An investigation into how Jeffrey Epstein’s tentacles reached Ethiopia, and what it reveals about power, complicity, and the global reckoning with sexual predation

By E Frashie Ethiopian Tribune Columnist

In the grand tradition of British scandals involving the powerful and the predatory, the Jeffrey Epstein affair has proven to be the gift that keeps on giving—or rather, taking. As the US Department of Justice released millions of documents related to the convicted sex trafficker and financier, Britons watched with grim familiarity as two of their own, Lord Peter Mandelson and Prince Andrew, found themselves ensnared in the lengthening shadow of Epstein’s crimes. For Ethiopians and East Africans, however, the revelations have taken on a peculiar local dimension: their country appears in approximately 334 of the released documents, raising uncomfortable questions about who knew what, and when.

The British experience offers a cautionary tale. Lord Mandelson, the Labour grandee and former EU trade commissioner, has faced renewed scrutiny over his association with Epstein, leading to swift rejection of his potential appointment as US ambassador and intense public opprobrium. Prince Andrew, the Duke of York, has become a pariah within his own family, stripped of royal duties and forced to settle a civil sexual abuse case brought by Virginia Giuffre for a reported £12 million. Both men’s falls from grace illustrate a crucial shift in public tolerance: proximity to a convicted paedophile is no longer merely unfortunate it is damning.

For Ethiopia, a nation already grappling with internal conflicts, economic challenges, and questions of governance, the Epstein connection represents yet another unwelcome international embarrassment. But it also raises profound questions about how predators like Epstein exploited developing nations, and whether enough is being done to investigate his network in Africa.

Britain’s reckoning with the Epstein scandal has been particularly visceral, perhaps because it touches upon enduring anxieties about privilege, power, and paedophilia within the establishment. Lord Mandelson’s association with Epstein reportedly introduced through mutual connections in elite circles—has proven politically toxic. Despite his protestations that he had no knowledge of Epstein’s crimes during their acquaintance, the court of public opinion has rendered its verdict. His nomination as ambassador to Washington was effectively dead on arrival, with both Conservative and Labour figures expressing alarm.

The Mandelson affair echoes the Prince Andrew debacle but with notable differences. Whilst Andrew’s relationship with Epstein was documented through photographs, flight logs, and eventually legal testimony, Mandelson’s connection appears more tangential, dinners, social gatherings, the sort of networking that defines elite circles. Yet in the post-Epstein era, such distinctions matter less than they once might have. The question is no longer “Did you know?” but “Should you have known?” and increasingly, “Why didn’t you ask?”

Prince Andrew’s trajectory from the Queen’s favourite son to virtual exile illustrates the mechanism of social rejection in real time. The now-infamous BBC Newsnight interview in November 2019, in which he claimed he couldn’t have been at a nightclub with Virginia Giuffre because he was at Pizza Express in Woking and suffered from a medical condition preventing him from sweating, became a masterclass in self-immolation. Public revulsion was swift and comprehensive. Corporate sponsors fled. Charities distanced themselves. The military stripped him of honorary titles.

What united both men’s downfalls was their association with a man whose crimes were, by 2008, a matter of public record. Epstein’s initial conviction for soliciting prostitution from a minor, a sweetheart plea deal that saw him serve just 13 months, should have ended his social acceptability. That it didn’t speaks to the power of wealth, influence, and the willingness of elites to overlook uncomfortable truths.

Epstein’s 2019 arrest on federal charges of sex trafficking minors and his subsequent death by apparent suicide in a Manhattan jail cell merely confirmed what investigators had long suspected: his earlier conviction represented only a fraction of his crimes. The subsequent releases of court documents, flight logs from his private jet (dubbed the “Lolita Express”), and now the DOJ files have painted a portrait of industrial-scale sexual exploitation involving girls as young as 14.

Yet the released documents reveal something far more disturbing than the already horrific sex trafficking operation. Buried within thousands of pages are references to Epstein’s fascination with eugenics, transhumanism, and what can only be described as a God complex that would make Lucifer himself envious. Witnesses and associates described Epstein’s interest in using his New Mexico ranch to seed the human race with his DNA, impregnating multiple women to create a “superior” bloodline a scheme that echoes the darkest chapters of 20th-century pseudoscience.

The files contain disturbing allegations that extend beyond sexual abuse into territory that seems almost mediaeval in its barbarity. Court testimonies reference Epstein’s circle discussing practices that blur the line between scientific experimentation and occult ritual. One particularly harrowing account describes conversations about cellular regeneration theories and the procurement of biological materials from young victims allegations that, whilst unproven in court, paint a portrait of a man whose depravity knew no bounds.

Whether these represent literal truths or the exaggerations of traumatised witnesses struggling to articulate unspeakable experiences, they underscore a crucial point: Jeffrey Epstein was not merely a sex offender but a man who believed himself above natural and moral law. His interest in cutting-edge science, from artificial intelligence to genetics, was inseparable from his conviction that wealth and intellect entitled him to treat human beings, particularly young girls, as experimental subjects. This, then, was the “Lucifer” that Professor Berhanu Nega might have unwittingly invoked.

The revelation that Berhanu Nega, now Ethiopia’s Minister of Education, received scholarship funding from Jeffrey Epstein takes on an almost prophetic irony given the professor’s own public statements. During his years in opposition to the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) government, Nega famously declared that he would “work with Lucifer himself” if it meant overthrowing the regime he despised.

It was not mere rhetoric. Nega’s political journey has been one of scorched-earth pragmatism. Having left the United States, where he held academic positions, he took the extraordinary step of accepting Eritrean citizenship to wage an armed insurgency against the Ethiopian government. His organisation, Ginbot 7, launched attacks from Eritrean territory, making common cause with one of Africa’s most repressive regimes a government that has held no elections since independence in 1993 and operates what human rights organisations have described as an open-air prison.

The insurgency failed militarily but succeeded in keeping Nega relevant. When Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed came to power in 2018, Nega was among the formerly exiled opposition figures welcomed back to Addis Ababa. His transformation from armed rebel to Minister of Education was swift and, to many observers, bewildering. That he now oversees the education of Ethiopia’s children whilst having received funding from a convicted paedophile strikes many Ethiopians as a cosmic joke in exceptionally poor taste.

Nega has maintained that he had no knowledge of Epstein’s crimes when he received the scholarship funding in the early 2000s. This is plausible, Epstein’s 2008 conviction came later, and his ability to maintain a veneer of respectability amongst academics was well-documented. Yet the symbolic resonance remains inescapable: a man who vowed to work with Lucifer did, in fact, accept money from perhaps the closest thing to a living embodiment of evil that modern America has produced.

The question now confronting Nega and the Ethiopian government is whether historical ignorance absolves present responsibility. Should a Minister of Education, responsible for safeguarding children, remain in post whilst associated, however tangentially, with the world’s most notorious child sex trafficker?

The Epstein connection to Ethiopia becomes more disturbing when examined alongside recent developments in the country’s digital infrastructure. According to documents circulating amongst civil liberties advocates and technology researchers, the Ethiopian government has harvested DNA and biometric data from approximately five million children as part of a digital identity programme. The initiative, ostensibly designed to improve access to education and health services, has raised alarm bells amongst data protection experts.

What transforms this from a concerning privacy issue into a potential Epstein connection is the funding architecture. Investigative journalists have identified links between the biometric programme and funding arrangements involving entities connected to Epstein’s network of technology investments. Moreover, contracts with United Arab Emirates-based businesses, some of which appear in the periphery of the Epstein files, suggest a complex web of financial relationships that demand scrutiny.

The UAE connection is particularly troubling. Epstein maintained extensive business relationships in the Gulf states, where privacy laws and less stringent regulatory oversight provided convenient cover for questionable transactions. That Ethiopian government contracts for biometric data collection involving children might flow through similar channels raises urgent questions.

To be clear: there is no evidence of direct Epstein involvement in Ethiopia’s digital ID programme, which postdates his death. But the pattern is familiar developing nations desperate for technological advancement and foreign investment, complex funding arrangements involving offshore entities, and programmes that collect sensitive biological data from vulnerable populations. These are precisely the conditions that predators like Epstein exploited.

The collection of children’s DNA in particular evokes Epstein’s documented fascination with genetics and eugenics. His stated desire to “seed the human race” with his genetic material, his funding of research into human longevity and enhancement, and his connections to the transhumanist movement all suggest a man obsessed with biological manipulation on a grand scale.

For five million Ethiopian children to have their genetic information collected and stored in databases accessible to foreign contractors recalls the darkest elements of the Epstein files. What safeguards exist to prevent this data being sold, shared, or exploited? Who has access? What purposes, beyond the stated administrative ones, might it serve?

These questions acquire particular urgency given Ethiopia’s political instability and history of surveillance. The EPRDF government, which Nega spent years fighting, was notorious for its extensive security apparatus. The current government under Abiy Ahmed has shown little inclination toward greater transparency or respect for privacy rights. The Tigray conflict demonstrated the willingness to use technology, including telecommunications shutdowns, as weapons of war.

The majority of Ethiopian references in the released documents relate to market intelligence reports that Epstein commissioned from consultants, suggesting he had, or was considering, investments in the country. One confirmed investment was iCog Labs, an artificial intelligence research laboratory co-founded by Ben Goertzel, a prominent AI researcher, and Getnet Aseffa. The emails reveal Goertzel’s energetic cultivation of Epstein as a funder, with repeated assurances that “the guys” in Ethiopia were doing “amazing things”, the sort of vague enthusiasm that signals either genuine excitement or, more cynically, the massaging of a wealthy patron’s ego.

The iCog Labs connection is particularly relevant because it illustrates Epstein’s modus operandi in respectable society. By positioning himself as a patron of cutting-edge scientific research, he also funded Harvard University’s Programme for Evolutionary Dynamics and MIT’s Media Lab, Epstein purchased legitimacy. Scientists and academics who accepted his funding found themselves in an impossible position after his crimes became undeniable: return the money and acknowledge poor judgment, or keep it and face accusations of complicity.

Given Epstein’s documented interest in artificial intelligence, genetics, and human enhancement, his funding of an AI laboratory in Ethiopia takes on sinister overtones. Was this genuine philanthropic interest in African technological development, or was Ethiopia, with its limited regulatory oversight and desperate need for investment, an attractive location for research that might face ethical objections elsewhere?

More colourful, if less consequential, are the emails from Shaher Abdulhak, a Yemeni billionaire who died in 2020 and who addressed Epstein as “cousin brother” a term of endearment that sounds rather less charming in English than presumably intended. Abdulhak’s pitches to Epstein included the gloriously ill-conceived idea of creating an energy drink from khat (a stimulant plant chewed across the Horn of Africa and Yemen) mixed with lemon juice to compete with Red Bull.

More seriously, Abdulhak sought a $20 million loan for National Tobacco Enterprise Ethiopia, claiming his Sheba Investment Company owned 60% of it. Whether Epstein provided the funds remains unclear, though the brazen nature of the request speaks to the casual corruption that characterised elite interactions with the financier.

Buried in the correspondence is one email that transforms the Ethiopian connection from merely embarrassing to potentially sinister. In a message apparently sent to Abdulhak, Epstein mentioned that a “good friend who runs a modelling agency” believed there were “interesting girls” in Ethiopia.

In isolation, this phrase might be innocuous. In context, an email from a convicted sex offender who trafficked underage girls internationally, it becomes chilling. The term “interesting girls” echoes the euphemistic language Epstein and his associates used to discuss recruitment of victims. Modelling agencies, legitimate and otherwise, have long been identified as potential vectors for exploitation, offering young women from impoverished backgrounds promises of international careers whilst potentially exposing them to abuse.

Court documents from Epstein’s trials reveal a recruitment pattern that was both systematic and global. Victims were often approached through seemingly legitimate channels, modelling scouts, educational programmes, employment opportunities, before being groomed and trafficked. The operation relied on local recruiters who understood cultural contexts and could identify vulnerable targets.

Ethiopia, with its poverty, limited opportunities for young women, and a culture where deference to wealthy foreigners remains common, would have been an ideal hunting ground. That Epstein’s private jet received permission to land in Ethiopia, and that he mentioned visiting the country in correspondence with Steve Bannon, confirms he had physical presence there.

There is no direct evidence in the released documents that Epstein trafficked Ethiopian girls or engaged in criminal conduct within Ethiopia. But the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, particularly when so much of Epstein’s operation was deliberately hidden. Victims have described being trafficked to numerous countries, being flown on his private jets to locations where their passports were confiscated and they were kept in conditions resembling sexual slavery.

For Ethiopian law enforcement and civil society, these revelations demand investigation. If Epstein visited Ethiopia, whom did he meet? Were any young Ethiopian women recruited through his network? Did any of his associates, the modelling agency friend, for instance, operate in the country?

The reaction amongst Ethiopians and East Africans to the Epstein revelations has been complex, reflecting broader ambivalences about corruption, foreign influence, and accountability. On social media and in diaspora communities, there is genuine anger, not merely at Epstein, but at the Ethiopian individuals and institutions that enabled his presence.

The revelation about Berhanu Nega has proven particularly divisive. His supporters argue that accepting scholarship funding from Epstein over two decades ago, before the full extent of his crimes was publicly known, represents an unfortunate association rather than complicity. His critics counter that a man who vowed to work with Lucifer cannot now claim shock at having done precisely that.

The controversy has reignited broader questions about Nega’s judgment and principles. His acceptance of Eritrean citizenship to fight Ethiopia, making common cause with a regime at least as repressive as the EPRDF he opposed, already raised eyebrows. His seamless transition from armed insurgent to government minister suggested a pragmatism that borders on opportunism. The Epstein connection adds another troubling layer.

Yet there is also a strain of fatalism in East African responses, a sense that corruption and exploitation by wealthy foreigners is simply business as usual. Ethiopia has long experience with foreign actors from colonial powers to modern corporations and NGOs extracting value whilst leaving minimal benefit. In this reading, Epstein is merely the latest in a long line of predators, and focusing on him distracts from structural problems.

This cynicism, whilst understandable, is dangerous. It normalises exploitation and discourages the accountability mechanisms necessary to prevent future abuses. The global reckoning with Epstein’s crimes has demonstrated that exposure and prosecution are possible, albeit belatedly.

The convergence of Epstein’s eugenic obsessions with Ethiopia’s biometric data collection programme represents a thoroughly modern nightmare. Epstein’s interest in “improving” the human race through selective breeding was, at least in his expressed ambitions, constrained by biology how many women could he impregnate? But contemporary genetic databases and artificial intelligence offer possibilities that would have seemed like science fiction even a decade ago.

The five million Ethiopian children whose DNA has been harvested now exist as data points in systems whose full capabilities and access protocols remain opaque. In the wrong hands, such databases could enable precisely the sort of genetic manipulation and selection that Epstein fantasised about. Even in benign hands, the data represents extraordinary value pharmaceutical companies pay enormous sums for genetic information from diverse populations.

That contracts related to this programme involve UAE-based entities with peripheral connections to Epstein’s network may be coincidental. But given the pattern of Epstein’s investments, artificial intelligence in Ethiopia, genetic research globally, transhumanist projects, the possibility of intentional targeting cannot be dismissed.

The Ethiopian government’s response to questions about data security has been, at best, inadequate. Officials tout the benefits of digital identity whilst providing few details about encryption, access controls, or international data-sharing agreements. For a government that has demonstrated willingness to use technology repressively, and which employs a Minister of Education who received funding from a paedophile eugenicist, assurances ring hollow.

What the Epstein files ultimately reveal, whether the references are to Britain, Ethiopia, or the dozens of other jurisdictions touched by his crimes, is the banality of elite evil. Epstein was not a Bond villain operating from a secret lair. He was a fixture of respectable society, funding university departments, advising the wealthy, socialising with princes and presidents.

His crimes were enabled not by exotic conspiracy but by the mundane mechanisms of wealth and power: the assumption that rich men deserve privacy, the reluctance to ask awkward questions of generous donors, the willingness to overlook earlier convictions in exchange for access and funding.

For Ethiopia, the lessons are particularly stark. When Professor Berhanu Nega vowed to work with Lucifer himself to achieve his political aims, he articulated a principle, that ends justify means, which is fundamentally corrupting. Whether he knowingly accepted money from a monster is less important than his demonstrated willingness to do so. That such a man now oversees the education of Ethiopia’s children, whilst his government harvests their genetic data through murky international contracts, should alarm anyone concerned with child welfare.

The parallels with Britain’s experience are instructive. Lord Mandelson and Prince Andrew discovered that wealth, title, and power provide no immunity from public judgment when the crimes are sufficiently heinous and the association sufficiently close. Both have been effectively exiled from polite society, their legacies permanently tarnished.

Ethiopian figures connected to Epstein deserve similar scrutiny. The fact that Ethiopia is poorer than Britain, that its media infrastructure is weaker, that competing crises demand attention none of these absolve the moral responsibility to investigate and, where appropriate, demand accountability.

As more files are released and investigations continue, the full extent of Epstein’s Ethiopian connections may become clearer. For now, Ethiopians are left with uncomfortable questions, partial answers, and the knowledge that their country appeared on the radar of one of history’s most prolific sexual predators a man whose interests in genetics, artificial intelligence, and young girls may have found fertile ground in a nation desperate for investment and incapable of effective oversight.

If Berhanu Nega truly made a Faustian bargain, working with his Lucifer to achieve power, the devil has certainly had his due. The question now is whether Ethiopia’s children will pay the price for their elders’ moral compromises. With five million of them reduced to data points in databases connected, however tenuously, to a dead paedophile’s trans humanist fantasies, the answer may already be written in code we’ve yet to fully decrypt.

The Ethiopian Tribune continues to investigate the Epstein files and welcomes information from readers regarding any connections between Epstein’s network and activities in the Horn of Africa. We particularly seek information about the biometric data collection programme, its funding sources, and its international partnerships.

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Ethiopian Tribune editor

editor@ethiopiantribune.com

https://ethiopiantribune.com

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By E Frashie Ethiopian Tribune Columnist

The spectacle unfolded with predictable diplomatic grace. Ahmed Shide, flanked by technocrats bearing reform credentials, presented Ethiopia’s latest infrastructural dream to Christopher Landau: a New International Airport that would, we are told, cement our nation’s place as the aviation crossroads of Africa. The pitch was delivered with the earnest confidence of a government that believes it has finally learned to speak the language of international finance. One wonders whether Washington was listening, or merely being polite.

Let us be clear: the airport itself is no fantasy. Ethiopian Airlines has become our most undeniable success story, a rare state enterprise that operates not as a patronage vehicle but as a genuine commercial force. Bole International Airport, conceived in a different era, now strains under passenger volumes that have tripled in barely more than a decade. The airline’s ambitions, continental dominance, global connectivity, cannot be realised from an infrastructure choking on its own success. A new airport is not governmental grandstanding; it is commercial logic.

But logic and timing are not always companions. The government presents this proposal at a moment when our macroeconomic foundations resemble less a platform for launch than quicksand requiring constant attention. Inflation persists in double digits despite official assurances of moderation. Our foreign reserves hover perilously around two months of import cover a figure that would alarm any serious economist. The birr continues its choreographed decline, and our Chinese creditors loom large in the fiscal shadows, their patience neither infinite nor unconditional.

So when Minister Ahmed speaks of American finance and engineering expertise, we must recognise this for what it truly is: an attempt to escape a creditor relationship that has grown uncomfortably singular. For two decades, Chinese state enterprises have reshaped our physical landscape, railways, roads, industrial parks, often on terms whose opacity matched their generosity. Now, with Beijing reassessing its global commitments and Ethiopia nursing debt obligations that constrain every budget negotiation, Addis Ababa seeks new partners. The turn to Washington is less conversion than diversification.

The Americans, credit to them, have responded with the diplomatic equivalent of “show us the money.” Landau’s acknowledgment of our reform progress came wrapped in the careful language of private-sector engagement—code for demanding the very things Chinese lenders rarely insisted upon: transparency, enforceable contracts, predictable regulation, political stability. These are not unreasonable requirements. They are, however, uncomfortable ones for a government whose recent history includes civil conflict, internet blackouts, and human rights controversies that have tested Western patience.

The reform narrative our ministers presented is familiar to anyone who has followed multilateral lending discussions: fiscal consolidation, monetary discipline, private-sector-led growth. These phrases roll easily off official tongues, honed through countless meetings with IMF delegations and World Bank missions. But rhetoric and reality maintain an uneasy relationship in Ethiopian political economy. We have announced reforms before. Implementation has proven the harder discipline.

Consider the government’s infrastructure record. The Addis-Djibouti Railway operates, yes, but profitability remains elusive and maintenance costs mount. The Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam stands as both national achievement and cautionary tale years behind schedule, billions over budget, diplomatically toxic. These projects reflect a pattern: ambition announced with fanfare, execution plagued by complications the initial projections somehow failed to anticipate. Why should the airport escape this trajectory?

Yet dismissing the airport as mere governmental overreach would be equally mistaken. Aviation represents one sector where Ethiopia possesses genuine competitive advantage. Ethiopian Airlines contributes approximately three percent of GDP and supports employment networks extending far beyond its direct payroll. The hub-and-spoke model upon which this success depends absolutely requires infrastructure capable of sustaining growth. Without the airport, we risk strangling our most successful enterprise in the cradle of its own expansion.

The question, then, is not whether Ethiopia needs this airport but whether Ethiopia can deliver it. The government has offered no detailed cost projections, no financing structure, no clarity on whether this will be public-private partnership, sovereign loan, or some multilateral arrangement. This absence of specificity is not encouraging. Large infrastructure projects require not only vision but mathematical precision, risk assessment, and honest accounting of what we can afford versus what we aspire to build.

The government’s simultaneous push for banking sector liberalisation and telecommunications reform suggests awareness that credibility requires more than promises. Foreign investors particularly American firms unaccustomed to the patient opacity of Chinese state capitalism will demand evidence of regulatory consistency and judicial independence. They will scrutinise land rights frameworks, labour relations, currency policy, and a dozen other factors that determine whether contracts mean what they claim to mean.

This is where the airport proposal transcends infrastructure and becomes geopolitical theatre. Washington views the Horn of Africa as strategically significant, a region where Chinese influence has grown uncomfortably dominant from the American perspective. Supporting Ethiopian infrastructure allows the United States to deepen economic engagement while promoting its preferred development model: private capital, governance standards, environmental commitments. But American engagement will be conditional, calibrated by risk assessments that weigh Ethiopia’s potential against its instabilities.

For Addis Ababa, the calculation is equally complex. We need Western goodwill for ongoing IMF negotiations and access to concessional finance. We need to demonstrate we are not simply a Chinese client state. But we also need to maintain domestic political control and manage nationalist sensitivities about foreign influence. The airport becomes the stage upon which these contradictions must somehow be reconciled.

The Ethiopian public, meanwhile, observes with practiced scepticism. We have heard grand infrastructure promises before. We have watched costs balloon and timelines extend while benefits concentrate in familiar hands. The government must therefore communicate not merely the vision but the mechanics: Who will build? Who will profit? Who will bear the costs if projections prove optimistic? Transparency is not simply a Western imposition; it is the foundation of public trust in expensive national commitments.

What unfolds here is larger than an airport. It is Ethiopia attempting to rewrite its economic model while managing the geopolitical consequences of past choices. It is a government seeking legitimacy through reform rhetoric while grappling with implementation challenges that rhetoric cannot solve. It is a nation at the intersection of aspiration and constraint, hoping American capital can bridge the gap.

The airport may eventually rise concrete and steel testament to Ethiopian ambition and American partnership. Or it may join the lengthening list of projects whose promise exceeded our capacity for delivery. The difference will be determined not by ministerial presentations in Washington but by the unglamorous work of building institutions, honouring commitments, and managing the distance between what we announce and what we achieve.

For now, the proposal stands as exactly that: a proposal, polished and presented, awaiting the cold arithmetic of feasibility studies and risk assessments. Whether it becomes monument or mirage depends on questions the government has yet to answer publicly. One hopes the enthusiasm for American finance is matched by appetite for American scrutiny.

The challenge, as always, is ours to meet.

 The views expressed in this column are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official position of the Ethiopian Tribune

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A Dialogue Between Two Minds

By Ms Leeshan Kuratey, Ethiopian Tribune Columnist

In an Ethiopian coffee house just off Bole Road, the air carries the familiar rich scent of roasted beans, mixed with the faint diesel fumes from the traffic outside. The jebena has been refilled twice already this morning. Two old men sit across from one another, not as adversaries in conflict, at least not today, but as companions in a long intellectual journey.

They are Dr Bira Hodu and Professor Akalu Merew. Though both are septuagenarians, their conversations are lively, sometimes acerbic, always thoughtful. What they share today is not just coffee but a deeper attempt to understand Ethiopia’s evolving strategic position a nation with growing aerial capabilities, deep internal fissures, and an enduring aspiration to regain access to the sea.

I. Two Men and a Question of Power

Dr Bira Hodu, an Oromo activist in his early seventies, has been an ardent voice in diasporic Oromummaa circles. In earlier conferences across Europe and North America, he argued passionately for the dismantling of the Ethiopian state in order to invent an independent Oromia. These days, he is a devoted supporter of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed. His social media accounts are awash with government videos, patriotic manifestos, and paeans to Ethiopia’s rising military capabilities.

Professor Akalu Merew , Amhara by ethnicity but cosmopolitan in outlook, is a retired economist. He served as a consultant to the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the United Nations over several decades. He supports a modern, democratic Ethiopia where all ethnic groups, including Amharas, are treated as full citizens, not villains in a teleological narrative of oppression.

Today, their conversation part dialogue, part intellectual sparring revolves around a set of strategic questions:

What does it mean for Ethiopia to pursue air dominance? How do external powers exploit states that hold such dominance without internal consensus? And crucially, what happens when a landlocked nation aspires to reach the sea?

II. Deterrence, Hegemony, and the Sky Above

Bira stirs his coffee, eyes gleaming with the certainty that has characterised his recent writings.

“Look at us now,” he says with unrestrained pride. “Ethiopia controls its airspace. Drones, satellites, advanced aircraft, we are no longer begging. No longer passive. We are powerful.”

Professor Akalu leans back, hands folded. There is a moment’s pause a pause born not of disagreement but of depth of thought.

“Air dominance,” Akalu begins gently, “is not, in itself, a guarantee of stability. It is a capability. What transforms it into strategy is how it is embedded in politics and consensus.”

Bira’s response is immediate, confident: “Deterrence. Simple as that. No one will dare attack us.”

But Akalu’s point is more nuanced. “Deterrence assumes symmetry,” he replies. “It assumes there is a rival with enough capability to pose a threat. Yet, look around our region. Eritrea, fractured; Somalia, fragile; Sudan, fractured; Kenya, cautious. When one state dominates the skies across a region without peer competitors, others stop asking, ‘Will you strike us?’ and start asking, ‘What will you permit?’”

In other words, air dominance has the potential to become not merely deterrence but hegemony, a structural condition where Ethiopia becomes the default reference point for regional security calculations.

Bira, in characteristic fashion, counters that this is precisely the point: a strong Ethiopia that imposes no mischief but commands respect. But Akalu sees what Bira does not yet concede: strength in the sky does not automatically translate to political coherence on the ground. The key difference lies between vertical power (force from above) and horizontal consensus (consent from within).

III. Power Before Unity: The Fragile Architecture

The conversation deepens as the jebena is refilled yet again. Akalu gently presses his point.

“Vertical power, air dominance, is seductive,” he says. “It feels decisive, clean, controlled. But political legitimacy grows sideways through shared consent, mutual recognition, social contracts. When you build dominance in the air before you build unity across your society, you create a fragile structure: powerful externally but brittle internally.”

He goes on, without rancour, to expand the idea: “A state that expands its aerial capabilities without settling its internal political differences creates not deterrence, but suspended conflict. It freezes contestation without resolving it.”

Bira listens, and for the first time in their discussion, his expression softens rather than defends. “You speak as if strength is the problem.”

“No,” Akalu replies, looking into the dark coffee. “Strength without restraint is the problem and restraint is not technical, it is political.”

The distinction matters. Ethiopia’s pursuit of drones, satellites, and advanced aircraft could place it on par with mid-tier global powers in terms of technology. But technology does not reconcile narratives; it does not mend historical grievances. It does not solve issues of identity, memory, or legitimacy. In fact, without political consensus, these technologies can magnify grievances rather than diminish them.

IV. The Sea Aspiration: Renewal or Risk?

Bira brightens. The subject shifts to Ethiopia’s enduring aspiration to regain access to the sea an aspiration older than either man.

“All this talk is academic,” he says, leaning forward. “The real issue is the sea. Ethiopia must regain access. It is not just economic it is historical and existential. We were a maritime civilisation once. Why should we be landlocked forever?”

Akalu nods. “I agree on the importance of sea access. But I disagree on the timing.”

This is where their conversation becomes especially rich and complex.

Bira sees urgency in sea access as a strategic imperative: to reduce dependence on neighbours’ ports; to lower trade costs; to assert Ethiopia’s rightful place in East African commerce. The logic sounds compelling: a strong Ethiopian state should control its destiny, including access to the sea.

Akalu, however, warns of a geopolitical and strategic paradox: urgency is the most exploitable weakness in international relations.

V. Urgency as Leverage: A Quiet Mechanism of Power

“Ethiopia’s need for sea access,” Akalu explains carefully, “is well understood internationally. But international actors do not care about Ethiopia’s urgency in the same way Ethiopia does. When a state signals it cannot wait, it invites mediation, brokerage, and, ultimately, leverage.”

Here he outlines a pattern that has recurred throughout history: states that exhibit urgency in securing strategic goals whether territorial, economic, or military often do so at the cost of sovereignty over the terms of those goals.

In diplomatic terms, Akalu says, this is called asymmetric need. The Ethiopian state needs sea access more than any external power needs Ethiopia to have it. This asymmetry creates leverage for the latter. Rather than imposing terms directly, external powers offer facilitated access with conditions attached. These conditions can range from port management arrangements to security guarantees and intelligence-sharing frameworks.

“It is not that others are hostile,” Akalu continues. “They are not. But they are not neutral either. Every facilitator expects something in return.”

Bira’s initial discomfort at this observation gives way to contemplation. He had assumed that Ethiopia’s growing aerial capabilities would strengthen its negotiating position for maritime access. Akalu suggests the opposite: air dominance raises regional anxiety, and anxiety invites external management.

Suddenly, the sea once a symbol of sovereign aspiration feels more like a diplomatic minefield.

VI. Maritime Access: Pathways and Their Consequences

Akalu outlines three general pathways Ethiopia might pursue to gain maritime access, and the strategic implications of each:

1. Multilateral, Regional, Rules‑Based Access

In this pathway, Ethiopia negotiates access through regional agreements that are open, inclusive, and governed by treaty. The purpose is to avoid exclusive deals with any single power, and to emphasise cooperation among neighbours.

Advantages:

Preserves greater autonomy Encourages shared ownership of outcomes Reduces the risk of dependency on a single external actor

Challenges:

Requires time and deep political negotiation Depends on internal consolidation before external engagement May delay tangible access but strengthens sovereignty

2. Facilitated Access via a Great‑Power Broker

This involves negotiating a port lease or security arrangement with the assistance of a major power for example, the United States, China, or a coalition thereof. The facilitator acts as a guarantor of stability and may provide military backing.

Advantages:

Faster access Security backing Large investment potential

Risks:

Access becomes tied to the strategic interests of the broker Sovereignty over port usage may be compromised Ethiopia’s foreign policy flexibility could be constrained

3. Coercive or Quasi‑Coercive Drift

Here, Ethiopia’s urgency, combined with regional competition, leads to a situation where neighbours and external powers impose solutions that suit their own interests and Ethiopia is left with minimal say in the terms.

Outcomes:

Loss of strategic autonomy Port access under foreign control or heavy influence Erosion of sovereignty over time

Akalu stresses that urgency is the trigger that moves a situation from voluntary cooperation (Pathway 1) to managed or mediated access (Pathways 2 and 3). The more Ethiopia signals that it must have access immediately, the more external parties believe they can and should shape the terms.

VII. The Interaction of Air Power and Maritime Ambition

What makes this particularly complex and consequential is the interaction between Ethiopia’s aerial ambitions and its maritime aspirations.

Air dominance gives a state the illusion of freedom of action. The skies, whether through drones, satellites, or advanced fighters, feel like a domain that belongs to the state itself. It is sovereign space.

But control of airspace does not insulate a landlocked state from strategic dependencies. The sea and access to it, is governed by different physics: geography, logistics, and regional dynamics. These domains cannot be conquered; they must be negotiated.

Akalu puts it simply:

“Air power scares neighbours. Maritime dependence invites management.”

It is one thing to deter a hypothetical military threat from above. It is another to walk a diplomatic tightrope between neighbours, external powers, and economic imperatives to secure a port that functions on Ethiopia’s terms.

Moreover, urgency exacerbates this tension: while air power can be showcased and argued as deterrent or stabilising, the need for the sea is tangible, measurable, and time‑sensitive. External actors capitalise on that urgency.

VIII. Internal Consensus as a Pillar of Sovereignty

Bira listens intently as Akalu moves into what feels like the core of his argument: internal political consensus is the anchor on which all external negotiating power ultimately rests.

“The greatest vulnerability in Ethiopian strategy,” Akalu asserts, “is not air dominance, nor landlocked geography. It is political incompleteness.”

By this he means:

Deep unresolved divisions between ethnic groups Narratives that reduce complex histories into simple culprits and victims Weak mutual trust among communities Centralised governance that has yet to build robust democratic legitimacy

Without such consensus, external powers do not see a unified partner; they see a set of interests that can be balanced against each other.

“In diplomacy,” Akalu explains, “others do not negotiate with potential. They negotiate with certainty. They do not trust a state they believe cannot trust itself.”

For Bira, who has spent much of his life critiquing the Ethiopian state as oppressive and illiberal, especially towards Oromo communities,this is a challenging idea. His journey from advocating state dismantlement to supporting the current government is personal as well as ideological. But Akalu’s argument is structural, not tribal: a state that lacks internal consensus is vulnerable to external influence, regardless of its ethnic composition.

Importantly, Akalu also rejects narratives that vilify any one ethnic group as the singular source of oppression. He insists that Ethiopia’s future depends on integrating identities, not extracting blame. This idea resonates less forcefully with Bira at first, but over the course of their conversation, it becomes harder for him to dismiss.

IX. Ethiopia at the Crossroads: Sovereignty, Access, and Patience

Akalu’s final point, the most sobering , is that sovereignty cannot be rushed. It must be earned, not demanded. This is not a call to delay progress indefinitely, but rather to sequence strategy intelligently.

He offers a final framing:

Consolidate internal political consensus Build trust across regions and identities Strengthen democratic institutions Clarify how power is shared and defended Build economic alternatives Enhance land‑based trade corridors Strengthen internal infrastructure Reduce reliance on single routes Negotiate maritime access from confidence, not desperation Avoid signalling urgency Use internal resilience as leverage Engage neighbours in transparent frameworks

This sequence, Akalu argues, transforms Ethiopia into a state that is prepared, not pressured. Prepared states shape terms. Pressured states accept them.

Bira, for all his habitual confidence, admits this challenges his assumptions. There is a moment of real reflection, not defensiveness, as he considers the possibility that Ethiopia’s strength is not simply a matter of technology or symbolic assertion, but of patience and strategic timing.

X. The Silence After Words

The jebena is empty for the final time. Outside, Addis Ababa continues its restless rhythm, indifferent to the high ideas discussed within the coffee house.

Bira and Akalu rise from their seats. They have debated aerial dominance, maritime aspiration, urgency as leverage, and the necessity of internal consensus without rancour, without simplification.

As they depart in opposite directions into the bustle of the city, their conversation lingers in the air like the last wisp of coffee smoke: Ethiopia stands between the sky and the sea, and its future belongs not to those who shout the loudest, but to those who understand time, patience, and the art of negotiation.

Epilogue: Strategy Before Sovereignty

In Ethiopian politics and, indeed, in the politics of most states with complex internal identities the rush to assert power too quickly often precedes the very thing it seeks to secure.

The central insight of this dialogue is not pessimistic; it is structural:

Power without consent is brittle; urgency without resilience invites leverage.

Air power can deter external foes.

Maritime access can transform economies.

But internal consensus a shared sense of belonging, legitimate governance, and mutual trust is the only foundation on which true sovereignty can be built.

Ms Leeshan Kuratey, is Investigative Journalist, Writer, and Poet. The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, Ms. Leeshan Kuratey, and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any publication, organisation, or institution. This piece is a work of political commentary, intended to provoke thought and dialogue regarding contemporary Ethiopian politics and diplomacy. 

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By Endex, Ethiopian Tribune editor in chief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selective outrage is the currency of modern diplomacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A runway cannot take off when the nation is grounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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By Teklay Assefa, Senior Columnist

The recent withdrawal of Eritrea from the Intergovernmental Authority on Development marks yet another chapter in the Horn of Africa’s chronicle of fractured regionalism. But to view this solely through the lens of Asmara’s perpetual isolationism would be to miss the forest for the trees. This departure, announced with characteristic terseness and wrapped in accusations of institutional bias, is fundamentally intertwined with Ethiopia’s escalating discourse on Red Sea access, a matter that strikes at the core of our national interests and regional stability.

As Ethiopians, we must confront this development with clear eyes and measured judgement. The reverberations of Eritrea’s exit extend far beyond conference halls in Djibouti or communiqués from foreign ministries. They touch upon questions that define our national trajectory: How does a nation of 120 million people sustain economic growth whilst landlocked? What are the legitimate means of securing maritime access? And crucially, how do we pursue our interests without plunging the region into renewed conflict?

The predicament of landlockedness represents an uncomfortable truth we must acknowledge. Ethiopia’s structural vulnerability grows more acute with each passing year. Since Eritrea’s independence in 1993, a separation that cost us our entire coastline, we have been dependent on Djibouti for the overwhelming majority of our maritime trade. The port of Djibouti handles an estimated 95 per cent of Ethiopia’s imports and exports, creating a single point of failure that would be strategically unthinkable for any nation with alternatives.

Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s recent statements framing sea access as existential are not mere rhetoric. They reflect a genuine developmental constraint. Our economy, amongst Africa’s fastest-growing, requires diversified trade routes. Our industrial ambitions demand reduced logistics costs. Our strategic autonomy necessitates alternatives to our current arrangement. Yet the manner in which this imperative is articulated matters profoundly. When Ethiopian officials speak of sea access in tones that Asmara and indeed, other regional capitals interpret as threatening, we risk transforming a legitimate economic concern into a security crisis.

Eritrea’s calculated isolation should surprise no careful observer of the region. President Isaias Afwerki’s government has long viewed multilateral institutions with suspicion, preferring bilateral arrangements where Asmara can negotiate from a position it perceives as strength. The country’s first withdrawal in 2007, during the height of border tensions, followed a similar pattern of accusation and departure. What makes this current exit noteworthy is its timing. Coming amidst Ethiopia’s increasingly vocal demands for Red Sea access, Asmara’s move reads less as institutional disengagement and more as strategic positioning.

By leaving IGAD, Eritrea signals that it will not allow regional institutions to mediate what it views as threats to its sovereignty. The message to Addis Ababa is unambiguous: any discussion of port access must be bilateral, not multilateral, and will occur on Eritrean terms or not at all. From Asmara’s perspective, the calculus may appear straightforward. Eritrea controls strategically valuable Red Sea ports at Massawa and Assab. Its coastline offers Ethiopia potential access, but also gives Eritrea leverage. By withdrawing from IGAD, President Isaias preserves maximum flexibility to negotiate directly whether with Ethiopia, Gulf states seeking strategic footholds, or other external actors.

The cost of miscalculation looms large for both nations. For Eritrea, isolation has historically bred stagnation. The country’s economy remains anaemic, its population subject to indefinite military conscription, its international standing diminished. IGAD membership, however nominal, provided institutional links to development programmes and donor coordination. Its departure further marginalises Eritrea precisely when engagement might serve its interests.

For Ethiopia, the risks are equally profound but of a different character. Our insistence on sea access, however justified economically, carries undertones that revive memories of the catastrophic 1998-2000 border war. That conflict claimed between 70,000 and 100,000 lives, devastated communities on both sides, and resolved nothing. To even hint at coercion or unilateral action is to play with fire in a region where historical grievances remain raw.

Moreover, Ethiopia’s regional relationships extend beyond Eritrea. Djibouti, our current maritime lifeline, watches our rhetoric with growing unease. If Addis Ababa’s pursuit of alternative access undermines Djibouti’s port economy, we risk alienating our most reliable partner. Somalia, struggling with its own stability challenges, cannot afford another source of regional tension. Sudan, consumed by civil war, offers no mediation capacity.

IGAD’s institutional weakness stands exposed by Eritrea’s departure. The bloc, despite occasional successes in mediation, has never overcome the structural challenge facing all African regional organisations: member states prioritise national sovereignty over collective action when interests diverge. The bloc’s inability to retain Eritrea’s meaningful participation reflects this deeper malaise. When the interests of major members clash—as Ethiopia’s and Eritrea’s evidently do—regional institutions become theatres for rivalry rather than frameworks for cooperation.

This is not unique to IGAD; similar patterns afflict regional bodies across the continent. But in the Horn, where conflicts rapidly escalate and humanitarian consequences cascade across borders, institutional weakness carries particularly grave implications. The absence of effective mediation mechanisms means that bilateral tensions between Addis Ababa and Asmara risk escalating unchecked, with neither side willing to back down and no credible arbiter to facilitate compromise.

The involvement of external powers adds another layer of complexity to an already fraught situation. The Red Sea corridor represents a critical artery for global trade, linking Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Gulf states, particularly the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia, have invested heavily in Red Sea ports and military installations. Egypt views the Red Sea through the prism of its own security concerns, wary of Ethiopia’s regional ambitions. The United States and China, both with strategic interests anchored in Djibouti, are watching developments closely.

Eritrea’s isolation creates opportunities for these external actors. Gulf states may see a chance to deepen ties with Asmara, offering investment in exchange for strategic access to ports and military facilities. But this could exacerbate regional rivalries, drawing the Horn into broader geopolitical contests that have little to do with the region’s own development priorities. Ethiopia, too, may find itself courted by external powers seeking to counterbalance rivals, creating dependencies that constrain our autonomy.

A path forward demands pragmatism over provocation. As Ethiopians committed to both our national development and regional stability, we must advocate for an approach that reconciles these imperatives. Several principles should guide our thinking. Firstly, we must acknowledge that maritime access is indeed necessary for Ethiopia’s long-term prosperity, whilst clarifying that this need not come at the expense of Eritrean sovereignty. Economic arrangements port leases, trade corridors, joint development zones can serve mutual interests without territorial revision.

Secondly, we should recognise that bilateral negotiation with Eritrea, whilst challenging given the trust deficit, may prove more productive than multilateral pressure through weakened institutions. Quiet diplomacy, potentially facilitated by Gulf states with relationships in both capitals, offers possibilities that public confrontation forecloses. Thirdly, we must diversify our approach beyond Eritrea. Strengthening ties with Djibouti, exploring possibilities with Somaliland, and investing in logistics infrastructure that reduces per-unit costs can address our maritime vulnerability without singular dependence on Asmara’s goodwill.

Fourthly, Ethiopian officials must temper rhetoric that regional neighbours interpret as threatening. Our case for sea access is strongest when framed in terms of mutual economic benefit and regional integration, not strategic necessity that implies potential coercion. Language matters in diplomacy, and the difference between asserting legitimate interests and appearing to threaten neighbours can determine whether we achieve our goals through negotiation or find ourselves isolated and opposed.

The spectre of renewed conflict must concentrate minds in both capitals. The 1998-2000 war between Ethiopia and Eritrea stands as a cautionary tale of how quickly tensions can escalate and how devastating the consequences can be. That conflict resolved none of the underlying disputes, instead creating new grievances and deepening mistrust. Another war would be even more catastrophic, given the region’s current fragility and the potential for wider conflagration.

Ethiopia’s pursuit of sea access, however legitimate, must be pursued through means that prioritise stability. This is not weakness; it is wisdom born of painful experience. We have known war with Eritrea, and we know its costs. The challenge before us is to secure our maritime interests through patient diplomacy, economic incentives, and multilateral engagement rather than through confrontation that risks everything.

Regional dynamics beyond the bilateral relationship demand consideration as well. The Horn of Africa faces multiple overlapping crises: humanitarian emergencies, climate shocks, food insecurity, and armed conflicts. IGAD, for all its weaknesses, has played important roles in mediating disputes and coordinating responses to shared challenges. Its further weakening serves no one’s interests. Ethiopia, as the region’s most populous country and largest economy, bears particular responsibility for supporting rather than undermining collective institutions.

Our relationship with Djibouti deserves special attention. President Ismaïl Omar Guelleh’s government has been a reliable partner, providing port access that has sustained our trade for three decades. Any pursuit of alternative access must reassure Djibouti that we value the relationship and seek to complement rather than replace it. Diversification need not mean abandonment, and our diplomacy must reflect this understanding.

The stakes extend beyond economics and security to questions of regional identity and cooperation. The Horn of Africa has suffered immensely from cycles of conflict and state fragility. Building a more stable, prosperous region requires patience, mutual respect, and recognition that our fates are intertwined. Ethiopia’s size and influence mean that our choices carry outsized consequences for neighbours. We can use that influence to promote integration and development, or we can allow it to breed resentment and resistance.

The choice before us is clear. We can pursue sea access through means that build confidence and create mutual benefit, or we can allow legitimate interests to curdle into threatening postures that unite neighbours against us. We can support regional institutions even as we work to reform them, or we can dismiss them as irrelevant and face bilateral confrontations without mediation mechanisms. We can engage Eritrea with patience and creativity, or we can allow the relationship to deteriorate into renewed hostility.

History will judge how we navigate this moment. The Red Sea will remain long after current political leaders have departed the stage. The question is whether we approach it as a corridor for shared prosperity or a theatre for renewed confrontation. That choice will define not only Ethiopia’s trajectory but the fate of the entire Horn of Africa. As citizens and commentators, we must demand that our leaders choose wisely, that they pursue our interests with determination but also with restraint, and that they never forget the human cost of miscalculation in our volatile region.

Eritrea’s withdrawal from IGAD is a warning, not merely a diplomatic footnote. It signals the fragility of regional cooperation and the ease with which tensions can escalate. Ethiopia’s response will reveal whether we have learnt from history or are condemned to repeat it. Let us hope that wisdom prevails over hubris, that dialogue triumphs over confrontation, and that the peoples of the Horn are spared another generation of conflict born from failed diplomacy and strategic miscalculation.

Teklay Assefa is a senior columnist for the Ethiopian Tribune and expert on regional affairs. The views expressed are his own.

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By Ethiopian Tribune chief editor.

It was a crisp October morning in London, one of those days where democracy feels vaguely possible, until one attends an Ethiopian National Dialogue Commission (ENDC) session. The Park Plaza Victoria, a venue known for hosting weddings, corporate retreats, and now political theatre, was the chosen stage for what officials described as a “historic moment of civic engagement.” Historic indeed: rarely has a dialogue begun with such a chorus of slogans, interruptions, and diplomatic sarcasm.

The ENDC, tasked with healing Ethiopia’s fractured political soul, arrived in London on 11 October 2025 to collect agenda items from the diaspora. According to its official website, it had already achieved “100% reach in Oromia” and “265 districts in Amhara” a logistical miracle, considering both regions are currently under military siege. One might ask how one dialogues with districts under drone fire, but such questions are considered impolite in diplomatic circles.

Outside the venue, hundreds of protesters gathered, many from the Amhara diaspora, waving placards that read “Stop Amhara Genocide” and “Abiy Ahmed is a killer.” According to Borkena News (21 August 2025), this was part of a Europe-wide mobilisation against what protesters describe as systematic violence in the Amhara region. Inside, the mood was less revolutionary and more theatrical. The session was interrupted not once, not twice, but three times, each time by diaspora activists who apparently mistook the event for an actual dialogue.

One such interruption came from Fitsum, a community leader from Birmingham, who asked the commissioners why they were dialoguing while the country was collapsing. “Shouldn’t stopping the war come before collecting agenda items?” he asked, presumably under the mistaken impression that logic had a seat at the table. His question was met with the kind of silence usually reserved for awkward family dinners.

Enter Ambassador Mohammed Dirir, a man fluent in six languages but apparently deaf to the seventh, the language of peace. When asked why the Commission excluded the protesters outside, Dirir replied that they were “only here to strengthen their asylum cases.” This remark, delivered with the finesse of a man who once wept on camera while praising Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, was not well received. Ethio Forum’s video analysis, “Mohammed Dirir’s Weeping and Mockery,” recalled Dirir’s Khartoum press conference in 2012 E.C., where he cried in Arabic and then again in Amharic, leading the channel to mock him as “crying by appointment and for translation.”

The irony was not lost on the diaspora. Here was a man who could cry in two languages but could not hear the cries of exiled Ethiopians. The Commission’s stated values “Inclusivity, Clarity, Credibility, Neutrality” were recited like a prayer, even as protesters were dismissed as asylum opportunists. One might call it cognitive dissonance; others might call it policy.

Anchor Media’s coverage added further spice to the stew. Their video, “The Commission’s Encounter with Protest,” documented the three interruptions and noted that some commissioners appeared exhausted, with one allegedly falling asleep. The video suggested that the officials were present not to engage, but to “fill their bellies” a metaphor that, while crude, may be the most accurate summary of the day’s proceedings.

The Commission’s alleged purpose, according to both Ethio Forum and Anchor Media, is not national healing but political survival. The real agenda? Facilitating Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s transition from parliamentary leader to President under a new constitution. Ethio Forum cited Abiy’s own remarks about needing “his own constitution,” viewing the current one as a “mere game of letters.” One assumes Scrabble is now a governance model.

The diaspora, however, was not playing games. Their slogans were not asylum strategies but soul-songs of a people denied peace. And beneath the chants, another rhythm pulsed: Pamfalon’s “Hagere (ድል ለ democracy)”, a sonic manifesto that has become the unofficial anthem of diaspora defiance. The song samples four voices Malcolm X, Abiy Ahmed, Eskinder Nega, and Jawar Mohammed creating a five-part fugue of resistance

Malcolm X universalises the struggle, reminding Ethiopians that justice is not granted but seized. Abiy’s early promises of reform are sampled ironically, a haunting echo of betrayed hope. Eskinder Nega delivers the moral imperative, speaking of justice, truth, and unity. Jawar Mohammed warns of internal decay, cautioning against tyranny cloaked in reform. And Pamfalon fuses it all into a rhythmic cry for youth to rise and reclaim.

“Dil” is not just victory. It is memory, mourning, and mobilisation.

As Ambassador Dirir mocked protesters for seeking asylum, the song’s message rang louder: they seek asylum because the state failed to offer safety. They chant because silence is complicity. They sing because the Constitution has become a game of letters, not a contract of dignity.

And while the ENDC commissioners were busy dodging questions and sipping diplomatic coffee, the British police were outside, performing their own version of crowd control one that felt less like public safety and more like a tutorial in institutional paranoia.

As I filmed the protestors diaspora voices chanting against genocide and repression I was met not with courtesy, but with suspicion. Officers loomed, questioned, and hovered, as if journalism were a crime and tripods were weapons. It was a scene familiar to anyone who’s watched Auditing Britain, the YouTube channel run by Reda Bouadi-Clifton, whose viral encounters with UK police have exposed a pattern of unlawful stops, intimidation, and rights violations. His videos reveal officers who bend the law with the flexibility of yoga instructors except with less grace and more hostility.

The irony, of course, is that while Ethiopia’s commissioners were being accused of suppressing dissent, British policing itself has been under fire for institutional racism and misogyny. A recent BBC investigation laid bare the rot within the ranks: discriminatory practices, sexist cultures, and a tendency to treat accountability as optional. One might say the Met Police and the ENDC have more in common than either would care to admit both allergic to scrutiny, both fluent in deflection.

So there I was, camera in hand, documenting a protest against authoritarianism, while being gently nudged by the local enforcers of democracy. It was a moment of transnational irony: the Ethiopian state represses dissent with arrests; the British state does it with polite harassment and paperwork.

And yet, amid the interruptions, slogans, and diplomatic sarcasm, one must pause to offer credit where it’s due. Ambassador H.E. Biruk Mekonnen and his team, including the ever-graceful deputy, managed to host the London ENDC session with a level of elegance that would make Buckingham Palace blush. The coffee was hot, the chairs were symmetrical, and even the protesters, those unruly diaspora truth-tellers, were allowed into the hall. Yes, allowed, despite their vocal opposition to the government’s war in Amhara. It was a rare moment of civility in a political landscape better known for detentions than decorum.

Among the attendees were Oromo activists, including veterans of the infamous embassy flag swap of 2020, when protesters stormed the Ethiopian embassy in London and replaced the national flag with that of the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF).

The footage, recorded by The Ethiopian Tribune on 3 July 2020, shows a crowd demanding justice for slain singer and activist Hachalu Hundessa.

Five years later, some of those same voices were inside the ENDC hall, not to swap flags, but to demand recognition. One Kerro representative recounted how his relatives had spent over nine years in prison for the crime of possessing an OLF flag. “It’s not the state flag,” he clarified, “but it is our symbol. Our blood is in that cloth.”

The debate over flags, it turns out, is not just about vexillology, it’s about memory, identity, and the right to mourn without being criminalised. The OLF flag, demonised by Ethiopian authorities and now state of Oromiya replaced for the Egyptian tricolour, but they requested OLF flag presented not as a threat, but as a symbolic representation of Oromiya’s suffering and resilience.

The Commission, to its credit, listened. Or at least nodded politely. Whether this nod translates into policy remains to be seen, but for a moment, the hall was not just a stage, it was a forum.

Of course, no Ethiopian political gathering would be complete without a parade of ghosts. Ambassador Biruk’s team extended invitations not only to diaspora activists and community leaders, but also to a who’s who of yesteryear’s regime operatives. Former Dergue diplomats, retired military personnel, and even a few ex-spies were spotted sipping coffee and nodding solemnly, presumably reminiscing about the good old days of state surveillance and ideological purity.

Religious leaders were also invited though conspicuously absent were representatives of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church, the institution that once crowned emperors and now struggles to get a seat at the table. Perhaps the Commission felt that the Church’s centuries of theological nuance might interfere with the streamlined messaging of corridor development and constitutional rebranding.

One lone female participant, armed with more clarity than the entire panel, noted that most attendees hadn’t done their homework. “They don’t even know what the ENDC is supposed to do,” she whiskered, as another speaker launched into a five-minute Q&A.

Indeed, when handed the microphone, many attendees treated their five minutes not as an opportunity to engage with Ethiopia’s political crisis, but as a chance to audition for a memoir. Instead of probing the ENDC’s mandate or challenging its metrics, they waxed lyrical about their personal achievements, diplomatic escapades, and corridor development theories that bore no relevance to the Commission’s mission. One gentleman recounted his role in a regional infrastructure project with the solemnity of a Nobel laureate, while another praised the government’s urban landscaping as if potholes were a form of reconciliation. The result was less a dialogue and more a talent show, minus the talent. And as the clock ticked, the silence of former Ginbot Seven leaders loomed large, their revolutionary pasts now reduced to polite nods and zipped lips, as if someone had quietly slipped them a gagging order with the coffee.

Not all commissioners, however, were there to serve the Prime Minister’s constitutional ambitions like loyal scribes in a palace court. Ambassador Dirir, for instance, demonstrated impressive linguistic dexterity, translating Afan Oromo commentary into Amharic with the flair of a seasoned diplomat. But his sarcasm, directed at former diplomats and protesters, betrayed his true role: not as a seeker of inclusion, but as a loyal commissioner serving his master’s voice. His remarks were less about dialogue and more about damage control.

In fairness, the other four commissioners offered a different tone, one that suggested a flicker of independence from the invisible hands of power. Their public statements, while cautious, reflected a genuine desire to listen, not just to perform.

Most notably, Deputy Chief Commissioner Hiroute Gebreselassie, a former UN Peacekeeping Head and Special Envoy for the Sahel, brought something rare to the hall: empathy. Having lost a close family member to violence, her gestures and tone carried the weight of lived grief. She did not speak in slogans or bureaucratic platitudes. She spoke as a mother, a mourner, and a mediator. Her credentials—Master’s in Law from Sorbonne, peacebuilding roles across Africa, are not just impressive; they are earned.

Then there was Commissioner Dr. Ayrorit Mohammed, a legal scholar with a PhD and Master’s in Law from Amsterdam University, and experience as a judge, lecturer, and police research director. Her presence was quiet but grounded, a reminder that law, when not weaponised, can still be a tool for justice.

Commissioner Dr. Ambaye Ugato, with postdoctoral credentials from the Max Planck Institute and a career in peace and dialogue advising, brought academic rigour to the table. His work with MIND-Ethiopia and the Ethiopian Elders Council Network suggests a commitment to grassroots reconciliation, not just top-down mandates.

Commissioner Melaku WeldeMariam, a legal advisor and former Secretary of the Ethiopian Human Rights Commission, added institutional memory to the mix. His background in law and human rights gave the Commission a veneer of credibility—one that must be protected from political erosion.

Together, these commissioners represent the possibility of dialogue, even as the machinery around them groans under the weight of cynicism. They are not flawless. But they are not hollow. And in a hall filled with slogans, sarcasm, and corridor consultants, that is no small thing.

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YJ’s “Shaka Shaka” Is Diaspora Rap’s Defining Moment and a Call to Action

By Ethiopian Tribune | October 1, 2025

In a music industry often driven by spectacle and short-lived virality, “Shaka Shaka” by YJ (Yeabsra Justice) arrives as something deeper, a lyrical reckoning wrapped in rhythm and draped in heritage. The official music video, now streaming on YouTube, is a must-watch. Not just for its sonic polish or visual flair, but for the moment it captures: YJ, walking through London’s streets, proudly wearing the Ethiopian flag. It’s not a costume. It’s a covenant. Green, gold, and red wrapped around his shoulders like a birthright.

Born at just 26 weeks premature in Barnet Hospital, YJ’s life began with uncertainty. His father, Mr. Aynalem Mebratu, a respected electrical engineer and pillar of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (EOTC) community in London recalls the three-month hospital stay and the fragile hope that defined those early days. His mother, described as a “strong mom,” nurtured him through it all. Diagnosed with autism from birth, YJ now calls his condition a “superpower” a source of tenacity, vision, and creative fire. Raised in Enfield, his family remained in the UK for years due to ongoing medical needs, delaying Mr. Aynalem’s return to Ethiopia.

But while YJ was growing into his voice, his father was building foundations literally. Mr. Aynalem has been instrumental in organizing fundraising efforts for two major EOTC churches in London: Debretsion of St Mary and Debre-Genet Holy Trinity. Both buildings are now owned by the EOTC Synod, thanks to the tireless work of community leaders like him. His dedication to faith, heritage, and collective uplift is now mirrored in his son’s artistic rise. The reward is generational: spiritual legacy meets sonic legacy.

YJ began making music in 2019 at Wesley, a special school, treating it as a hobby. But a talent show performance at Leicester Square rough, raw, and unexpectedly viral changed everything. Instead of retreating, YJ leaned in. Artists like KSI reached out. The internet didn’t break him. It built him.

His breakout single “No Diddy”, released in August 2024, was born from emotional urgency and strategic beat selection. It led to performances at London’s O2 Arena-twice. YJ credits his stage comfort to childhood acting, including Shakespeare plays like Romeo and Juliet and The Tempest. His father shares that YJ spends up to 16 hours a day immersed in music and fan feedback. This isn’t a hobby anymore. It’s a calling.

Managed by Unexpected Media a team that first defended him from online bullying and includes a manager with low-functioning autism, YJ’s career is built on empathy, structure, and resilience. He’s not chasing fame. He’s building demand, carefully avoiding exploitation. Negative comments don’t faze him. He turns discomfort into humor, overthinking into art.

“Shaka Shaka”, released in late September 2025, is his latest and most personal offering. The lyrics are a tapestry of self-reliance, emotional reflection, and quiet defiance. “I survive all alone and I had to grab the bag on my own,” he raps, distilling years of struggle into a single line. He speaks of betrayal “I really can’t believe that she lied” and loneliness: “Sometimes I cry alone, sometimes I smile alone and go solo.” There’s healing too, through music and metaphor: “Let me feel it while I’m healing, let me feel the effects of the drink I’m sipping on.” And there’s self-worth, quietly asserted: “I don’t need to seek the attention I already got from my friends and my lover.”

Last year, YJ appeared on EBS’s Seyfu Show, and has since been featured across multiple online platforms, building a loyal fanbase among Ethiopian Gen Z and diaspora youth. His music is loved, shared, and quoted. He’s not just known he’s cherished.

And now, the moment demands more. Shaka Shaka isn’t just a release it’s a rallying cry. Ethiopian artists, producers, and performers especially those in the diaspora are called to stand up against autism and disability discrimination. Collaboration isn’t just creative it’s political. By working with artists like YJ, the community can build inclusive stages, amplify unheard voices, and create opportunities that reflect the full spectrum of Ethiopian talent.

This is a call to Kassmasse, whose lyrical militancy has shaped a generation. To Wogdawit, whose poetic fire burns through every verse. To Lij Michael, whose revolutionary cadence electrifies stages. And to Abel Tesfaye AKA “The Weeknd” whose global mystique proves that Ethiopian artistry knows no borders. YJ is not asking for validation. He’s offering a bridge.

At 21, YJ stands at a crossroads armed with streaming momentum, radio recognition, and a fiercely loyal digital community. His team says only “big things” lie ahead. The rest, they say, is “up to God.” But if “Shaka Shaka” is any indication, YJ isn’t just next, he’s necessary.

Watch the clip. Feel the rhythm. Read the flag. The future of diaspora rap is wrapped in it.

Artist Profile
Name: YJ (Yeabsra Justice)
Born: September 28, 2004
Base: Enfield / Barnet, London
Heritage: Ethiopian
Streaming Platforms: Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube
TikTok: @yeabsrajustice
Instagram: @yeabsrajustice
Snapchat: Yeppyjustice
Inquiries: yj@dlaworld.com
Management: Unexpected Media

Family Tribute:
Mr. Aynalem Mebratu, father of YJ, is a respected electrical engineer and community leader. He has played a key role in fundraising and securing permanent buildings for Debretsion of St Mary and Debre-Genet Holy Trinity Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Churches in London—both now owned by the EOTC Synod. His dedication to faith and community is reflected in his son’s rising artistic legacy.

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Last night, London Debretsion Church became a beacon of light and unity as the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo community gathered to celebrate Meskel, the Finding of the True Cross. Though far from the highlands of Ethiopia, the spirit of Meskel burned brightly in the heart of the diaspora, illuminating the courtyard with reverence, memory, and joy.

Due to strict regulations on open flames imposed by local authorities, the Demera was reimagined as a simulation of small fireworks. Yet the rising smoke of frankincense and the soft glow of wax candles conjured a moment so vivid, it felt as though we were standing in Meskel Square itself. The air was thick with prayer, longing, and ancestral grace. The celebration was not only a ritual remembrance of Empress Helena’s divine vision, it was a declaration of continuity, of faith unbroken, and of a community flourishing in exile without forgetting its sacred roots. Meskel Abrha le Hulu! the Ge’ez hymn proclaiming the glory of the Cross rang out with celestial beauty, as the Mezemiran sang like angels, their voices shining for all.

Clergy led the faithful in solemn procession, their vestments catching candlelight as they offered blessings for the Ethiopian New Year. “May this New Year bring justice, unity, and spiritual renewal to all Ethiopians, wherever they may be,” one priest declared. Another, a lecturer at a higher educational institution, reminded congregants that “the Cross is not merely a relic, it is a compass for our conscience, a call to live truthfully and serve humbly.” Among the clergy were professionals in law enforcement, civil service, and ICT, a testament to the Church’s enduring role in shaping moral leadership across disciplines.

This year’s celebration was marked by a remarkable presence of youth, especially the deacons and Mezmur leaders whose credentials speak volumes. Among them were graduates from Britain’s top universities, many with honours and distinctions. One deacon holds a PhD in Nuclear Science; others are civil servants in law enforcement, lecturers at higher educational institutions, and professionals in the field of Information and Communication Technology. The Mezemiran, the liturgical singers, were themselves recent graduates, representing a range of academic disciplines and institutions. Their participation was not merely ceremonial; it was a living testament to the values instilled by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church: discipline, humility, and service. This was not just a gathering of believers, but a showcase of moral clarity and intellectual rigour, harmonised in devotion and guided by the Church’s enduring standards.

Meskel’s origins trace back to the fourth century, when Empress Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine, embarked on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in search of the True Cross upon which Christ was crucified. Guided by divine revelation, she ordered a bonfire to be lit, and the rising smoke led her to the sacred site. According to Ethiopian Orthodox tradition, a portion of that very Cross, known as Gimade Meskel, was later brought to Ethiopia and interred at Gishen Mariam, a monastery nestled in the highlands of North Wollo.

Gishen Mariam is more than a geographic location; it is a spiritual axis. Emperor Zera Yacob, Ethiopia’s philosopher-king of the 15th century, is said to have received divine instruction to locate a cross-shaped plateau on which to place the relic. His search led to Gishen, where the Church of Egziabhier Ab (God the Father) now stands, alongside the Church of the Virgin Mary. Every year, thousands of pilgrims journey to this sacred mountain, some walking over 80 kilometres from Dessie, to honour the Cross and seek healing, renewal, and divine grace.

For the diaspora gathered in London, the memory of Gishen Mariam infused the Meskel celebration with deeper meaning, a reminder that even in exile, the Cross remains close, both physically and spiritually. The evening closed with the Mezemiran singing like angels their voices soaring in harmony, weaving scripture and longing into melodies that lingered in the hearts of all present. It was a fitting end to a night of sacred fire, moral clarity, and communal grace.

🎥 Watch the full livestream here:

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By Ethiopian Tribune columnist Sewasew Teklemariam  

Whilst the rest of the world dutifully follows Pope Gregory XIII’s 442-year-old decree, Ethiopia continues to march to the beat of its own chronological drum, and frankly, good on them. As Adey Abeba flowers burst into their golden glory across the Ethiopian highlands this September, they herald not just the arrival of 2018! yes, you read that correctly, but the enduring rebellion of a nation that looked at Western calendar imperialism and said, quite simply, “no thank you.”

The Ethiopian calendar, with its delightfully obstinate thirteen months and its charming refusal to acknowledge that Christ was born when everyone else thinks he was, stands as perhaps the last bastion of temporal sovereignty in an increasingly homogenised world. Whilst other nations eventually capitulated to Gregorian pressure, England held out until 1752, spawning actual riots over “stolen” days! Ethiopia never even entertained the notion. One imagines Pope Gregory XIII spinning in his grave every September as millions of Ethiopians cheerfully celebrate their New Year whilst the rest of us trudge through autumn.

This isn’t mere stubbornness, though one could hardly blame them if it were. The Ethiopian calendar rooted in the Bahere Hasab, or “Sea of Thoughts”, a rather more poetic name than anything the Gregorians managed. It operates on a cosmological framework that places divine promise at the centre of temporal measurement, calculating 5,500 years from Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden to Christ’s birth. If you’re going to count time, the logic seems to suggest, you might as well do it properly.

Yet this beautiful defiance faces modern threats that would make Gregory XIII’s papal bulls seem positively benign. Today’s calendar colonisation arrives not through papal decree but through the insidious influence of global standardisation and, rather more troublingly, through domestic actors who seem eager to surrender this magnificent inheritance for the sake of international conformity.

Protestant leaders, apparently determined to drag Ethiopia kicking and screaming into Western temporal submission, have begun questioning the wisdom of maintaining a calendar system that predates their own theological traditions by centuries. One wonders whether they’ve considered the irony of attempting to protestantise a calendar that existed long before Rome had any say in the matter, but historical awareness has never been the strong suit of zealous reformers.

The assault on Ethiopia’s chronological independence extends far beyond religious pressure. State television and radio, funded by Ethiopian taxpayers who presumably expect their institutions to serve Ethiopian interests, have become virtual advertising playgrounds for corporate sponsors during Enkutatash celebrations. The sublime irony of watching multinational corporations hawk their wares during a festival that celebrates Ethiopia’s refusal to bow to foreign influence appears lost on programme directors. These same corporations, one suspects, would rather Ethiopia abandon its inconvenient calendar altogether, imagine the administrative headaches of dealing with a nation that insists on celebrating New Year in September and operates on an entirely different year altogether.

The Gregorian calendar’s triumph wasn’t merely about astronomical accuracy, though the ten days that vanished in October 1582 certainly helped realign Easter with the spring equinox. It was about power, pure and simple. Catholic nations obeyed immediately; Protestant regions delayed for centuries; Orthodox territories resisted longer still. The calendar became a weapon of cultural conquest as effective as any army. Nations that adopted it acknowledged papal authority and Western supremacy, whilst those that resisted faced increasing isolation from international commerce and diplomacy.

Ethiopia’s quiet rebellion against this temporal tyranny represents something far more significant than calendar preference. In an age when global standardisation threatens to flatten cultural distinctiveness into profitable uniformity, Ethiopia’s insistence on maintaining its own rhythm of time serves as a masterclass in civilisational confidence. The country didn’t simply resist the Gregorian calendar, it preserved something infinitely more valuable: the right to measure its own existence according to its own cosmic understanding.

Consider the global implications of this temporal independence. International organisations must accommodate Ethiopia’s calendar in their operations. Airlines adjust schedules, embassies plan accordingly, and multinational corporations, much to their evident frustration, must navigate the delightful complexity of doing business with a nation that operates on different temporal assumptions altogether. Ethiopia forces the world to bend, rather than bending itself to the world’s convenience.

The annual blooming of Adey Abeba flowers during Enkutatash carries profound symbolism that extends far beyond seasonal celebration. These golden blooms, appearing with clockwork precision just as Ethiopians welcome their new year, seem to mock the arbitrary nature of Gregorian New Year festivities. Whilst the rest of the world celebrates renewal in the depths of winter, Ethiopia’s new year arrives with nature’s own fanfare, a cosmic wink suggesting that perhaps they’ve been keeping time correctly all along.

The flower’s ephemeral beauty mirrors Ethiopia’s calendar itself: precious precisely because it refuses to conform, valuable because it maintains independence in a world drunk on standardisation. Each September, as Adey Abeba carpets the highlands in defiant yellow, it serves as nature’s reminder that some things simply cannot and should not be homogenised for the convenience of global commerce.

Yet the forces arrayed against Ethiopia’s temporal sovereignty grow stronger each year. Protestant missionaries, armed with the peculiar conviction that spiritual salvation requires calendar submission, continue their campaign to drag Ethiopia into chronological conformity. Corporate sponsors, frustrated by the inconvenience of accommodating Ethiopian exceptionalism, exert subtle pressure through their monopolisation of state media during the very celebrations meant to honour Ethiopia’s independence.

The state broadcasting institutions, funded by Ethiopian citizens who presumably expect their taxes to support Ethiopian culture rather than subsidise foreign corporate interests, have become willing accomplices in this cultural erosion. The spectacle of watching multinational brands dominate Enkutatash programming whilst Ethiopian calendar traditions are relegated to brief ceremonial mentions represents a particularly galling form of neo-colonial appropriation.

Perhaps most perniciously, the campaign against Ethiopia’s calendar arrives wrapped in the language of progress and modernity. Adopting the Gregorian system, advocates suggest, would facilitate international business, ease diplomatic coordination, and demonstrate Ethiopia’s commitment to global integration. Such arguments reveal a profound misunderstanding of what Ethiopia’s calendar represents: not an obstacle to modernity but a testament to the possibility of indigenous modernity that doesn’t require cultural surrender.

Ethiopia’s calendar stands as living proof that there are multiple ways to measure time, multiple frameworks for understanding cosmic order, and multiple paths to engaging with the modern world without abandoning one’s civilisational foundations. In an era when cultural homogenisation masquerades as progress, Ethiopia’s temporal independence offers a radical alternative: the possibility of being fully modern whilst remaining authentically oneself.

The annual celebration of Enkutatash, therefore, represents far more than New Year festivities. It constitutes an act of civilisational defiance, a rejection of the assumption that modernity requires cultural capitulation, and a celebration of the radical notion that some things are worth preserving simply because they are ours. As Adey Abeba flowers bloom across Ethiopia this September, they herald not just the arrival of 2018 but the enduring possibility of cultural sovereignty in an age of aggressive uniformity.

Long may Ethiopia continue to keep its own time, if only to remind the rest of us that the emperor of standardisation wears no clothes, and that some forms of resistance are as beautiful and essential as flowers that bloom precisely when they choose to, regardless of what the rest of the world’s calendars might suggest.

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