Category Archives: Promotion

When Those in Power Refuse to Listen: Martin Luther King Jr. and the Power of Nonviolent Dialogue

By Daandii Ragabaa

What happens when those in power refuse to listen?

Martin Luther King Jr. grew up in a segregated United States, where Black Americans were denied a voice and risked threats and violence for speaking out. The institutions of government, the courts, the police, and much of the public square were closed to them. To speak was to risk one’s life. To be heard was almost unimaginable.

Yet King chose not to answer silence with silence. He chose nonviolent resistance.

The Strategy of Peaceful Protest

King understood that the refusal to listen is itself a form of violence—a denial of the other’s humanity. His response was not to mirror that denial but to expose it. Through peaceful protests, sit-ins, marches, and boycotts, he helped make the situation of Black Americans impossible to ignore. The point was not merely to disrupt but to reveal: to show the nation and the world what segregation actually looked like, and to force those in power to confront what they had chosen not to see.

In 1963, 250,000 people joined the March on Washington, where King delivered his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. It made people listen. The following year, legislation prohibiting racial discrimination was passed—the Civil Rights Act of 1964—and King was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

Principle 4: In Dialogue, You Must Listen

The Nobel Peace Center identifies this as an example of Principle 4 of good dialogue: In dialogue, you must listen. The principle is deceptively simple, but it carries profound implications. Listening is more than merely hearing. It requires focus and presence. It requires the willingness to set aside one’s own prejudices and judgments long enough to actually receive what another person is saying.

The Nobel Peace Center offers practical guidance on what this looks like:

  • Listen to what is being said. Do not let your own thoughts and prejudices interfere with your ability to listen.
  • Do not give advice unless it is requested.
  • Do not interrupt. Let the other person finish talking.
  • Do not capture the conversation by drawing parallels to your own experiences.
  • Be empathic and show understanding for the other person’s situation.
  • Do not presume to know other people’s opinions.

These are not abstract ideals. They are disciplines—habits of attention that must be practiced, especially by those who hold power.

The Courage to Make Listening Impossible to Avoid

King’s genius was in understanding that when those in power refuse to listen, the response is not to shout louder but to create conditions in which listening becomes unavoidable. The March on Washington was not merely a protest; it was an invitation—a demand—for the nation to hear what it had spent generations trying to drown out.

The Nobel Peace Center notes that King “used Principle 4: In dialogue, you must listen to find a solution.” This is a crucial insight. King did not abandon dialogue; he insisted on it. He did not seek to destroy his opponents; he sought to awaken them. His nonviolent resistance was, in its deepest logic, an act of faith in the possibility of dialogue—even with those who had shown no willingness to engage.

Listening as a Moral Practice

The lesson for our own time is clear. In a world where political leaders often speak past one another, where social media rewards outrage over understanding, and where the powerful routinely dismiss the grievances of the marginalized, Principle 4 remains a radical challenge. Listening is not a passive act. It is a moral practice—a recognition that the other person has something to say that we need to hear.

King’s life is a testament to this truth. He listened to the pain of his community. He listened to the conscience of the nation. And he forced those in power to listen to him—not through violence, but through the disciplined, peaceful insistence that their humanity and his were bound together.

A Legacy That Still Speaks

More than half a century after his death, King’s example continues to teach. When those in power refuse to listen, the answer is not to abandon dialogue but to practice it more faithfully—to create the conditions, through peaceful means, in which listening becomes inevitable. That is the lesson of the March on Washington. That is the lesson of the Civil Rights Act. And that is the lesson of Martin Luther King Jr.’s extraordinary life.

The Nobel Peace Center’s eight principles of dialogue—of which listening is the fourth—are not merely a framework for conflict resolution. They are a way of being in the world. And as King showed, they have the power to change history.


Principle 4: In dialogue, you must listen.
Read more about the Nobel Peace Center’s dialogue principles: https://www.nobelpeacecenter.org/en/dialogue/principle-4

From Food Stamps to the Governor’s Mansion: Deb Haaland Makes American History

By Dhabessa Wakjira

SANTA FE, New Mexico — Seventy-eight years ago, Native Americans in New Mexico were still fighting for the right to vote. Last night, a Native American woman was elected to lead the entire state.

Her name is Deb Haaland. And her journey to becoming the first Native American woman elected governor in United States history is extraordinary.

A Life Forged in Struggle

Haaland is 65 years old, a member of Laguna Pueblo, a mother, a grandmother, and a woman who knows what it means to struggle. Before Washington, before Congress, before making history, she was a single mother trying to keep food on the table.

She relied on food stamps. She lived paycheck to paycheck. At times, she and her child had no permanent home, staying with relatives or sleeping on friends’ couches. She went back to college at 28, graduated while nine months pregnant, and later earned a law degree. She sold homemade salsa to support her family.

And she kept going.

A Trail of Firsts

In 2018, she became one of the first two Native American women elected to Congress. In 2021, she became the first Native American to serve as a United States Cabinet secretary. As Secretary of the Interior, she confronted one of America’s darkest chapters: the government-run system of boarding schools that separated Indigenous children from their families, languages, and cultures.

This history was personal. Her own grandmother had been taken from home as a child and sent to one of those schools.

November 3, 2026: A Historic Night

During National Native American Heritage Month, voters in New Mexico elected Haaland as their next governor. For generations, Indigenous people had been denied political rights in a land their ancestors inhabited long before the United States existed. Haaland describes herself as a 35th-generation New Mexican.

Standing before a cheering crowd last night, she spoke about being a single mother, overcoming poverty, and working toward a future she once could scarcely have imagined.

“Here in New Mexico, we can do anything,” she said. “And I know this because I am living proof.”

From Struggle to Leadership

A woman who once struggled to afford groceries will now lead a state of more than two million people. Her victory is not merely a personal triumph—it is a milestone in the long, unfinished struggle for Indigenous political rights in the United States. It comes in a state where, less than eight decades ago, Native Americans were still denied the ballot.

Haaland’s story is one of resilience, determination, and the refusal to accept the limits that poverty and circumstance impose. She did not inherit power; she built it from the ground up, one step at a time, while raising a child, earning degrees, and selling salsa to make ends meet.

A Symbol of What Is Possible

Her election sends a message that resonates far beyond New Mexico. It speaks to single mothers, to Native communities, to anyone who has ever been told that the odds are too great. Haaland’s life is proof that the distance between struggle and leadership is not as vast as it sometimes seems—and that the people who have lived through hardship often make the most committed public servants.

As she takes office, Haaland will carry with her the experiences of a life lived on the margins and the perspective of a people who have endured centuries of dispossession. Her governorship will be watched closely—not only for what she does, but for what she represents.

A Historic First

Her name is Deb Haaland. And on November 3, 2026, she made American history.


Deb Haaland — Governor-elect of New Mexico. First Native American woman elected governor in United States history. A 35th-generation New Mexican. Living proof.

“A Nation Approaching Spiritual Death”: MLK’s Warning and the Moral Case for Social Justice Over Military Spending

By Dhabessa Wakjira

More than half a century after his death, Martin Luther King Jr.’s words continue to cut through the noise of political debate with unsettling clarity. “A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death,” King declared in 1967, in a speech that would prove to be one of his most prophetic. His message reminds us that building peace through social justice is not a policy preference—it is a moral responsibility.

The Context of a Prophetic Warning

King spoke these words at a moment of profound national tension. The United States was deep in the Vietnam War, spending billions on military operations abroad while poverty, inequality, and racial injustice continued to ravage communities at home. King had come to see the connection between the two—what he called the “giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism.” For King, these were not separate problems but interlocking systems of oppression. A nation that could find endless resources for war but not for the poor was a nation that had lost its moral compass.

His warning was not merely about budgets. It was about priorities, values, and the soul of a nation. “Spiritual death” was King’s way of describing what happens when a society becomes so invested in violence and domination that it can no longer recognize the humanity of its own people—when the means of destruction are funded more generously than the means of life.

The Relevance Today

King’s words resonate with uncomfortable force in 2026. Global military spending has reached record levels, with nations around the world pouring trillions into defense budgets while social programs—education, healthcare, housing, and poverty alleviation—remain chronically underfunded. The gap between what societies spend on war and what they spend on peace is not merely a fiscal statistic; it is a moral indictment.

In Ethiopia and across the Horn of Africa, the consequences of this imbalance are visible. Resources that could be used to build schools, hospitals, and infrastructure are diverted to conflict. Communities that have suffered from war and displacement continue to wait for the “peace dividend” that never arrives. The lesson King articulated—that a nation cannot bombs its way to security while neglecting the well-being of its people—is as true today as it was in 1967.

Peace Through Social Justice

King’s message was not merely a critique of military spending; it was a vision of what true peace requires. “True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice,” he famously said. Peace cannot be built on the backs of the poor, the marginalized, or the dispossessed. It requires a commitment to social uplift—to ensuring that all people have access to the basic conditions of a dignified life.

This is the moral responsibility that King’s words place before us. To build peace through social justice means to prioritize the well-being of communities over the projection of power. It means to invest in education, healthcare, and economic opportunity as seriously as nations invest in weapons. It means to recognize that the true measure of a society’s strength is not the size of its military but the quality of life it provides for its most vulnerable members.

A Call to Conscience

King’s warning is not a call to naivety. He understood that the world is dangerous and that nations must defend themselves. But he insisted that the pursuit of security through military means alone is self-defeating. A nation that continues to choose guns over butter, bombs over books, and war over welfare is not strong—it is slowly dying from the inside.

His words challenge us to ask uncomfortable questions: What are our true priorities? Who benefits from the current arrangement? And what would it take to build a society where the needs of the many are not sacrificed for the ambitions of the few?

Conclusion

Martin Luther King Jr.’s message is not a relic of the past. It is a living challenge to every generation. His warning about spiritual death is a reminder that the choices we make about how we spend our resources are not merely political decisions—they are moral ones. Building peace through social justice is not optional. It is our responsibility. And it is the only path to a future that honors the dignity of all people.


“A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.” — Martin Luther King Jr.

Urjii Festival to Represent Oromo Gadaa on the World Stage in Dubai

By Dhabessa Wakjira

ADDIS ABABA — The Urjii Festival, a celebration of Oromo heritage and the Gadaa system, is preparing to represent Oromo culture on the global stage, with organizers calling on all stakeholders to support and stand alongside the initiative. The festival is scheduled to take place on 15 November 2026 in Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

Media Briefing Held in Addis Ababa

On Friday, 20 October 2026, a detailed media briefing on the Urjii Festival was held in Addis Ababa. In keeping with Oromo tradition, the briefing opened with blessings from Abbootii Gadaa (Gadaa leaders) and Haadholii Siinqee (women elders). The event was attended by invited guests, media professionals, and artists.

The briefing provided comprehensive information about the upcoming festival, which is being organized to showcase Oromo culture, traditions, and the Gadaa system to an international audience. The festival is expected to serve as a platform for cultural exchange and economic engagement between Oromia and the diaspora community in the UAE.

A Call to the Diaspora

The organizers have extended an invitation to the Oromo community in the UAE and neighboring countries to participate in the festival and take part in the various programs being prepared. The festival is designed to strengthen social ties and community connections among Oromo people in the region.

The Urjii Festival in Dubai will feature a diverse program, including:

  • Community gathering and social networking events
  • An Investment Forum
  • A Coffee Trade exhibition
  • Short film screenings
  • A photography gallery
  • Book displays
  • Fashion and traditional attire shows
  • Dance performances
  • A major music concert featuring numerous artists

The festival will also highlight tourism destinations in Oromia, promoting the region as a place of cultural and historical significance.

Recognition of Gadaa on the World Stage

The organizers emphasized that the Urjii Festival represents the Gadaa system and Oromo heritage on the world stage. “The Urjii Festival is going to represent our Gadaa system and showcase our culture to the world,” the organizers stated. “Therefore, every stakeholder should support it and stand alongside it.”

The festival is being organized with the support of the Yaa’ii Gullallee multi-media and event organization, which has pledged its commitment to ensuring the success of the event.

A Moment of Pride for the Oromo Nation

The Urjii Festival comes at a time when Oromo cultural expression is gaining increasing international recognition. The Gadaa system, inscribed by UNESCO as Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2016, is a source of pride for the Oromo people and a testament to their democratic traditions. The festival in Dubai will provide an opportunity for the global Oromo diaspora to celebrate their heritage, connect with one another, and share their culture with the world.

As the organizers prepare for the November event, the call has gone out to the community in the UAE and beyond: come, participate, and be part of this historic celebration.


For more information about the Urjii Festival, including registration and participation details, please contact the organizing committee at Elias Kiflu Tolera.

The Silence of the Press: Ethiopia’s Media Authority Suspends The Reporter Indefinitely

In a decision that rights advocates are calling a watershed moment for press freedom, the Ethiopian Media Authority has revoked the registration of one of the country’s most storied independent news brands — and the clock on its silence has no end date

By Daandii Ragabaa

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ADDIS ABABA — For more than two decades, The Reporter has been a fixture of Ethiopian public life — a bilingual newspaper that carried investigative reporting, analysis, and the kind of scrutiny that powerful institutions rarely welcome. Its Amharic edition, its English edition, and its digital platforms together formed one of the few remaining spaces where Ethiopian readers could encounter reporting not calibrated to official messaging.

That space, as of this week, has been declared closed.

The Ethiopian Media Authority announced that it has indefinitely suspended the registration certificate of The Reporter — encompassing the Amharic-language Reporter, the English-language The Reporter, and the Ethiopia Reporter digital platforms — effective from the 23rd of the month. The suspension has no stated end date. The institution has been barred from all printing and publishing activity.

A Decision in Full

The Media Authority grounded its decision in the powers granted to it under Proclamation No. 1238/2013, invoking a year of content monitoring that it says confirmed “repeated violations of the law and professional ethics.”

The violations cited are sweeping. The Authority accused the publication of disseminating content contrary to the country’s national interest; of fomenting confusion among the public by inflating political and economic issues; and of spreading distorted information that exerts a negative influence on foreign investment, tourism, and diplomacy. It further stated that the publication had persisted in offering unbalanced reporting that tarnished the country’s image.

According to the announcement, the Authority had previously engaged with the media outlet’s owners and editors, held discussions, and issued final warnings in an effort to secure corrections. But no improvement was observed in the content, it said — and so the suspension was imposed.

A Familiar Script, a Higher Stakes

The language of the decision will be familiar to anyone who has followed Ethiopia’s media landscape in recent years. The Authority has used similar formulations to justify the suspension of other outlets — most prominently Tigray TV, which was shut down indefinitely in the aftermath of the breakdown of the Pretoria Agreement. Earlier this month, the Authority also indefinitely suspended the registration of another independent publication, Addis Standard.

What distinguishes the suspension of The Reporter is not the language but the institution. The Reporter is not a partisan outlet or a niche platform. It is one of the oldest and most established independent newspapers in the country — a publication that has, over the years, trained generations of Ethiopian journalists, hosted debate, and maintained a reputation for professional rigor that even its critics acknowledge.

The closure of a newspaper is never merely the closure of an office. It is the closure of a habit of reading, of a community of writers, of a memory of what independent journalism in Ethiopia can look like.

“National Interest” and the Moving Line

The Authority’s invocation of “national interest” is the crux of the matter, and the source of deepest concern among press-freedom advocates.

The concept is not defined in the announcement. It does not need to be. In practice, “national interest” functions as a moving line — one whose location is determined by the regulator, in the moment, according to criteria it does not disclose. A report on a security operation may be said to endanger national interest. An analysis of economic policy may be said to foment confusion. An investigation into official misconduct may be said to tarnish the country’s image.

The problem with such a standard is not that it is applied too strictly. It is that it cannot be contested. There is no counter-argument the accused can offer against a criterion whose content is never specified. The Authority’s decision cites a year of monitoring, but the monitoring methodology, the specific articles found wanting, and the reasoning connecting them to the cited violations are not made public.

The result is a regulatory environment in which a newspaper can be shut down without ever knowing exactly which words condemned it — and in which every other publication is left to guess.

The Wider Context

The suspension of The Reporter did not happen in a vacuum. It follows a pattern that has accelerated in recent months.

In January, Haymanot Zeleke was appointed Director of the Ethiopian Media Authority — a figure with a long career inside Ethiopia’s state media apparatus, who had previously enumerated the categories of content she considered violations: obscenity, content harmful to youth, disrespect toward women, unverified sourcing. The board of the Authority is chaired by Redwan Hussein, who simultaneously serves as Director General of the National Intelligence and Security Service — an arrangement whose implications for press freedom are difficult to overstate.

In September, Tigray TV was suspended indefinitely and barred as a source. This month, Addis Standard was suspended. This week, The Reporter. The sequence is not random. It is a consolidation — a steady, methodical narrowing of the space in which independent journalism can operate.

Meanwhile, the country’s political and security situation remains fragile: the collapse of the Pretoria Agreement, renewed fighting in the north, a restive Oromia, and strained relations with Eritrea. In such moments, the temptation to treat information as a weapon to be controlled rather than a public good to be protected is at its strongest.

What the Newspaper Leaves Behind

The Reporter’s closure will not be felt immediately in the way a power outage or a road closure is felt. Its absence will accumulate slowly, in the stories that go unreported, the questions that go unasked, the readers who gradually forget that a newspaper once held the powerful to account.

But for the journalists who worked there, the end is immediate. Their bylines are suspended. Their investigations — some of them months or years in the making — are frozen. Their sources, who trusted them, are left exposed. And their colleagues at other publications are left with a single, inescapable question: am I next?

The Authority has framed its decision as a matter of law and professional ethics. The newspaper’s defenders frame it as a matter of survival — of an independent press in a country that has never fully allowed one to flourish. Both framings can be true at once. What cannot be disputed is that a newspaper that existed last week does not exist this week, and that the decision to end it was made by an institution whose chairman also runs the country’s intelligence service.

The Reporter’s presses have gone quiet. The question now is how long the silence will last — and who will be left to break it.

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The Ethiopian Media Authority’s decision was announced in an official statement. The Reporter has not issued a public response at the time of publication.

The Price of Truth: When Telling the Story Costs Everything

On the International Day to End Impunity, the UN chief sounds an alarm: journalists are being harassed, surveilled, sued, attacked, imprisoned — and sometimes killed — simply for doing their jobs

By Dhabessa Wakjira

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They gather the news in war zones and city halls, in courtrooms and courthouse squares. They ask the uncomfortable questions, chase the paper trail, and knock on the doors of the powerful. And increasingly, for doing exactly that, they pay a devastating price.

On Monday, as the world marked the International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists, United Nations Secretary-General António Guterres issued a blunt and urgent appeal: the world must protect media professionals so they can carry out their essential work safely.

“Journalists continue to pay an outrageous price for telling the truth,” Guterres said, noting that reporters are routinely harassed, surveilled, sued, physically attacked or imprisoned — and sometimes even tortured or killed — simply for doing their jobs.

“Nothing should impede journalists’ ability to do their work, which is fundamental to human rights, democracy and the rule of law,” he added.

A Global Pattern of Pressure

The Secretary-General’s warning reflects a reality familiar to press-freedom organizations around the world. From authoritarian capitals to established democracies, journalists face a growing arsenal of tools designed to silence them: surveillance software deployed against reporters’ phones, defamation lawsuits engineered to bankrupt newsrooms, arbitrary detention, and, in the worst cases, physical violence that goes unpunished.

The day itself — established by the UN General Assembly in 2013 — commemorates the 2013 assassination of two French journalists, Ghislaine Dupont and Claude Verlon, killed in Mali. More than a decade later, the core problem it was designed to confront persists: the vast majority of crimes against journalists go unpunished, emboldening those who would harm them.

Impunity, press-freedom advocates argue, is the engine of the crisis. When attacks on journalists go unprosecuted, the message sent is unmistakable: the truth-teller is fair game.

“Fundamental to Human Rights, Democracy and the Rule of Law”

Guterres’ statement places journalists at the center of the democratic project — not as a special-interest group, but as an essential infrastructure of free societies. A free press holds governments accountable, exposes corruption, and gives citizens the information they need to make decisions about their own lives. When journalists are intimidated into silence, it is not only their rights that are violated — it is the public’s right to know.

That principle has particular resonance in a year that has seen journalists detained in record numbers, newsrooms raided, and reporters targeted online with coordinated campaigns of harassment and disinformation. In conflict zones, press insignia have offered little protection; in peacetime, legal harassment has become a favored weapon of the powerful.

A Call to Action

The UN chief’s message on Monday was less a commemoration than a call to action. Protecting journalists, he suggested, requires more than rhetoric — it demands that governments investigate attacks, prosecute perpetrators, and safeguard the legal and physical safety of media workers.

For the journalists still working the beat — the ones filing from conflict lines, sitting through court hearings, and requesting records that someone would prefer stay buried — the stakes are personal. Every story filed is an act of persistence. Every byline, a small assertion that the truth matters.

On this International Day to End Impunity, the message from the UN’s highest office was clear: the price journalists pay for telling the truth is already too high — and the world has a duty to bring it down.

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This article was produced in recognition of the International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists, observed annually on November 2.

“The Worqitu We Saw at Moyale”: Oromo Identity, Boorana Women, and the Fire of Defiance

A viral message from the frontier of identity — celebrating the Boorana women who stand at the border of land and selfhood — has reignited a conversation about what it means to be Oromo, and who pays the price for defending it

By Daandii Ragabaa

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It begins with a declaration, and it ends with a blessing.

Across social media this week, an impassioned message written in Afaan Oromoo has been shared and reshared — a tribute to the Oromo spirit, to the fighters at Moyale, and above all to the women of Boorana who, in the words of the post, stand for their land and their identity.

“Every Oromo, if she/he is wounded for her/his Oromoness and defies the enemy in this way — even if we become a plaything for anyone’s mockery — behold, at Moyale we have seen many Worqitus ones who struggle for their border and their identity,” the message reads. “May their seed multiply, Abo.”

Then, a proverb, and a salute: “Sabni Hidhannoo qabu mataa gadii hin qabu” — a nation with a covenant holds its head high. “Baga kabachiiftan! Ammallee duratti!” — Congratulations! And forward, still forward! “Dubartii Boorana!!” — Boorana women!!

A Message from the Frontier

Moyale sits at the edge of things — a place where land, identity, and history press against one another. In the Oromo imagination, and particularly in Boorana memory, such places are not merely geography. They are archives. Every ridge and river carries the story of who belongs to the land and who has defended it.

The message’s reference to “the border” is therefore more than a line on a map. It is the boundary of belonging itself — the place where a people’s right to be who they are is tested.

And it is there, the message insists, that “golden ones” have been seen. The imagery is deliberate: gold in Oromo and Boorana oral tradition is not merely precious — it is enduring, tested by fire, and impossible to counterfeit. To call the women of Boorana “golden” is to say that their worth has been proven in the crucible.

“Dubartii Boorana” — The Women Who Carry the Nation

The exclamation that closes the message — Dubartii Boorana! — is both salute and summons. In Boorana society, women hold a distinct and honored place: custodians of tradition, keepers of the gadaa calendar’s moral memory, and, in moments of crisis, the ones who stiffen the spine of the community.

The message’s author understands this. By centering women in a tribute to resistance, the post quietly overturns the assumption that the story of struggle belongs only to men. It is the mothers, the daughters, the wives, and the sisters who transmit identity across generations — who teach a child what it means to be Oromo before any flag or border can.

“May their seed multiply” is thus not a casual blessing. It is a prayer for continuity — for the future itself.

The Weight of “Being a Plaything”

Perhaps the most striking line in the message is also its most painful: the acknowledgment that a people who fight for their identity may be mocked, dismissed, or made “a plaything” in the eyes of others.

It is a recognition born of experience. Oromo communities have long contended with marginalization, with the distortion of their history, and with the casual contempt of those who see identity assertion as inconvenient. The message does not deny this. Instead, it absorbs the mockery and answers it with dignity: even if we are mocked, behold what we have seen at Moyale.

There is an old strength in that posture — the strength of a people who have learned that dignity is not granted by others but claimed by oneself.

“A Nation with a Covenant Holds Its Head High”

The proverb at the heart of the message — Sabni Hidhannoo qabu mataa gadii hin qabu — is a key to understanding everything else.

Hidhannoo is covenant, bond, agreement — the sacred compact that binds a community to its values, its land, and its future. A nation with such a covenant, the proverb says, need never bow its head. It can look the world in the eye.

For the Oromo, that covenant is carried in the gadaa system, in the oral epics, in the shared memory of the Boorana and beyond. It is the reason the message can move so quickly from lament to triumph — from the wound to the blessing, from the mockery to the gold.

A Blessing That Travels

What makes this message remarkable is not only its content but its movement. Composed in Afaan Oromoo and shared across platforms, it travels from the specific — a place called Moyale, a people called Boorana — to the universal: the right of any people to defend who they are.

“Baga kabachiiftan! Ammallee duratti!” — Congratulations! Forward, still forward!

It is the language of a people who know that the struggle for identity is never finished, only renewed. And it is a reminder, as the message’s author clearly intends, that the “golden ones” are not only at Moyale. They are wherever an Oromo woman teaches her child the name of her people, wherever a community holds its head high, and wherever the covenant is remembered.

The seed, the blessing says, will multiply.

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The message referenced in this feature was widely shared in Afaan Oromoo on social media. This article honors the sentiment expressed in that message and the communities it celebrates.

Who Speaks for the Oromo? A Scholar’s Challenge to the Single Story of Liberation

In a provocative new essay, Dr. Sultan Abda Neja argues that no party, army, or intellectual owns the Oromo struggle — and that true liberation may be measured by whether those who disagree with it are still free to speak

By Dhabessa Wakjira


It is a question that cuts to the heart of one of Africa’s most consequential political debates — and one that, until recently, was rarely asked so directly in public.

Who has the right to define the goals and future of the Oromo liberation struggle?

In a new essay by Dr. Sultan Abda Neja, published under that very title, the scholar and commentator does not simply answer the question. He dismantles the premise that it has a single answer at all.

His thesis is as simple as it is contentious: the Oromo people are not politically homogeneous, and no organization — not the Oromo Liberation Front, not the Oromo Federalist Congress, not the Prosperity Party, not the armed Oromo Liberation Army — holds an exclusive mandate to speak for them. The right to define the destination of a people’s struggle, he argues, belongs to the people themselves.

The Argument at Its Core

Dr. Neja’s essay opens by acknowledging what is beyond dispute: the Oromo have endured political domination, land dispossession, cultural marginalization, and unequal representation. These historical injustices, he writes, “laid the foundations of modern Oromo nationalism and the demand for self-determination.”

But he draws a careful distinction. Recognizing historical injustice, he argues, “does not automatically establish that dismantling Ethiopia is the only possible solution.” Nor does it prescribe a single political destination.

The essay takes direct aim at a tendency among some scholars, commentators, and activists to equate the political program of the OLF — independence for Oromia — with the aspirations of the entire Oromo nation. While acknowledging the OLF’s historic contribution, Dr. Neja insists that the struggle’s history is far more plural than its most vocal interpreters allow.

He traces that plurality through a gallery of figures and movements: Haile Fida of MEISON, who advocated socialist transformation and the resolution of the nationalities question; Hussein Suura of the Ethiopian National Liberation Front, which sought liberation for all Ethiopian peoples on the basis of equality regardless of ethnicity, religion, or class; and General Tadesse Birru and Mamo Mezemir of the Mecha-Tulema Self-Help Association, who pursued Oromo empowerment and education within Ethiopia before state repression radicalized their politics.

These figures, he argues, prove that “Oromo political aspirations were not exclusively associated with the pursuit of an independent Oromia.” They also included efforts to democratize and transform Ethiopia while defending Oromo identity and rights.

A Question of Mandate

The essay’s most pointed intervention concerns the relationship between armed struggle and democratic legitimacy.

The existence of the Oromo Liberation Army, Dr. Neja writes, “may reflect genuine grievances, political exclusion, insecurity, or the failure of democratic institutions.” These conditions deserve serious examination. But military strength, he argues, “does not automatically establish a democratic mandate to determine the political future of an entire population.”

Any movement claiming to fight for liberation, he insists, must explain what political order it intends to establish, how it will protect civilians, accommodate political disagreement, safeguard minority communities, and ensure accountability.

“A movement that claims to fight for the people’s freedom,” he writes, “must also defend their freedom to disagree with the movement itself.”

It is a standard he applies consistently — to the OLF and OLA, to the Prosperity Party, and to federalist organizations alike. The PP, he argues, “must be judged by its actual record in protecting Oromo rights and regional autonomy, not merely by the presence of Oromo politicians in government.” Federalists must demonstrate how their proposals can prevent renewed centralization while protecting the rights of all citizens.

Self-Determination Is Not a Synonym for Independence

At the heart of the essay lies a conceptual clarification that carries significant political weight.

Self-determination, Dr. Neja reminds readers, is a broad principle concerning the right of peoples to determine their political status and pursue their economic, social, and cultural development. It is enshrined in Article 1 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and recognized in Ethiopia’s 1995 Constitution, including the right to secession under Article 39.

Independence, he argues, is one expression of that right — but not the only conceivable outcome. Meaningful autonomy, democratic federalism, and constitutional reform may also realize collective political rights.

He also raises a practical warning. Secession from a multinational country in which Oromia itself is home to multiple Ethiopian nations and nationalities, he notes, carries “complex security and economic consequences.” The post-independence crises of Eritrea and South Sudan, he suggests, offer cautionary lessons.

The burden of argument, he insists, applies to everyone. Advocates of independence must explain how an independent state would guarantee democracy, security, economic opportunity, minority protection, and accountability. Advocates of federalism must show how federal institutions can protect genuine regional autonomy and prevent renewed centralization.

“You cannot defend the people’s right to self-determination,” he writes, “while denying them the freedom to reject your preferred political destination.”

Has Liberation Already Been Achieved?

The essay does not shy away from the question that divides Oromo politics most sharply today: whether the Oromo have already been substantially liberated, or whether liberation remains incomplete until a referendum decides between independence and continued membership in a democratic Ethiopian federation.

From the OLF’s traditional perspective, full liberation requires the freedom to determine political status, including the option of independence. Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, by contrast, has argued that the central historical questions — recognition of Afaan Oromo, cultural identity, and regional self-administration — have been substantially addressed, leaving governance, democracy, security, and development as the unfinished challenges.

Dr. Neja does not declare a winner. He notes that the question of majority preference “would require credible public consultation.” But he observes that many Oromo political actors, including federalist advocates and some within the OLF and PP constituencies, increasingly emphasize democratizing the federation and strengthening Oromia’s constitutional autonomy rather than pursuing independence as an inevitable destination.

This, he writes, presents “a serious challenge to the traditional OLF narrative, particularly among younger generations who have grown up experiencing Afaan Oromo in education and regional administration.”

The Boundaries of Oromummaa

Perhaps the essay’s most delicate argument concerns identity itself.

Oromummaa, Dr. Neja writes, represents a shared sense of Oromo identity, historical experience, cultural belonging, and collective consciousness. It should not be transformed into an ideological instrument through which one organization determines who qualifies as a legitimate Oromo.

He surveys the diversity of Oromo thought on nationalism itself — from scholars who treat it as fuel for struggle to those skeptical of ethnic nationalism, and to the Prime Minister’s own criticism that Oromo nationalism “belittled the Oromo.” These differences, he suggests, are not evidence of authenticity or betrayal. They are evidence of intellectual life.

“Political disagreement is not betrayal,” he writes. “Supporting a different constitutional arrangement does not make someone less Oromo.”

An Oromo who supports independence is entitled to that preference. An Oromo who supports democratic multinational federalism is equally entitled. An Oromo who participates in the Prosperity Party “does not lose their Oromo identity because of that political choice.”

“Organizational loyalty is not the measure of national identity,” he writes, “and historical contribution is not an unlimited democratic mandate.”

From Resistance to Governance

The essay builds on Dr. Neja’s earlier work, From Resistance to Governance: Jawar Mohammed’s Progressive Patriotism and the Oromo’s Role in Redefining Ethiopian Nationalism, in which he explored the shift of Oromo political agency from resistance toward institution-building.

That shift, he argues, demands more than opposition. It requires demonstrating the capacity to build and sustain democratic institutions — accountable government, public security, economic opportunity, and democratic participation.

And it requires a willingness to answer hard questions. He poses two to those who present independence as the only legitimate solution: Would an independent Oromia permit its citizens to advocate a different constitutional arrangement, including a renewed relationship with Ethiopia? Would opposition parties compete freely, and would political opponents enjoy equal protection under the law?

He poses the mirror-image questions to those who defend the federal status quo: Would the federal government genuinely respect Oromia’s constitutional autonomy, even when regional leaders disagree with federal policies? Would citizens be free to criticize the government without being accused of undermining national unity?

“The democratic legitimacy of a state,” he concludes, “cannot be determined solely by whether it is independent, federal, or unitary. It must also be measured by whether citizens can participate freely in political life, challenge those in power, exercise their rights, and change their leaders peacefully.”

A Conclusion That Returns the Question

The essay ends where it began — with the people, not the organizations.

“The Oromo people need neither an imposed union nor an imposed independence,” Dr. Neja writes. “They need the freedom to choose their own political future.”

No intellectual, political party, or armed movement, he insists, has the exclusive right to make that choice on their behalf.

“That right belongs to the Oromo people themselves.”

It is a conclusion that will satisfy neither the movement’s staunchest partisans nor the government’s firmest defenders. But it is one that insists on something increasingly rare in polarized political debates: that the most radical act of liberation may be the willingness to let people disagree.


Dr. Sultan Abda Neja’s essay, “Who Has the Right to Define the Goals and Future of the Oromo Liberation Struggle?” is available in full through the author’s publication channels.

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Ethiopia’s Leaders Trade Suits for Uniforms: A Wartime Cabinet in Training

By ONA Staff Reporter

ADDIS ABABA — In a striking image that has circulated widely across Ethiopian social media, Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed stands shoulder to shoulder with his cabinet members and senior officials, not in the dark suits of governance but in the olive-green fatigues of military trainees. The photographs, shared on the Prime Minister’s own social media pages on Saturday, October 31, 2026, reveal a government preparing for war—and framing that preparation as a strategic necessity.

A Cabinet in Uniform

Among those pictured in military training gear at the Hurso facility were Mufrihat Kamil, Speaker of the Federation Council; Dr. Fitsum Assefa, Minister of Finance; and Dr. Mekdes Daba, Minister of Health. They were not observing exercises from a distance. They were participating in them.

According to the Prime Minister’s statement, the officials are undergoing military training at Hurso, a site that has become synonymous with the government’s increasingly militarized approach to statecraft. The training, Abiy explained, is designed to help officials “properly understand and implement” the ideas contained in what he calls the “Great Strategy of Additive Civilization” (Ye Medemer Siltenie Talaku Strategy).

The “Additive Civilization” Doctrine

The strategy, as articulated by the Prime Minister, contains principles that read as much like a wartime manifesto as a governance blueprint: “ensuring national security at all times,” “building a strong country that cannot be bent by anyone or anything,” and “mobilizing the structure from bottom to top for a national purpose.”

Military science, Abiy wrote, “has no competitor in shaping the purpose and humanity of a person.” He described it as a discipline that makes people “physically, spiritually, morally, and in execution disciplined.” The knowledge, skills, and experience drawn “from military science and life,” he argued, are essential to implementing the strategy.

“Leaders of the Additive government are taking military training at the Hurso military training camp,” Abiy wrote. “Soldiers have targets; civilians have objectives. The goal of both is to register victory. By combining both disciplines, we will create a generation that hits the target and achieves the objective.”

The Context: A Region on Edge

The timing of the training is not incidental. It comes as the Ethiopian National Defense Force (ENDF) has moved closer to the border with Eritrea, amid mounting fears that the two countries—locked in a diplomatic freeze over accusations of supporting insurgents and a dispute over sea access—could be drawn into war. The two nations have severed diplomatic relations, and the threat of renewed conflict hangs over the Horn of Africa.

The training also comes as the government continues to consolidate its military posture. This week, during a visit to Russia, Prime Minister Abiy announced that Ethiopia had received Su-35 fighter jets—advanced aircraft that would make Ethiopia the first sub-Saharan African nation to operate them. The delivery represents a significant escalation in the country’s aerial capabilities.

The Prime Minister has repeatedly stated that strengthening Ethiopia’s military capacity across all sectors is among his objectives. The images of his cabinet in uniform are not merely symbolic; they are a signal that the government’s approach to governance has become inseparable from its approach to war.

A Government at War with Itself?

The photographs raise uncomfortable questions. A finance minister in fatigues, a health minister in combat gear—what does it mean for a government to train its civilian leadership for battle? The Prime Minister’s framing suggests a belief that military discipline is the antidote to the indiscipline of civilian governance, that the battlefield’s clarity of purpose should be brought to the messy work of running a state.

But critics may see something else: a government that has increasingly turned to military solutions for political problems. The training at Hurso, the procurement of advanced fighter jets, the escalating rhetoric—all of this unfolds against a backdrop of internal conflict, including renewed fighting with forces in northern Ethiopia and ongoing unrest in Oromia.

The government has not disclosed when the training began or how long it will last. What is clear is that the image of a cabinet in uniform is intended to convey a message: Ethiopia’s leadership is preparing for something. Whether that something is defense, deterrence, or the prosecution of war remains to be seen.

The Image That Speaks

In a region where symbols carry enormous weight, the photograph of Abiy and his officials in military fatigues is more than a social media post. It is a declaration of intent. The “Great Strategy of Additive Civilization” is being taught at a military camp, to a cabinet, in a country on the brink. The soldiers have targets; the civilians have objectives. And the Prime Minister has made clear that he expects both to hit them.

As Ethiopia navigates a precarious moment in its history, the sight of its leaders in uniform offers a glimpse of how they see the road ahead: not as a path of diplomacy and civilian governance, but as a campaign to be won.


Source: EBC (Ethiopian Broadcasting Corporation) and the Prime Minister’s official social media pages.

The Man Who Would Redefine Ethiopia

Jawar Mohammed’s “Progressive Patriotism” and the Oromo Question: A New Chapter in Ethiopia’s National Story

By Sultan Abda Neja, Ph.D.

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For much of modern Ethiopian history, the question of who owns the nation has been answered in blood, in policy, and in silence. It is a question that has haunted the Oromo people—Ethiopia’s largest ethnolinguistic community—for generations. Their relationship with the modern Ethiopian state has been shaped by conquest, land dispossession, political exclusion, and cultural marginalization. Yet something is shifting. The old binary of Oromo resistance versus Ethiopian state nationalism is being challenged—not by a soldier, not by a separatist, but by a media-savvy activist-turned-thinker named Jawar Mohammed.

At the heart of this shift is a deceptively simple concept: Progressive Patriotism. It is Jawar’s attempt to articulate a political framework in which Oromo identity and Ethiopian national belonging are not mutually exclusive. It asks a new question: Can Oromo nationalism help redefine Ethiopian nationalism from within?

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The Long Road from Resistance

To understand the weight of Jawar’s proposition, one must first understand the weight of history. Oromo nationalism did not emerge in a vacuum. It grew out of the expansion and consolidation of the modern Ethiopian state, the incorporation of Oromo territories, and subsequent struggles over land, language, religion, and political representation.

The Ethiopian state-building project, for much of its history, was associated with centralized authority, cultural homogenization, and the marginalization of groups whose languages and political identities differed from those of the ruling elite. The Oromo Liberation Front (OLF), founded in 1973, became the most prominent expression of Oromo resistance. But even then, Oromo nationalism was never monolithic. Some advocated independence; others supported multinational federalism, stronger regional autonomy, or a democratic Ethiopian state.

The 1995 Constitution, which formally recognized the rights of nations, nationalities, and peoples—including the right to self-determination up to secession—represented a significant shift. Yet constitutional recognition did not automatically produce democratic governance. The political crisis that culminated in the 2014–2018 protests exposed the limits of the existing order. Oromo protesters mobilized against political exclusion, human rights abuses, and the proposed expansion of Addis Ababa into surrounding Oromia.

Then came 2018. Abiy Ahmed, an Oromo politician, became prime minister. It was a moment of symbolic triumph—an Oromo had reached the highest office in the land. But symbolism, as Jawar would later argue, is not transformation.

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Jawar’s Intervention: From Resistance to Governance

Jawar Mohammed’s political trajectory—from a fiery activist and media owner to a prominent voice in the debate over Ethiopia’s future—mirrors the broader evolution of Oromo political consciousness. His call for a transition from resistance politics to governance politics, and from ethnonationalism to broader nation-building, represents a significant shift.

In his writings and interviews, Jawar argues that Oromo politics must evolve beyond its traditional oppositional orientation. A movement that has historically defined itself through resistance must now demonstrate its capacity to govern, build institutions, deliver public services, and contribute to national stability. Political legitimacy cannot be sustained indefinitely through historical grievances alone.

This is not to suggest that Jawar asks Oromos to abandon their identity or their legitimate demands. Rather, he challenges the assumption that protecting Oromo interests and building a common Ethiopian political future are mutually exclusive. Given the Oromo people’s demographic significance, geographical position, cultural influence, and historical role in Ethiopia, their political participation is essential to any sustainable project of national reconstruction.

In a recent interview on Kallatti Media, Jawar explained that Ethiopian nationalism should not be understood as an identity or political project owned exclusively by historically dominant groups. Oromos, like other peoples of Ethiopia, have an equal right to define, shape, and participate in the national project. An Oromo can embrace Ethiopian citizenship, contribute to national unity, and take pride in a shared political identity without surrendering Oromo cultural identity or constitutional rights.

From this standpoint, Progressive Patriotism challenges the historical tendency to associate Ethiopian nationalism with cultural assimilation, political centralization, or the dominance of one group. It opens the possibility of an inclusive nationalism in which belonging to Ethiopia does not require becoming less Oromo.

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The Goobana Question: Heroes, Traitors, and the Politics of Memory

Jawar’s concept of Progressive Patriotism extends beyond constitutional arrangements. It also engages with the politics of memory—specifically, the way political movements construct historical narratives that distinguish heroes from traitors.

In his text, Goobana: The Hero-Traitor Narrative in the Oromo Struggle, Jawar examines how the figure of Goobana Daacee—a historical Oromo figure remembered as a collaborator with Emperor Menelik II and, consequently, a traitor—has been used within the Oromo national movement. The narrative of betrayal, Jawar argues, can serve important political purposes: it mobilizes communities, establishes collective memory, and defines political loyalties.

But when a movement moves from resistance to governance, such narratives become liabilities. A movement operating in opposition can organize its political identity around a clear distinction between the oppressed and the oppressor, resistance and collaboration, liberation and betrayal. A political movement that enters government, however, must negotiate competing interests, govern citizens with different identities, and build institutions that extend beyond its original constituency.

Jawar suggests that political movements may need to move from a resistance narrative toward a governing narrative. Figures previously condemned may be reassessed; figures celebrated may be subjected to new scrutiny. The task, he argues, is not to replace every hero with a traitor, but to create a political culture in which historical disagreements can be examined without becoming grounds for denying citizenship, identity, or political legitimacy.

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The Abiy Paradox: An Oromo Leader, but an Oromo-Empowering Government?

The question of Oromo ownership of Ethiopian nationalism cannot be separated from the political trajectory of Abiy Ahmed. His rise to power in 2018 symbolized the opportunity to translate Oromo political mobilization into democratic transformation at the national level.

His early reform agenda generated expectations of political liberalization, reconciliation, and greater openness. His government’s peace initiative with Eritrea further strengthened the image of a leader seeking to move beyond longstanding regional hostility. But the subsequent political project—associated with the formation of the Prosperity Party in 2019 and the language of Medemer—proved contentious.

Supporters interpreted Medemer as an attempt to overcome political fragmentation and the limitations of ethnic-based party organization. Critics, including Oromo nationalists, argued that it weakened the political and institutional protections established under multinational federalism. The war in Tigray, the subsequent armed conflicts in other regions, political polarization, and serious allegations of abuses by state and non-state actors exposed the limitations of a political transition that did not produce a broadly accepted democratic settlement.

The broader lesson is that an Oromo’s accession to the center of Ethiopian power does not automatically mean that Oromo nationalism has achieved its democratic objectives. An Oromo-led government is not necessarily an Oromo-empowering government, just as an Ethiopian national identity is not necessarily an exclusionary identity. The decisive issue is the character of the institutions and policies through which political power is exercised.

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The Critics Speak: Progressive Patriotism Under the Microscope

Jawar’s Progressive Patriotism has not gone unchallenged. Critics from across the political spectrum have raised important questions about its conceptual clarity, its practical implications, and its relationship to the status quo.

Moges Zewdu Teshome argues that Jawar conflates multinational federalism, multicultural federalism, and a multicultural unitary state—distinct institutional arrangements that cannot be resolved simply by democratizing an allegedly flawed constitutional structure. He advocates revisiting the constitutional order, strengthening an inclusive civic identity, and building a political community in which citizenship is not subordinated to ethnic affiliation.

Professor Messay Kebede challenges Jawar’s claim that ethnonationalism has become effectively irreversible, reasoning that political identities and institutions are historically constructed and can therefore change. He proposes democratic or civic nationalism as a more coherent alternative, arguing that inclusive democratic institutions can protect cultural diversity without making ethnic political sovereignty the organizing principle of the state.

Benti Geleta Buli, through a sentiment analysis of Jawar’s proposal, notes that the term “progressive” remains inadequately defined and could become a rhetorical framework that preserves the status quo rather than resolving Ethiopia’s political divisions. He presents constitutional patriotism as a more constructive alternative grounded in shared constitutional values, democratic participation, and inclusive citizenship.

And in my own earlier critique, I argued that Jawar’s distinction between “centripetal” and “centrifugal” political forces unfairly portrays ethnonationalist movements while underemphasizing the historical injustices, assimilationist policies, and authoritarian practices that gave rise to them. Appealing to right-wing Ethiopian nationalists by equating their historical responsibilities with those of ethnonationalist movements risks undermining the legitimate struggles and sacrifices of nations and nationalities, including the Oromo people.

These critiques are not dismissive. They are, in fact, a sign of the seriousness with which Jawar’s intervention is being taken. They demand that Progressive Patriotism move beyond slogan and toward institutional specificity.

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Toward a Constitutional Patriotism: The Roadmap

If Progressive Patriotism is to become more than a rhetorical compromise, it must be grounded in concrete institutional commitments. One possible way to clarify it is to connect it to constitutional patriotism—attachment to a political community based on shared constitutional principles, democratic institutions, equal citizenship, and fundamental rights rather than ethnic or cultural uniformity.

For Ethiopia, such a framework would require at least five commitments:

1. Meaningful regional self-government and the rights of nations, nationalities, and peoples must be constitutionally protected.

2. Federal and regional governments must be accountable through genuinely competitive political processes and an independent judiciary.

3. Minorities within regional states must enjoy equal citizenship, cultural rights, security, and political participation.

4. National institutions must be accessible to citizens regardless of language, ethnicity, religion, or political affiliation.

5. Disputes over federal authority, regional boundaries, resources, and political representation must be resolved through credible constitutional procedures rather than coercion.

Beyond these constitutional commitments, a pragmatic roadmap for Oromo ownership of Ethiopian nationalism requires several practical steps: protecting political pluralism within Oromo society, democratizing multinational federalism, establishing credible national dialogue, creating effective mechanisms for accountability, promoting an inclusive national historical narrative, and defining Progressive Patriotism institutionally.

It also requires a crucial conceptual separation: national unity must be separated from unconditional support for a government. Citizens should be able to oppose a prime minister, criticize the federal government, or demand constitutional change without being branded enemies of Ethiopia. Likewise, support for Oromo rights should not require unconditional loyalty to an Oromo political organization.

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The Future of Ethiopian Nationalism: A Shared Project

The most important question, ultimately, is not whether Oromo nationalism should disappear into Ethiopian nationalism or remain permanently opposed to it. It is whether both can be transformed through democratic institutions so that neither requires the political subordination of the other.

Jawar Mohammed’s Progressive Patriotism is an attempt to articulate a framework in which ethnic identity and shared national belonging can coexist. Its credibility depends on democratic institutions, constitutional protections, political pluralism, and an explicit rejection of coercive assimilation. Abiy Ahmed’s experience illustrates the dangers of attempting to build national cohesion by weakening the political forces and constitutional guarantees through which historically marginalized communities sought recognition.

The future of Ethiopian nationalism will depend on whether the country can build a political community in which unity is freely sustained rather than coercively imposed, ethnic identities are protected rather than demonized, and national citizenship is shared rather than monopolized.

Oromo nationalism’s most consequential contribution to Ethiopia may ultimately be its capacity to help transform Ethiopian nationalism from an inherited claim of state authority into a genuinely shared project of democratic citizenship. That is the promise of Progressive Patriotism. Whether it becomes a reality depends not on the eloquence of its advocates, but on the institutions through which it is enacted—and on the willingness of all Ethiopians, Oromo and non-Oromo alike, to engage in the difficult, patient work of democratic negotiation.

The question is no longer whether the Oromo belong to Ethiopia. The question is what kind of Ethiopia can belong equally to Oromos and all other citizens. The answer, if it comes, will not be found in slogans or in the shadow of a single leader. It will be found in the constitution, in the ballot box, and in the everyday practice of citizenship.

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Sultan Abda Neja, Ph.D., is a political analyst and author specializing in Ethiopian politics, federalism, and ethnonationalism. His work has appeared in Borkena and other outlets.

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