came to power through a mix of political manoeuvring and elite backing within a formally constitutional framework.

What is going on, then? Democracy institutionalises participation and competition, which means extremist movements can operate within it. When institutions are fragile or public trust erodes, such movements can win power through legal means and then begin dismantling democratic constraints from the inside. This dynamic is often described as democratic backsliding or authoritarian capture.

Thinkers have long warned about these vulnerabilities. Alexis de Tocqueville cautioned that democracies could drift towards forms of “soft despotism,” where popular sovereignty gradually yields to centralised authority claiming to act in the people’s name. Hannah Arendt, in her analysis of totalitarianism, highlighted how mass atomisation and the breakdown of intermediary institutions can create fertile ground for such movements. More recently, Jason Stanley argues in How Fascism Works (2020) that illiberal actors strategically exploit democratic freedoms—especially freedom of expression—to erode pluralism and normalise exclusionary politics.

Still, the idea that democracy can fail and be replaced by fascism—but does not inherently produce it—can feel unsatisfying. It may seem, especially when looking at historical and contemporary examples, that the very openness of democracy creates vulnerabilities that can be exploited. The challenge, then, is not to see democracy as inevitably leading to fascism, but to recognise that without strong institutions, civic awareness, and accountability, it can become fragile enough to be turned against itself.

Strong Institutions, Public Trust, and Respect for Democratic Norms

If democracy is often seen as the fairest and most legitimate form of government—giving citizens the power to choose their leaders and shape their societies—how can it be defended so that it is not undermined by forces that seek to destroy it from within? History shows that public faith in democratic governance can weaken during times of severe economic crisis. Periods marked by hyperinflation, widespread hardship, and social disillusionment often lead people to view democratic systems as ineffective and incapable of addressing their needs. In such conditions, political instability creates openings for more extreme movements.

In the Weimar Republic, this dynamic was clearly visible. Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party gained support by exploiting fear, frustration, and uncertainty. Through persuasive propaganda, appeals to nationalism, and promises of renewal, Hitler was able to build a broad base of support. Over time, democratic institutions were gradually dismantled, and Germany transitioned into a totalitarian regime. This case illustrates how democracy can be undermined not only by external threats, but also through internal erosion. When trust declines, institutions weaken, and political actors exploit divisions, the system can begin to turn against itself. Some observers see elements of this pattern in contemporary politics, including in the United States, whilst recognising that such risks can emerge in many different contexts. The lesson is not that democracy inevitably fails, but that it requires constant protection—through strong institutions, an informed public, and a commitment to democratic norms—to withstand pressures from within.

To help address vulnerabilities within democratic systems and demonstrate resilience, courts, state officials, and other institutions must remain prepared at all times to uphold the rule of law and ensure the peaceful transfer of power through fair elections. At the same time, mass media—and increasingly digital technologies—play a powerful role in shaping public opinion and influencing electoral outcomes, sometimes in ways that contribute to confusion, polarisation, or misinformation. To safeguard democracy, societies need to build strong democratic traditions, robust institutional checks and balances, and a deeply embedded culture of constitutionalism and civic norms. These factors together can help prevent democratic breakdown.

These examples highlight a central lesson: democracy is not self-sustaining. It requires active participation, trust in institutions, and a shared commitment to rules and norms. When economic hardship, political polarisation, or misinformation weaken these foundations, democratic systems become more vulnerable to internal stress and exploitation.

In conclusion, democracy remains one of the most effective systems for representing the will of the people, but it is not without risk. The historical experience of Germany and the contemporary challenges seen in many democracies today demonstrate that democratic systems must be continuously protected and strengthened. Rather than assuming democracy will endure on its own, societies must recognise its fragility and actively work to preserve it.

—

Girma Berhanu is Professor of Education at the University of Gothenburg’s Department of Education and Special Education.

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By Professor Girma Berhanu, University of Gothenburg, Sweden

EDITORS’ FOREWORD

A Warning Ethiopia Cannot Afford to Ignore

There are moments in a nation’s life when silence becomes complicity. Ethiopia stands at such a moment. The Ethiopian Tribune has long held that the duty of independent journalism is not merely to inform but to name what is happening with clarity, courage, and moral seriousness even, and especially, when what must be named is deeply uncomfortable.

The article we present in this edition “Fascism at Work: Propaganda, Conspiracy, Lies, Hatred, and Incompetence in Ethiopia” is one of the most consequential pieces of political analysis we have published. Its author, Professor Girma Berhanu of the University of Gothenburg, brings to bear rigorous comparative political theory alongside meticulous documentation of on-the-ground realities. The result is a work that demands not merely reading, but reckoning.

Professor Berhanu builds his analysis on Jason Stanley’s framework in How Fascism Works, applying it with unflinching precision to Ethiopia under Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed. He identifies, one by one, the hallmarks of fascist political practice: the fabrication of mythic history, the systematic destruction of truth, the vilification of intellectuals, the weaponization of identity, and the hollowing out of democratic institutions. His conclusion is not offered tentatively: these are not tendencies that might emerge; they are already defining features of the Ethiopian political order.

We recognise that strong analysis provokes strong responses. We welcome rigorous engagement, challenge, and debate. What we will not accept is the erasure of the evidence or the silencing of those who speak it. The Tribune publishes this work in the conviction that Ethiopia’s future depends on honest diagnosis of its present however painful that diagnosis may be.

We urge every Ethiopian at home and in the diaspora every diplomat, every human rights advocate, every African Union official, and every international observer to read this article in full. The moment for polite understatement has passed.

The Editors

The Ethiopian Tribune Editorial Board

SYNOPSIS

Fascism at Work: Propaganda, Conspiracy, Lies, Hatred, and Incompetence in Ethiopia

By Professor Girma Berhanu, University of Gothenburg, Sweden

Overview

This paper offers a comprehensive and urgent analysis of Ethiopia’s contemporary political crisis through the analytical lens of Jason Stanley’s landmark work How Fascism Works. Professor Berhanu argues, without equivocation, that the tactics Stanley identifies as the hallmarks of fascist political practice are not theoretical abstractions in Ethiopia, they are operational realities, increasingly defining the political order under Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed and the ideology of Oromummaa.

Key Arguments

The paper identifies nine structural features of fascist politics all of which the author argues are present in contemporary Ethiopia. These are: the fabrication of a glorified mythic past to legitimize present domination; pervasive and unapologetic propaganda that actively replaces truth with politically convenient falsehood; the structural suppression of intellectuals and critical voices; the cultivation of conspiracy thinking and manufactured paranoia to justify repression; the normalization of ethnic hierarchy and “natural order”; the weaponization of a victimhood narrative by dominant groups; the deployment of law-and-order politics as a mechanism of control; the exclusionary redefinition of national identity; and the systematic erosion of democratic institutions, leaving only a hollowed-out façade.

The Finfinnee Reclamation Framework

A central focus of the paper is the so-called “Finfinnee Reclamation Framework” a discussion draft circulating within the government that the author describes as a blueprint for ethnic domination. The document proposes transferring political authority, economic power, and land rights in Addis Ababa to Oromo stakeholders, invoking international models from Dubai’s “Sovereign Host” approach to Malaysia’s Bumiputera policy as templates for an “Oromo First” agenda. Professor Berhanu argues that this represents a direct assault on Ethiopia’s multi-ethnic federal capital and a flagrant attack on civic equality and shared citizenship. Evidence from the economic decline of Hawassa under the Sidama regional model and the effective “Bantustan-ization” of Harar are presented as real-world warnings of what such policies produce.

Oromummaa, Ethnic Federalism, and Comparative Politics

The paper provides a rigorous examination of Oromummaa as both a cultural framework and a state ideology. While acknowledging that proponents present it as a project of cultural revitalization and emancipation, Professor Berhanu argues that in its operative form under the current government, it exhibits structural features comparable to fascist and ethnonationalist movements: the primacy of a singular collective identity, the construction of existential “enemies,” nostalgic myth-making, the erosion of pluralism, and the subordination of individual and minority rights to ideological cohesion. Drawing on Carl Schmitt’s friend-enemy distinction and Hannah Arendt’s analysis of totalitarianism, the paper situates Oromummaa within a broader comparative political theory framework while carefully noting important historical and contextual differences from European fascism.

Ethiopia’s system of ethnic federalism, introduced under the TPLF in the early 1990s, receives extensive critical analysis. The author characterizes it as structurally analogous to the Bantustan model of apartheid-era South Africa a system that has transformed identity into the primary currency of power, normalized inter-ethnic suspicion and rivalry, and created fertile ground for racialized political mobilization, including the construction of a “Cushitic versus Semitic” dichotomy with dangerous ideological resonances.

The Amhara Crisis and Three Tiers of Victimhood

Professor Berhanu advances a three-tiered analytical framework to account for the full scope of the crisis facing Ethiopia’s Amhara population. First-tier victimhood refers to the direct and documented experience of mass killings, displacement, and the destruction of cultural and religious heritage. Second-tier victimhood refers to the manipulation of narrative the construction by ethnonationalist actors of a counter-victimhood discourse that obscures and denies Amhara suffering while reframing perpetrators as victims. Third-tier or “psychic” victimhood refers to the compounding effect of international invisibility: the failure of global media, diaspora networks, and international institutions to adequately recognize, document, and respond to the scale of atrocity. The campaign described by critics as “Amharafrei” an explicit parallel drawn to the Nazi concept of Judenfrei is presented as a deliberate strategy of cultural erasure encompassing historicide, ethnocide, and linguicide.

Significance and Urgency

This paper is not academic exercise. It is, as its author explicitly states, motivated by moral anger and by the conviction that accurate diagnosis of political pathology is a precondition for meaningful response. Its arguments carry direct implications for Ethiopian citizens, the diaspora, opposition figures, civil society, and the international community alike. The convergence of fascist-style political tactics, ethnic federalism’s structural fragmentation, the ideological entrenchment of Oromummaa, and the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in Amhara regions constitutes, in Professor Berhanu’s assessment, a coherent and escalating political crisis not an isolated series of events.

READ THE FULL ARTICLE

The synopsis above conveys the structure and stakes of Professor Berhanu’s analysis, but it cannot substitute for the article itself. The full text develops each argument with scholarly depth, primary documentation, comparative historical evidence, and the kind of analytical precision that the gravity of the subject demands. We urge all readers to access and read the complete article at the link below:-

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By Professor Girma Berhanu

Editor’s Foreword

In this edition of Ethiopian Tribune, we are pleased to present a deeply researched and timely contribution from Professor Girma Berhanu of the University of Gothenburg, an essay that confronts one of the most sensitive and consequential questions in Ethiopia today: how language, names, and perceived ethnic affiliation have become informal instruments of power.

Drawing on years of observation and extensive personal accounts, the author argues that contemporary Ethiopia is witnessing the rise of what he terms ethnicized gatekeeping, a system in which the ability to speak Afaan Oromo or to bear an Oromo‑sounding name increasingly shapes access to public services, personal security, and institutional trust. As the essay notes, “just a few sentences in Oromogna can open doors to services and spare some individuals the unnecessary difficulties others face” a striking illustration of how linguistic markers now function as practical political capital.

Professor Berhanu situates these everyday encounters within a broader historical and structural analysis. He traces the shift from the TPLF/EPRDF era, when ethnic Tigrayan elites were widely perceived as dominant to the present, where Oromo political actors hold significant executive authority. Yet the central concern remains constant: the concentration of power within narrow elite networks, regardless of ethnicity, undermines the promise of equal citizenship.

The essay highlights several mechanisms through which these dynamics unfold:

• Instant assumptions of belonging, where language or names trigger trust or suspicion.
• Informal gatekeeping, where perceived identity influences bureaucratic treatment.
• Network effects, in which opportunities flow along ethnic or linguistic lines.
• Cumulative advantage, echoing the Matthew Effect, where early privileges compound over time.

These patterns, the author warns, risk entrenching a hierarchy of access that fragments national identity and corrodes institutional neutrality. As he writes, “the cumulative effect…is the perception, and in some cases the experience of differentiated citizenship.”

Importantly, the essay rejects any narrative of collective ethnic blame. It stresses that the issue is structural, not inherent to any group, noting that “Oromos as a whole should not be held collectively responsible for the actions of political elites who claim to act in their name.” Instead, the call is for accountability, institutional reform, and a renewed commitment to civic equality.

This is a sober, meticulously argued, and morally urgent piece one that challenges readers to confront uncomfortable realities while resisting the temptations of ethnic essentialism. It is, above all, a wake‑up call: a reminder that Ethiopia’s long‑term stability depends not on the dominance of any group, but on the creation of institutions that treat all citizens with fairness, dignity, and impartiality.

We invite our readers to engage with this essay in the spirit in which it is offered: critically, thoughtfully, and with an eye toward building a more just and inclusive Ethiopia.

_____________//____________

Ethnicity at the Gate: The Advantage of Sounding Oromo in Contemporary Ethiopia

[Ethnicized Gatekeeping: How Afaan Oromo and Oromo-Sounding Names structure Advantage]

By Professor Girma Berhanu  

Department of Education and Special Education (Professor) 

University of Gothenburg 

Box 300, SE 405 30 

Göteborg, Sweden 

Email: Girma.Berhanu@ped.gu.se 

Introduction

This essay argues that in contemporary Ethiopia, linguistic and onomastic markers—particularly the ability to speak Afaan Oromo or to bear an Oromo-sounding name—have been transformed into informal instruments of power. These markers increasingly structure access to public services, personal security, and institutional trust. In doing so, they institutionalize unequal forms of citizenship and erode the state’s claim to universal, neutral governance.

Over several decades, I have observed and documented personal accounts reflecting these dynamics. During the TPLF/EPRDF period, I published a number of articles examining ethnic stratification, internal colonialism, and systemic inequalities (see Berhanu, G. 2017. Ethiopia: Intellectual Genocide in the Making? The Strong and Pervasive Evidence of Ethnic Inequalities. Advances in Social Sciences Research Journal, 4(13), 133–165). That body of work analyzed both macro-level structural domination and micro-level aggressions embedded in everyday interactions. At the time, I argued that Tigreans were disproportionately favored across political, economic, military, and cultural institutions, resulting in entrenched hierarchies of power and access.

My scholarly interest has consistently centered on how such hierarchies are reproduced in daily interactions—through language, naming practices, and informal gatekeeping mechanisms. By documenting and analyzing these patterns, I sought to contribute to a broader understanding of ethnicized governance and its consequences, with the aim of encouraging critical reflection, reform, and peaceful transformation

In this essay, structural racism—conceptualized here as ethnicized state hierarchy—is examined as a system through which historical, cultural, institutional, and interpersonal dynamics become normalized and legitimized. I argue that in contemporary Ethiopia, these dynamics increasingly advantage segments of the Oromo political elite while generating cumulative and chronic adverse outcomes for other ethnic communities across the country. The result is a hierarchy of power and access in which preferential treatment, patronage networks, and informal gatekeeping practices shape citizenship in unequal ways.

The urgency of this situation cannot be overstated. Patterns of perceived inequity—manifested in favoritism, nepotism, land appropriation, unequal access to state resources, and uneven protection under the law—have contributed to deep mistrust among communities. An adequate response to injustice of this magnitude requires structural reform: genuine democratization, strengthened rule of law, and the development of independent civil society institutions capable of holding power accountable. Without these, grievances accumulate and cycles of instability persist.

The gravity of the matter recalls the moral clarity expressed by Elie Wiesel in his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech on December 10, 1986. He warned: “We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” His broader message—that indifference in the face of injustice enables oppression—resonates strongly in contexts where human dignity, political participation, and equal citizenship are perceived to be under threat. For Ethiopia, the concern is that political neutrality in the face of systemic discrimination risks eroding the nation’s intellectual, civic, and moral foundations.

My central thesis is that the current Ethiopian regime appears, in practice, to reproduce ethnicized governance patterns that many citizens experience as discriminatory. Reports of inequitable distribution of public goods, selective enforcement of laws, suppression of dissent, and violent crackdowns on protest contribute to a volatile political environment. Mass demonstrations demanding basic human rights—long suppressed during the EPRDF era and continuing under the current administration—have repeatedly been met with coercion, excessive force, and sweeping restrictions on dissent. Such responses have deepened perceptions of entrenched authoritarianism, systemic democratic deficit, and the deliberate exclusion of citizens from meaningful political participation.

The federal system—introduced with the stated aim of managing diversity and mitigating ethnic conflict—has struggled to fulfill its integrative promise. While designed to institutionalize self-governance, critics argue that political and economic power remains highly centralized at the federal level. At the same time, ethnic favoritism, state partiality, and the absence of a unifying national vision have weakened trust in the system. Secessionist pressures and interethnic tensions continue to threaten long-term stability.

Historically, political dominance in Ethiopia shifted from a period in which the ruling coalition was widely perceived as dominated by ethnic Tigrayan elites to the present era, in which Oromo political actors hold significant executive authority. Yet the broader structural concern remains constant: concentration of power within narrow elite networks—regardless of ethnic identity—undermines inclusive governance.

As a scholar of education, I have paid particular attention to how these hierarchies manifest in daily institutional life. Language proficiency, personal names, and perceived ethnic affiliation can influence interactions within public institutions. Informal gatekeeping practices—at airports, passport offices, tax bureaus, and other state services—are widely reported and observed by citizens as mechanisms through which inclusion or exclusion is enacted. Whether through overt discrimination or subtle micro-level interactions, such practices erode confidence in the neutrality of public administration.

Economically, there is a widespread perception that wealth distribution has shifted unevenly, with benefits accruing disproportionately to politically connected elites. Although some development gains have reached multiple regions, critics argue that disparities remain large and persistent. These inequalities, whether empirically measured or socially perceived, shape political mobilization and collective grievance.

The broader question, therefore, is not solely which ethnic group holds power at a given historical moment, but whether Ethiopia can build institutions that transcend ethnic patronage systems altogether. Sustainable peace and democratic consolidation require impartial state institutions, transparent governance, equitable development policies, and protection of civil liberties for all citizens—regardless of ethnic identity, language, or region.

Only through structural transformation grounded in democratic accountability and civic equality can the underlying causes of recurring injustice be addressed. Without such reform, the cycle of elite domination, public discontent, and instability is likely to continue.

Ethnicized Gatekeeping: How Afaan Oromo and Oromo-Sounding Names Structure Advantage

The overall aim of this analysis is to document and examine how Afaan Oromo and onomastic identity function in practice as informal instruments of power within contemporary Ethiopia. Drawing on long-term observation, personal accounts, and institutional case illustrations, the study explores how linguistic proficiency and name-based ethnic identification appear to influence everyday interactions with state authorities and public institutions. In multiple reported contexts—such as passport services, taxation offices, public administration, airport procedures, and educational institutions—language use and name recognition are described as shaping the quality, speed, and tone of service delivery.

In this sense, Afaan Oromo proficiency and Oromo-sounding names may operate as forms of practical political capital. These markers can affect perceived belonging, institutional trust, and informal access to decision-makers. While the politicization of language and naming is not unique to Ethiopia, the current context renders these identity markers particularly salient in bureaucratic encounters. Patterns described by respondents suggest that language and naming sometimes function as informal criteria through which inclusion, advantage, or exclusion are enacted.

Rather than treating these dynamics as isolated incidents, this analysis situates them within broader institutional structures, where informal gatekeeping practices intersect with formal state authority. The cumulative effect of such practices, as reported across sectors, is the perception—and in some cases the experience—of differentiated citizenship, in which institutional neutrality is unevenly applied.

The material I used for this synthesis is enormous, particularly covering the eight years since Abiy took power. It is based on observations accumulated over this period.

People have shared story after story with me. It is disturbing how just a few sentences in Oromogna can open doors to services and spare some individuals the unnecessary difficulties others face when trying to complete errands in town that require official approval. One friend, who has only a rudimentary knowledge of Oromogna, managed to clear his matters at the airport simply by saying in Oromogna, “Am I done now?” An officer—who had previously asked him a rather absurd question about whether he had drones or drone-operating software on his computer, seemingly because his name did not sound Oromo—was clearly taken aback. Once my friend spoke a few words in Oromogna, everything was facilitated.

Even last week, several acquaintances from the Middle East, with names such as Fatima Abamecha, Birkisa Aba Jebel, Chaltu Aba Geru, and Zebiba Aba Jifar—along with surnames like Aba Gero or Aba Gidi—described how their names effectively functioned as “green cards” at the airport and in many offices in the city and regional towns where official signatures are required. They told me themselves how their names suddenly and unfairly facilitated their cases. These are thoughtful and decent people, and they are fully aware of the long-term consequences that such practices may have.

A friend whose grandfather’s name is Wako encountered difficulties in Addis while trying to process a case. An officer or clerk asked him whether he could speak Oromogna. He replied, “Even my father cannot speak it, because his father died at a very young age during the war. My father grew up in Addis with relatives.” The officer responded by questioning how he could carry such a “great” name and yet not speak Oromogna. The exchange led nowhere. The clerk became unnecessarily upset over what seemed to be a trivial matter. Eventually, my friend grew tired and left the office without completing his power-of-attorney errand.

Another troubling development is that some members of the elite with mixed ethnic heritage have begun adjusting or changing their names to sound Oromo. This appears to be an opportunistic and materially driven response to current circumstances. In the past, many Oromos changed their names in an effort to adopt more modern, Amhara, or Christian-sounding names, often voluntarily, as a way of integrating more easily into Ethiopia’s multiethnic landscape. This was partly because Amharic has long functioned as a lingua franca in Ethiopia. At the same time, it is difficult to deny that there has often been subtle social pressure to adopt the national language and to speak it without an accent.

An empirical question concerns how these dynamics play out in practice. Several mechanisms can be identified.

First, instant assumptions and trust. Speaking Afaan Oromo or having an Oromo-sounding name can function as an immediate marker of belonging to those perceived to be in power or to dominant local networks. In practical terms, this may translate into less suspicion at checkpoints, smoother interactions with local officials, and faster access to services or informal cooperation. The mechanism is not necessarily explicit or consciously articulated as “I will help you because you are Oromo.” Rather, it often operates at a subconscious level: “You are one of us.”

Second, gatekeeping and risk management. In a tense political climate, identity markers can become proxies for risk assessment. Accents or names associated with non-Oromo backgrounds may trigger additional scrutiny, as illustrated in the examples above. In response, some individuals strategically switch languages or adjust their names to minimize friction. In such contexts, silence or code-switching becomes a survival strategy. When linguistic adaptation is driven primarily by fear or precaution rather than convenience, it signals deeper structural imbalances.

Third, network effects. Power rarely operates only through formal hierarchies; it circulates through personal and professional networks. A substantial body of comparative research shows that employment opportunities, contracts, permits, and informal protection often move along ethnic or linguistic lines, particularly in environments where institutions are weak. If Oromo elites dominate specific institutions, Oromo identity can become a form of social capital. The structural consequence is that others may perceive themselves as excluded, regardless of qualifications. Over time, such perceptions can generate cumulative resentment across groups.

Fourth, the shift from historical marginalization to perceived dominance. The emotional intensity of the current situation is rooted in competing historical narratives. Many Oromos argue that they experienced longstanding marginalization within the Ethiopian state. Political change therefore raised expectations of justice and structural correction. However, emerging evidence and personal testimonies suggest that significant segments of the population now interpret current developments not as national reconciliation but as ethnic reversal. Whether or not the original marginalization narrative is universally accepted, the perception of new inequities has become politically consequential.

The broader risks of such dynamics are well documented in international scholarship. When language or names begin to influence perceptions of safety and opportunity, meritocratic principles erode, national identity weakens, and interpersonal trust declines. Citizens increasingly interpret one another through ethnic categories rather than shared civic belonging. Historically, societies that institutionalize identity as the primary channel of access to resources often move from diversity toward fragmentation.

The core issue, therefore, is not about Oromo individuals as such. It concerns institutional arrangements that reward ethnic identification over citizenship. Systems structured in this way tend, over time, to undermine even those who appear to benefit from them in the short term. In my previous article, A Quiet Case of Ethnic Apartheid in Ethiopia: Internal Colonialism and Uneven Effects of Political, Social, and Economic Development on a Regional Basis, I elaborated extensively on the long-term consequences of this unsustainable trajectory.

Persistent and Pervasive Inequality and the Concept of “Oromo Privilege”

The current system may be analytically described, by some observers, as resembling a form of ethnic stratification that can be interpreted through the lens of internal colonialism. Internal colonialism is a theoretical framework used to explain how persistent and pervasive inequality can be reproduced within a sovereign state, even in the absence of foreign rule. In such cases, domination is exercised internally through political control, institutional arrangements, and asymmetrical access to resources and representation. The “internal colony,” in this formulation, consists of regions or populations that experience structural disadvantage relative to those aligned with the dominant political center.

Within this framework, the notion of “Oromo privilege” has emerged as a contested analytical term. By analogy to “white privilege”—often defined as the ability of dominant racial groups to maintain elevated social status in ways that obscure structural inequality—“Oromo privilege” may be tentatively defined as a perceived set of institutional advantages disproportionately benefiting members of a politically dominant ethnic group, particularly its elites (see Delgado & Stefancic, 2001; Harris, 1995; Lund, 2010). The term does not refer to inherent characteristics of individuals, but to systemic patterns of access, presumed belonging, informal protection, and social credibility that may accompany alignment with centers of power.

Critics argue that when a ruling political formation—such as the Prosperity Party and networks associated with Oromuma—is widely perceived as closely linked to a specific ethnic constituency, structural inequalities may be interpreted as ethnically structured. In such contexts, disparities in power, resources, prestige, and perceived social worth can become mapped onto ethnic categories. These dynamics are often reinforced not only through formal institutions but also through narratives, symbolic politics, and everyday administrative practices.

The purpose of this analysis is therefore partly to interrogate and deconstruct claims of ethnic hierarchy and cultural superiority. Historical experience demonstrates the dangers of institutionalizing such narratives. In Rwanda, for example, colonial racial classifications and constructed historical myths hardened distinctions between Hutu and Tutsi, contributing to long-term polarization and, ultimately, catastrophic violence. The broader lesson drawn in comparative scholarship is that politicized narratives of inherent group superiority can entrench divisions that later become extremely difficult to reverse.

It is essential to emphasize that contemporary scientific consensus rejects biological claims of ethnic or racial hierarchy. As Crane (1994) argued, there is no credible genetic evidence supporting differences in intelligence between races; race itself is fundamentally a socially and politically constructed category rather than a coherent biological one. Similarly, Gould (1996) stressed that human diversity cannot be meaningfully organized into hierarchical biological classifications.

Applied to the Ethiopian context, the central issue is not the intrinsic qualities of any ethnic group, but the structural risks posed by political systems perceived to privilege identity over equal citizenship. When institutions are widely viewed as rewarding ethnic alignment rather than merit or civic belonging, social trust declines and zero-sum competition intensifies. Over time, such perceptions—regardless of how they are interpreted by different groups—can contribute to fragmentation rather than integration.

A sustainable path forward therefore requires moving beyond ethnicized narratives of superiority or victimhood and toward institutional reforms grounded in equal citizenship, transparency, and merit-based governance.

A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy and the So-Called Matthew Effect

It is widely recognized that individuals and groups who begin with structural advantages are more likely to excel across multiple domains. The so-called Matthew Effect—the idea that “the rich get richer and the poor get poorer”—is relevant in this regard. In Outliers (2008), Gladwell argues that success is rarely accidental; it is shaped by cumulative advantages such as family background, cultural legacies, institutional support, and differentiated opportunities. Processes such as selection, streaming, and unequal exposure to resources amplify early advantages over time.

A well-known example is the selection of youth hockey players in Canada. Sociologist Robert Merton described such dynamics as a self-fulfilling prophecy: an initially arbitrary or even mistaken assumption produces behaviors that eventually make the assumption appear true. In the Canadian hockey case, older children within the same age cohort are more likely to be selected as “talented,” simply because they are more physically mature. Once selected, they receive better coaching, more practice, and greater encouragement—advantages that reinforce and validate the original, flawed assessment. As Merton observed, the apparent confirmation of the original judgment perpetuates the initial error.

These mechanisms also operate at the group level, including along ethnic, gender, or national lines. One related psychological concept is stereotype threat: members of stigmatized groups may underperform in academic or professional settings partly because they internalize negative stereotypes. Anticipating poor performance generates stress, which in turn interferes with cognition and achievement. Research has shown that such effects can influence not only racial minorities in Western contexts, but also girls, persons with disabilities, and older individuals.

When low expectations become institutionalized—whether explicitly or implicitly—they can produce long-term structural consequences. Individuals who repeatedly encounter limited expectations may gradually adjust their aspirations downward. Over time, this process generates what appears to be evidence of group-based inferiority, when in fact it reflects unequal treatment and opportunity. These are subtle but powerful mechanisms through which inequality reproduces itself.

Closely related is what educators call the Pygmalion effect (or Rosenthal effect), the phenomenon whereby higher expectations lead to improved performance. Conversely, the Golem effect refers to the decline in performance that follows from low expectations. Both are forms of self-fulfilling prophecy. When individuals are labeled as capable and are treated accordingly, they tend to internalize those positive expectations and perform better. When they are labeled as inferior or less deserving, performance often declines in line with those diminished expectations. These dynamics have been widely documented in educational and organizational settings.

In the Ethiopian context, these concepts offer a framework for examining how differential expectations placed on ordinary citizens—or on those perceived to belong to “the wrong” ethnic group—may shape long-term outcomes. If political elites, administrators, or economic actors implicitly assign lower competence or legitimacy to certain groups, the resulting disparities in access, encouragement, and institutional trust can translate into measurable differences in achievement.

The broader concern is that material advantages accumulated by politically connected elites may be converted into durable group-based inequalities, particularly in education and economic opportunity. When resources are unevenly distributed along identity lines, cumulative advantage effects intensify over time.

Comparative historical experience suggests that systems rooted in chauvinism or exclusive privilege—whether ethnic, regional, or ideological—ultimately undermine national cohesion. Sustainable governance requires moving away from identity-based entitlement and toward equal citizenship, institutional accountability, and merit-based opportunity. The long-term stability of any political community depends not on the short-term consolidation of power by particular elites, but on the creation of inclusive systems that all citizens perceive as fair.

Ethnic Identity and Ethnic Manipulation: Collective Guilt Versus Individual Responsibility

As noted earlier, this analysis does not attempt to detail specific allegations concerning material resource misuse, corruption, military conduct, or institutional malfunction. Rather, it seeks to interpret broader structural patterns. One such pattern may be described as the politicization of ethnic identity—manifested, for example, in forms of ethnicized gatekeeping, where language, names, and perceived affiliation shape access to opportunity and protection.

When political authority becomes closely associated with a particular ethnic narrative, concerns often arise about long-term national cohesion. Speculation about state restructuring, symbolic territorial claims, or ethnically framed political projects reflects deeper anxieties about belonging and sovereignty. Whether or not such fears are empirically substantiated in every respect, their presence in public discourse signals declining trust across communities.

Comparative political research shows that divide-and-rule strategies and discourses of group superiority frequently produce destabilizing consequences. Informal interviews with Ethiopian scholars and observers suggest that political rhetoric—both in official settings and in affiliated social media spaces—sometimes includes derogatory language about other ethnic communities. Such narratives, when normalized, risk entrenching perceptions of hierarchy and humiliation. Historical experience demonstrates that sustained dehumanizing rhetoric can create permissive environments for discrimination and violence.

The warning often attributed to George Santayana—“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”—is frequently invoked in such contexts. While rhetorically powerful, the deeper lesson is empirical: political systems that institutionalize humiliation, confiscatory settlements, or unchecked concentration of power often generate cycles of instability. This pattern has appeared across diverse historical settings.

The manipulation of ethnic identity has been studied extensively in political science and sociology. In the case of Rwanda, colonial administrations institutionalized rigid ethnic categories, reinforcing distinctions between Hutu and Tutsi that had previously been more fluid. Subsequent political transformations deepened these divisions rather than dissolving them, contributing to catastrophic violence in 1994. Scholars such as Scott Straus and others have argued that large-scale ethnic violence is frequently elite-driven. Fearon and Laitin (2000), for example, emphasize the strategic construction and mobilization of ethnic identities by elites, often in pursuit of intra-elite competition or political consolidation. In such scenarios, ordinary citizens may follow leaders out of fear, coercion, or localized grievances rather than deep ideological commitment.

This raises the difficult question of responsibility. Political theorist Hannah Arendt, in her reflections on post-war Germany, warned against conflating collective guilt with individual responsibility. She described the tendency of entire populations to claim generalized guilt—while specific perpetrators evade accountability—as a form of moral confusion. From this perspective, guilt properly belongs to those who commit, authorize, or directly enable wrongdoing. Broadly assigning guilt to entire communities risks obscuring individual accountability and may itself perpetuate injustice.

In the Ethiopian context, debates about collective responsibility are highly contentious. It is analytically problematic to attribute the actions of political parties, armed movements, or state institutions to all members of an ethnic community. Individuals differ in their political views, levels of influence, and degrees of freedom. Many may themselves live under conditions of fear or constraint. Moral and legal responsibility, in its strict sense, attaches to agents who act, command, or knowingly collaborate—not to those who merely share an identity label.

At the same time, political philosophers have long debated whether communities bear forms of moral responsibility distinct from legal guilt. While collective guilt as a legal category is generally rejected, moral responsibility may encompass expectations of dissent, civic engagement, or refusal to endorse harmful policies carried out in one’s name. The question is not whether an entire group is culpable, but whether members of a political community have ethical obligations to oppose injustice when possible.

Ultimately, sustainable peace requires rejecting both ethnic chauvinism and blanket ethnic blame. Systems that reward identity over citizenship undermine social trust, but so too do narratives that ascribe inherent guilt to entire communities. The challenge is to hold specific actors accountable while preserving the principle of equal moral worth among citizens.

As David Risser and others have observed, some conception of moral responsibility is constitutive of social life. Societies cannot function without norms that distinguish right from wrong and assign accountability accordingly. Yet extending these norms from individuals to groups remains philosophically complex and politically sensitive. A careful balance is therefore required: accountability without collective stigmatization; critique of power without ethnic essentialization; and reform grounded in shared citizenship rather than inherited blame.

Finally, this should be understood as a wake-up call—these are matters of real and growing concern for people living in Ethiopia and in the diaspora. At the same time, it is essential to state clearly that Oromos as a whole should not be held collectively responsible for the actions of political elites who claim to act in their name. Collective blame obscures individual agency and undermines the very principles of justice being invoked.

That said, the question of moral responsibility cannot be dismissed. As David Risser notes, the core elements of moral responsibility are deeply embedded in the fabric of every society; they are constitutive of social life itself. Without some shared understanding that individuals and communities are accountable for actions carried out in their name, no society can sustain moral coherence.

While there is broad—often implicit—agreement about how moral responsibility applies to individuals, extending this concept to groups remains philosophically contested. The challenge is to distinguish clearly between legal guilt, which must remain individual, and broader civic or moral responsibility, which may involve speaking out, dissenting, or refusing to legitimize injustice. Navigating this distinction carefully is essential if accountability is to be pursued without reinforcing cycles of collective accusation and ethnic polarization.

References

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Berhanu, G. (2011, November). Academic racism: Richard Lynn’s and Satoshi Kanazawa’s bogus and sub-standard theory of racial differences in intelligence. Educational Review, 14.

Berhanu, G. (2017). Ethiopia: Intellectual genocide in the making? The strong and pervasive evidence of ethnic inequalities. Advances in Social Sciences Research Journal, 4(13), 133–165.

Chatterjee, P. (1993). The nation and its fragments. Princeton University Press.

Crane, J. (1994). Exploding the myth of scientific support for the theory of Black intellectual inferiority. Journal of Black Psychology, 20, 189–209.

Delgado, R., & Stefancic, J. (2001). Critical race theory: An introduction. New York University Press.

Fearon, J. D., & Laitin, D. D. (2000). Violence and the social construction of ethnic identity. International Organization, 54(4), 845–877.*

Gladwell, M. (2008). Outliers: The story of success. Little, Brown.

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Risser, D. T. (1978). Power and collective responsibility. Kinesis, 9(1), 23–33.

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 By Girma Berhanu (PHD) Gothenburg University, Department of Education and Special Education

“Human beings are perhaps never more frightening than when they are convinced beyond doubt that they are right.”—Laurens van der Post 

Introduction

Over time, I have become increasingly weary of my fellow citizens—to the extent that I often feel estranged from my own cultural milieu and uncertain about the collective psychology, moral disposition, and behavioral tendencies of the society I inhabit. This sense of detachment contrasts sharply with the understanding I once held during the first four decades of my life, when I believed I shared a coherent cultural identity and a broadly shared moral vision with my community.

This transformation in perception became particularly pronounced through my humanitarian activism, especially in efforts to advocate for the downtrodden, marginalized, and systematically discriminated groups within my region. In striving to be a voice for the oppressed—those subjected to structural violence and, in some instances, mass atrocities—I encountered profound challenges not only from authoritarian institutions but also from the very communities whose emancipation I sought to advance. This reflective essay is grounded in autoethnographic research, characterized by an ongoing process of critical reflection and inquiry, conducted across multiple sites and utilizing multiple data sources, and informed by postmodern and critical theoretical perspectives. As a teacher of research methodology and philosophy of science, I have been particularly attentive to ethical considerations and have strived to uphold methodological rigor, transparency, and integrity throughout the research process.

I have reviewed the literature on the psychological and ethical challenges of humanitarian and activist work, including studies on moral dissonance, social alienation, and the tension between ethical commitment and personal well-being, such as Alienation and Moral Dissonance: The Psychological Cost of Humanitarian Activism, Struggling for the Oppressed: Ethical Commitment and Social Estrangement in Activism, Moral Fatigue and Social Alienation: Reflections on Humanitarian Engagement under Authoritarianism, Between Duty and Disillusionment: The Paradox of Advocating for Marginalized Communities, and The Burden of Moral Agency: Alienation, Dissonance, and Activism in Repressive Contexts. A comprehensive analysis of each theme would require extensive discussion; therefore, this essay focuses specifically on one strand: alienation and moral dissonance in humanitarian activism. A recent experience, which I shared on Facebook while writing this reflection, illustrates this point and provides a starting point for the discussion that follows. 

  I wrote this yesterday, trying to make sense of a moment that unsettled me in ways I could not  immediately name—a moment shaped by fellow countrymen and by the old homeland that lives within us long after we leave it behind. It unfolded during the funeral of our dear Mulugeta Woldegiorgis, Major Dawit’s older brother. In the stillness of shared grief, a man moved toward me with hurried steps, his words dissolving almost as soon as they formed. His presence felt charged—unquiet—as though he carried a storm looking for a place to break. He mumbled we had met “last year,” though it has been nearly eight. [ He seems upset with me, and I’m not sure why]. I had long sensed a restlessness in him, an agitation that seldom found language, yet I did not expect such an abrupt swell of emotion. Those brief ten seconds felt strangely disproportionate, as if they rose from a deeper wound—one invisible, but undeniably alive.Encounters like this draw me inward. There are moments when I feel the weight in another’s gaze before anything is spoken—a tension shaped not by the present alone, but by the histories, disappointments, and unresolved narratives each person carries quietly within them. Envy, misunderstanding, unprocessed pain, or something more existential—I can never fully know. I only know that I sense it. And when the atmosphere grows too dense, I withdraw. Not out of fear, but out of preservation—an acknowledgment that the inner life, too, requires boundaries if it is to remain intact. Yet what haunts me more deeply is the collective silence surrounding certain forms of suffering—the absence of even a single candlelight vigil for the Orthodox faithful killed in Arsi. No shared mourning. No communal gesture to affirm their humanity. In that void, silence became its own testimony—louder than lament, and far more revealing. It forced me to question my place within a church whose leaders seem unable—or unwilling—to shoulder the grief of their own people. Leadership without empathy becomes a hollow architecture; it shelters no one. And so, stepping back has become its own form of truth-telling: a way of honoring the limits of my spirit, of recognizing what I can carry and what I must lay down. Withdrawal, in this sense, is not abandonment but moral clarity. Even so, I choose the more difficult path—the path of bearing witness, of speaking for those who have been denied a voice. Advocacy, especially for the vulnerable, is always costly. But there is a price to silence as well, and in my view, that cost is far greater.https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1JsS7xFkec/

From a psychological perspective, such experiences can be interpreted through the lens of moral dissonance—the internal tension that emerges when deeply held ethical commitments conflict with the apathy, indifference, or hostility of others (Festinger, 1957; Tavris & Aronson, 2020). This cognitive-emotional conflict often leads to confusion, disillusionment, and moral fatigue among activists and humanitarians who dedicate themselves to causes of justice and human dignity (Lynch & McConatha, 2006).

Sociologically, this sense of estrangement resonates with the concept of alienation as articulated by Karl Marx (1844/1978) and later expanded by Erich Fromm (1955). Alienation describes the disconnection individuals feel from their social environment, community, and even from their own sense of purpose when societal structures undermine genuine human relations. Within activist contexts, alienation can manifest as the painful realization that one’s moral and political struggles are not always reciprocated by those who stand to benefit from them.

This paradox reveals a deeper crisis of collective identity. Social movements, by definition, depend upon solidarity and shared moral conviction; yet, under conditions of fear, propaganda, and authoritarian repression, societies often display fragmentation and internalized conformity (Scott, 1990; Arendt, 1973). The resulting dissonance between ethical commitment and social reality is not simply a personal confusion, but a reflection of broader sociopolitical distortions that erode mutual trust and collective consciousness.

In this light, the disillusionment I experience should not be regarded as an anomaly but rather as an existential byproduct of moral engagement under oppressive circumstances. It exemplifies what scholars have termed moral injury—the psychological cost of witnessing or enduring profound moral betrayal in social or political contexts (Litz et al., 2009). Thus, the confusion and emotional exhaustion that accompany humanitarian activism in repressive settings are not signs of weakness or inconsistency, but rather the inevitable outcome of sustaining ethical conviction in a world resistant to moral transformation.

Reflections on my journey in social activism and advocacy

During my sojourn in Sweden, I was primarily engaged as a student and junior researcher, without the security of a permanent residence permit. Even at that time, it was evident to me that the EPRDF/TPLF regime governed through an oppressive political architecture designed to weaken national cohesion and systematically marginalize the Amhara population. Numerous forms of state-linked atrocities emerged in conjunction with the rise and consolidation of this political order. I found it difficult to comprehend how societal relations had deteriorated to the extent that groups within the country appeared poised to undermine or even destroy one another.

Throughout most of the EPRDF period, my engagement in advocacy was limited. My contributions were modest and often undertaken anonymously. It was only with the expansion of the internet and social media that I began to participate more actively in socio-political discourse, primarily through academically oriented forms of activism.

During a research-related visit to the Netherlands, I observed that a disproportionate share of international scholarships was awarded to Tigrayan students or to government-aligned individuals from other ethnic groups, with Amhara applicants markedly underrepresented. This observation prompted a more systematic inquiry across ten universities abroad, through which I identified institutional patterns resembling an ethnic-based apartheid mechanism embedded within Ethiopia’s political order. The group favored by the ruling coalition was consistently overrepresented in competitive scholarship programs. Concurrently, I became aware of stark regional disparities in the allocation of educational resources. The Amhara region, in particular, appeared significantly disadvantaged. These findings revealed to me the depth and breadth of the systemic and structural inequalities—indeed, the apartheid-like conditions—prevailing in Ethiopia during this period.

Although I aimed to present my findings objectively and truthfully, members of the ruling elite responded with considerable hostility. The reaction made clear that my research had encroached upon politically sensitive terrain and threatened interests sustained through longstanding systems of exploitation.

My second major publication addressed the largely overlooked phenomenon of male sexual violence in Ethiopian prisons, with a particular focus on Amhara activists. While discourse on sexual violence in Ethiopia predominantly emphasizes female victims, male rape remains underreported and socially stigmatized, reflecting deep-seated cultural taboos that inhibit discussion. Initial responses from colleagues, acquaintances, and even close relatives discouraged me from pursuing this research, citing the sensitivity of the subject.

The impetus for this study originated from a survivor who contacted me from South Korea to disclose the systematic perpetration of sexual abuse by elements of the TPLF security apparatus. This disclosure provided both the empirical foundation and ethical imperative for the research. The publication elicited both recognition for its courage and condemnation from political authorities, highlighting the contentious and high-risk nature of research in politically sensitive contexts. This work marked my entry into the complex intersection of political advocacy, human-rights scholarship, and activism.

Subsequently, my research has expanded to encompass broader questions of structural injustice during the Abiyadministration, with particular attention to what I identify as genocidal acts targeting the Amhara population by state and non-state actors, including armed groups operating in the Oromia region. My scholarship has also examined the so-called Tigrayan conflict, military operations and sieges in the Amhara region, the use of drone strikes, the imprisonment of intellectuals, and reports of widespread human-rights abuses, including sexual violence and mutilation. Beyond immediate physical violence, my research explores systemic threats to Amhara language, Ge’ez, and cultural and historical heritage, situating these phenomena within broader patterns of ethnically targeted marginalization and state-sanctioned repression. Two of my monographs provide comprehensive analyses of these issues, contributing to a growing body of literature on ethnically structured violence, state repression, and the intersection of cultural and political rights in contemporary Ethiopia.

Over the past seven years, I have produced an estimated seventy or more articles on this subject, participated in numerous panel discussions, delivered keynote lectures, contributed financially to displaced populations, and travelled extensively at my own expense to raise awareness about the precarious situation facing marginalized Amhara communities. I recount these activities not as a form of self-promotion, nor as an attempt to portray myself as a model human rights advocate, but to contextualize the personal and professional implications of this sustained engagement. These efforts have entailed significant costs, including adverse effects on my health, strained relationships with various Ethiopian colleagues, financial burdens, and disruptions to my personal life. Consequently, I find myself occupying a different social and existential space, marked by distance from aspects of my earlier identity and accompanied by experiences of threats, hostile messages, disparaging commentary, and even attempts to involve my employer. My reactions to these developments have ranged from disbelief and sadness to frustration and, at times, resignation. Notably, some of the most severe criticisms and injurious remarks originate from individuals who identify themselves as Amharas. While I cannot ascertain the authenticity or depth of their identification, their rhetorical patterns are familiar across multiple platforms. I interpret such behavior as indicative of malice, envy, and limited constructive capacity, coupled with a propensity to undermine members of their own group. In this regard, I find resonance in a statement attributed to an African labor union activist: “When I fight colonialists, I do it with one hand because the other is occupied fighting my own people.”

Approximately one year ago, a term used in one of my publications was misinterpreted by several readers. It is no longer clear to me whether the wording originated from my initial draft or from later editorial adjustments. The article itself sought to address conceptual issues concerning the need for an Amhara struggle grounded within a broader and more inclusive Ethiopian framework. Nevertheless, the term in question was taken out of context and misrepresented as an indication that I favored one armed group over another—an interpretation that substantially departed from the text’s actual intent and likely stemmed from linguistic misunderstandings.

The resulting controversy became one of the most protracted and challenging episodes of my public engagement, extending over several months. Notably, only a limited number of individuals attempted to clarify the misinterpretation or defend the analytical focus of the article. Despite the sustained criticism, I remained professionally and intellectually resilient. During and after this period, I completed another monograph, published several further articles, and continued to participate actively in public discourse and advocacy. These efforts reflected my commitment to scholarly integrity and to maintaining an active presence in debates of significant societal consequence. This experience underscored for me the dangers posed by miscommunication and misrepresentation, aptly captured in the observation that “false knowledge is dangerous.”

From the outset, my engagement was frequently misconstrued

Already a few months after Mr. Abiy Ahmed assumed power, I observed a country descending into turmoil, marked by violent conflict and pervasive corruption. Based on developments on the ground and the political discourse at the time, I attempted to provide critical commentary. I noticed that many people were being misled by his rhetoric, which prompted me to write an article titled The Many Faces of AbiyAhmed, Prime Minister of Ethiopia and Nobel Peace Laureate – Op-Ed. At that time, questioning Abiy Ahmed seemed almost unthinkable. In a nation exhausted by authoritarian rule, here was a prime minister who appeared to be pushing democratic reforms on a daily basis. As Africa’s youngest leader, he stood in stark contrast to the continent’s aging political elites, such as Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, Paul Biya of Cameroon, or Teodoro Obiang of Equatorial Guinea.

Ethiopians seemed to revere him, and global media echoed that admiration. One term encapsulated the phenomenon: “Abiymania.” He appeared to be a celebrity African leader making all the right gestures. Thousands of political prisoners were released, prominent exiles were welcomed back, and local media and journalists were ostensibly free to operate without harassment. Corruption, he promised, would be eradicated, and those who had benefited from it would be held accountable. The pinnacle of his early achievements was a sudden peace agreement with Eritrea, a nation long in a state of semi-conflict with Ethiopia, which ultimately earned him the Nobel Peace Prize in 2019.

Who could reasonably question such a leader? Yet, some Ethiopians did, myself included. My first serious misgivings arose with the publication of his book Medemer, loosely translated as “Striving Together,” which was heavily publicized by the government and its allied media outlets. While promoted as a solution to Ethiopia’s political divisions, the book is not a rigorous work on governance or society, but rather a pseudo-philosophical treatise reminiscent of motivational self-help texts, such as Who Moved My Cheese?or The 7 Morning Routines of Successful People. To many readers, it bore an air of megalomaniac whimsy akin to Gaddafi’s Green Book: offering a little of everything, yet ultimately yielding little substance.

In my assessment, the Prime Minister appeared to exhibit multiple identities, each with distinct moods, behaviors, and public personas. “Abiy the Actor” is more affable than “Abiythe Preacher,” yet neither matches the ruthlessness of “Abiythe Prince.” One moment, Ethiopians are lectured on the virtues of responsible democratic governance—the Preacher at his most persuasive—only to be reminded that Abiy was purportedly “chosen” to lead at a young age, following a prophecy by his mother that he would become the seventh King of Ethiopia—the Actor. Today, political prisoners once again fill the nation’s jails, and ordinary students expressing dissenting views have been killed by government forces—the Prince in full display.

My critical assessments and writings concerning this political figure generated significant controversy, particularly among segments of the highly educated population. Many contended that he should be afforded an opportunity to demonstrate his intentions, reflecting the broader ambiguity and uncertainty that characterized the early phase of his leadership. The primary objective of my analysis was to caution readers against being influenced solely by rhetorical flourish or charismatic presentation, and to encourage a more rigorous and critical evaluation of emerging political developments. Several years later, some individuals expressed regret for having dismissed these concerns, and others even noted—half in jest—the apparent prescience of my observations. Importantly, my conclusions were not grounded in conjecture or prediction, but in systematic observation, critical reasoning, and careful attention to empirical detail.

Responses from certain members of the Pentecostal community—as well as from other evangelical or Prosperity Gospel congregations—were particularly pronounced, shaped by the belief that any critique of the leader constituted an affront to a figure perceived as divinely sanctioned. Indeed, this form of quasi-worship of the new leader appeared to be widespread, extending beyond Pentecostal circles to traditionally well-established churches and even to segments of the general public. Within these contexts, I observed an immediate and marked shift in attitudes toward me, including various expressions of disapproval articulated not only by Pentecostal adherents but also by individuals from other social and religious groups. Despite the challenges these reactions posed, I sought to uphold the principles of intellectual integrity, the ethical obligations inherent in scholarly inquiry, and the normative commitments that guide my engagement with both my community and my faith.

Experiencing Sociopolitical Advocacy and the Dynamics of Social Networks in Ethiopia/Diaspora

Engagement in sociopolitical advocacy and human rights activism often entails significant personal and relational costs. In the context of Ethiopia, my efforts to draw attention to the plight of marginalized populations have precipitated substantial disruption within my social networks. Relationships that were previously characterized by stability, mutual support, and emotional intimacy—including friendships, familial bonds, and networks of comradeship—have undergone profound strain. Instances of warmth and human-centered engagement have, in several cases, deteriorated into patterns of bitterness, interpersonal tension, and, occasionally, complete relational dissolution. Consequently, I have adopted strategies of social circumscription, limiting interactions to psychologically safe environments and minimizing participation in communal events and religious gatherings.

The rationale for my sustained engagement in activism, including media communication and written dissemination, has been to foreground the largely underrepresented humanitarian crisis affecting Ethiopian populations. However, the pursuit of principled advocacy has incurred measurable social costs, including the loss of numerous interpersonal relationships. Paradoxically, this work has also facilitated the development of transnational networks of support, with online acquaintances and sympathizers demonstrating understanding and solidarity across considerable geographic distance.

One salient example underscores the social complexities inherent in advocacy. Approximately five years ago, three acquaintances criticized my public discourse for emphasizing the suffering of the Amhara population, rather than framing all victims generically as “Ethiopians.” This critique neglected the structural and systemic dimensions of targeted violence. The Amhara community has been subject to deliberate, organized acts of marginalization and violence within Oromia and Benishangul regions—actions in which both governmental and regional authorities have been implicated. Accurately representing these events necessitates acknowledgment of the affected population; obfuscation of ethnic identity risks diminishing the specificity and political significance of the abuses. Such divergence in perception highlights the challenges of maintaining social ties with individuals whose understanding is influenced by politicized propaganda and limited access to critical information.

Further, my advocacy has been occasionally misconstrued as ethnonationalist or as a rejection of the broader Ethiopian national identity. These interpretations are analytically unfounded and fail to recognize the distinction between targeted human rights advocacy and ethnonationalist ideology. Notably, international media coverage has begun to document these issues, although representation remains limited within global policy discourse and humanitarian forums.

This account illustrates the intersection between individual activism, social relational dynamics, and structural political violence. It emphasizes the social, emotional, and ethical costs associated with advocacy in contexts of systemic human rights violations, while highlighting the potential for transnational solidarity and the dissemination of critical knowledge beyond localized sociopolitical constraints.

Empirically, I have lost contact with approximately ten former close friends in my place of residence, primarily due to my public advocacy for the Amhara cause. Additionally, tens of close relatives have limited their interactions with me, likely because of my critical stance toward the government. I also maintain fewer contacts with some long-standing friends who are either of Oromo descent or of mixed Oromo–Amhara heritage.

Paradoxically, media exposure has elevated my public profile, with many assuming that I possess comprehensive knowledge of Ethiopia’s complex political landscape. I am frequently invited to give speeches and participate in public discussions, even as I am increasingly distanced from former personal networks and supportive communities. Navigating this environment has been challenging, given the emotionally charged and often unpredictable behavior of individuals within these networks. This complexity motivated me to write two opinion articles: Political Activism and Emotional Labilities: The Case of Amhara Struggle for Survival in Ethiopia and Its Diaspora and Understanding Collective Trauma in Ethiopian Politics: A Case Study of the Amhara People.

In the first article, I employed a reflective and observational approach to political activism, focusing specifically on the social, emotional, behavioral, and cognitive dimensions of actors engaged in the Amhara struggle for democracy, freedom, and equality. I critically examine the frustration caused by certain individuals whose unpredictable behavior, lack of commitment, and irrational thinking undermine collective efforts. Although these individuals represent a minority, they have exerted disproportionate influence over online discussions and organizations advocating for democracy, particularly regarding the Amhara cause.

I argue that emotional labilities play a central role in shaping political activism, particularly within diaspora communities. In the Amhara diaspora, the historical grievances, systemic marginalization, and experiences of displacement generate highly charged emotional responses. These emotions often manifest in online spaces, facilitating both solidarity and division. While intense emotional engagement can motivate political action, it can also compromise strategic decision-making, foster fragmentation, and provoke internal conflicts. I have personally experienced significant emotional and social costs as a result of these dynamics, including strained relationships and burnout.

The second article examines how collective trauma constitutes a fundamental barrier to achieving peace, cohesion, and a unified national struggle in Ethiopia. Unaddressed historical and social trauma continues to shape personal identities and political behaviors, frequently to the detriment of collective efforts. Recognizing and addressing this trauma is therefore essential for fostering meaningful political change, sustaining unity among advocacy groups, and advancing the rights and survival of the Amhara people.

Together, these reflections underscore the complex interplay between personal networks, emotional dynamics, and political activism. They highlight the need for both analytical reflection and strategic planning to navigate the challenges of advocacy in contexts marked by historical injustice, systemic marginalization, and collective trauma.

Reflections on Diaspora, Identity, and Cultural Alienation

Over time, I have experienced a profound sense of estrangement from the country of my birth—a place and culture I once believed I understood intimately. What I once perceived as familiarity has, upon reflection, revealed itself as partial and at times illusory. This distancing has created a profound sense of alienation, yet it has not diminished my commitment to marginalized populations, the displaced, or innocent victims of political and social violence.

In a recent personal reflection shared on social media, I articulated the depth of this experience:

“I travelled thousands of kilometres to a land shaped by a history not my own, a culture woven from threads unfamiliar to me. Yet here, in Sweden, I found souls whose warmth met mine as if we had known each other across lifetimes—people with whom I share quiet laughter, thoughtful conversations, and a kindness that feels like home. Sometimes I wonder whether such bonds ever existed between me and those who share my blood or homeland. For here, among strangers who became companions, I discovered a depth of connection I once believed belonged only to memory or imagination. I no longer picture myself living elsewhere, nor returning to the place I once called home. I’ve come to understand that home is not a map or a birthplace, but the space where your spirit settles—where you speak freely, move lightly, and feel seen without explanation. When you find that place, you need not search backward for another.”

This reflection highlights the complexity of diasporic identity, illustrating that belonging is not necessarily determined by geography or ancestry but by the quality of interpersonal connections, emotional resonance, and a sense of freedom and recognition within a social environment. These insights resonate with theoretical perspectives on diaspora, social belonging, and cultural negotiation (Hall, 1990; Clifford, 1994), which emphasize the fluidity of identity and the transformative potential of cross-cultural encounters.

At the same time, this sense of estrangement carried a very personal ethical and emotional weight. I noticed myself holding back certain thoughts about my homeland—thoughts that felt too raw or unflattering to name. They were mixed with envy, even malicious envy at times, and with an inflated sense of self that I recognized, uncomfortably, as what might be called Mekofes. Confronting these feelings forced me to acknowledge how vulnerable and exposed the work of diaspora reflection can be. It reminded me that my own inner struggles must be held up to the light just as carefully as the cultural and historical realities I seek to understand.

From an early age, I internalized an idealized understanding of my homeland: a cradle of humanity, the site of one of the world’s oldest religious traditions, a civilization distinguished by literacy, foresight, humility, and moral rigor. The fading of these early convictions over time highlights the dynamic interplay between memory, idealization, and lived experience, raising important questions about cultural continuity, identity formation, and the role of historical consciousness in shaping personal and collective ethics.

Ultimately, my experiences suggest that diasporic identity is constituted not solely by origin, but through the navigation of social, emotional, and ethical landscapes that mediate belonging, commitment, and personal integrity. The negotiation of alienation and connection, loss and attachment, forms the basis for both personal reflection and scholarly inquiry into the lived realities of displacement, activism, and cultural memory.

Suggested References

1. Litz, B. T., Stein, N., Delaney, E., Lebowitz, L., Nash, W. P., Silva, C., & Maguen, S. (2009). Moral injury and moral repair in war veterans: A preliminary model and intervention strategy. Clinical Psychology Review, 29(8), 695–706.

2. Lynch, M. F., & McConatha, J. T. (2006). The experience of moral distress among human service professionals. Journal of Human Behavior in the Social Environment, 14(4), 1–14.

3. Hall, Stuart. 1990. “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” In Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, edited by Jonathan Rutherford, 222–237. London: Lawrence & Wishart.

4. The Marx-Engels Reader, Second Edition, ed. Robert C. Tucker (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1978), pp. 66-125

5. Arendt, H. (1973). The origins of totalitarianism. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

6. Berhanu, G. (2017). Intellectual Genocide in the making?:The Strong and Pervasive Evidence of Ethnic Inequalities in Ethiopia. Advances in Social Sciences Research Journal, 4(13).

7. The Many Faces Of Abiy Ahmed Prime Minister Of Ethiopia And Nobel Peace Laureate – OpEd – Eurasia Review

8. Festinger, L. (1957). A theory of cognitive dissonance. Stanford University Press.

9. Fromm, E. (1955). The sane society. Rinehart.

10. Khera, Maya L.K., WeltonMitchell, Courtney & Mitchell, Gwen V. (2024) — Moral Distress in Humanitarian Aid Workers: How Decolonising Aid Benefits Us All. Intervention: Journal of Mental Health and Psychosocial Support in Conflict-Affected Areas, 22(1), 64–71.

11. Adwi, M., Abdellatif, N., Sadek, I. & Elsheikh, M. (2025) — Compassion satisfaction and compassion fatigue in humanitarian aid workers: the relationship with shared trauma and coping mechanisms. Frontiers in Psychology, 16:1522092

About Post Author

Ethiopian Tribune editor

editor@ethiopiantribune.com

https://ethiopiantribune.com

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