Giants and Lilliputians: Haile Selassie and President Isaias Afwerki (Part 2)
Power, Image, and Machiavellian Survival: The Body as a Mirror of Power
To understand Isaias Afwerki’s psychology, one must first confront the contradiction written across his body. His appearance—spare, stiff, and strangely careless—betrayed none of the humility expected of a revolutionary. Nor did it reflect the ethos of the Tegadelti, whose plainness was once a moral language: a uniform of solidarity and shared sacrifice. Those who knew him in Asmara—and later at Haile Selassie University—recall not a disciplined ascetic or visionary leader, but a man perpetually out of place. His trousers never quite fit, his posture betrayed a chronic unease, and his presence felt more like a historical accident than a deliberate arrival. He didn’t stride into history; he tripped into it.
The Boy Who Thrived on Division
Among those who knew him in his youth, there is striking unanimity on one point: Isaias had an uncanny talent for sowing discord. Children who had been playing peacefully would, within minutes of his arrival, turn on each other with inexplicable fury. He didn’t merely provoke—he orchestrated. Conflict followed him like a shadow he cast with intention. He was, in every sense, the embodiment of what we call in Hamasien, ፈላሲት ዑና ጉዶ—the nun from Una Gudo, a folkloric figure who, through cunning and deceit, incited two now-extinct villages near Asmara to wage a mutually ruinous war.
Like her, and Haile Selassie before him, Isaias thrived on division, not as a byproduct of ideology, but as a method of control. His presence rarely brought clarity or calm; it brought confusion, rivalry, and the slow unraveling of trust. He was unusually vain for a teenage boy of that era—preoccupied not with achievement, but with appearance and dominance. One day, he picked a fight with his classmate Woldeyesus Ammar, the top student in the class. Their 10th grade Amharic teacher in 1963, Leake Abai from Adwa, was protective of his star pupil, intervened. “Pick a fight with someone your equal,” he told Isaias. “This boy is too good a student to be entangled with you.” To the astonishment of both Woldeyesus and the teacher, Isaias retorted, “ኣስሉ ብመልክዕዩ? He’s not better looking than me.”
It was a moment that revealed more than adolescent bravado. Beneath the surface lay a deep insecurity masked by arrogance—a need not to be right, but to be seen, admired, feared. Even then, he understood that power could be claimed not through merit, but through presence. And he would spend the rest of his life perfecting that illusion. Beyond his gift for agitation, he was domineering and fiercely territorial. His late younger brother, Amanuel, once remarked—half in jest, half in warning—that he wouldn’t let any of his siblings sit on the family stool. Only he could occupy it. In hindsight, that stool became a chilling metaphor for the Eritrea he would later claim entirely for himself. Amanuel saw it. Many did. But in Eritrea, we have a tragic habit of ignoring the voices that cry out from the wilderness—those who warn us before the storm, those who see the pattern before it becomes our prison.
Pride, Failure, and the Birth of Rebellion
One wonders what might have become of him had he simply retaken his failed first semester in the engineering department in 1965. The college offered him a second chance; his pride refused. Reckless and defiant, he turned his back on the classroom and picked up the gun—joining the very organization he had once mocked as “jihadist,” the Eritrean Liberation Front. Thus began not a life of conviction, but of contradiction. His rebellion was never purely against empire—it was also against humility, against accountability, against the quiet discipline that builds nations. It was a posture of defiance masquerading as purpose.
Eritrean students, including the late Michael Gabir, the former principal of the UNHCR high school for Eritrean refugees in Kassala, had seen the warning signs early. Michael, who had observed Isaias since their Asmara days, reportedly knew his proclivity for instigating conflict, shirking responsibility, and playing with fire. He predicted with chilling precision that Isaias, if not constrained, would inflict serious damage on the ELF. Michael and a few others feared he would exploit religious fault lines—playing the “religion card” to fracture the movement from within. Their fears were not unfounded. What followed was a slow unraveling: internal suspicion, factionalism, and the eventual fragmentation of the ELF. It is one of the great ironies of Eritrean history that the man who refused to repeat a semester would go on to repeat the same divisive tactics across decades—first in the field, then in the state. The stool he refused to share as a boy became the nation he refused to democratize as a man.
It was a calculated strategy—Haile Selassie’s blueprint for division. By weaponizing identity, he sought to fracture Eritrean unity along religious and regional lines. Central to this effort was the Israeli-trained Commando Force, composed predominantly of Christian Eritreans, deployed to suppress what he called shifta—the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), whose ranks were largely drawn from the Muslim lowlands.
But the emperor’s war was never just against armed insurgents. His scorched-earth policy fell with disproportionate fury on Muslim Eritrean communities, transforming entire villages into charred ruins. In the provinces of Semhar, Sahel, Senhit, Qola Seraye, and Barka, the campaign took on the character of collective punishment. Towns and villages such as Geleb, Ajerbeb, Fafi’da, S’nqa, F’ledarb, Hantol, Musha’ayg, Fana, Shef’shifit, Rora Biet Gebru, Baskdira, Hazemo, Akordot, Missiam, Elabared, Om Hajer, and Keren became synonymous with state terror. In Ona alone, 750 innocent civilians—men, women, and children—were massacred in a single day, their lives extinguished not for rebellion, but for who they were and where they lived.
This was not merely counterinsurgency. It was a deliberate attempt to sever the bonds of solidarity between Eritrea’s diverse communities—to pit highland against lowland, Christian against Muslim, and thereby undermine the very foundation of the national liberation movement. Yet, in the ashes of these atrocities, a deeper unity was forged—one that would ultimately outlast the empire that tried to destroy it.
According to Mr. Tsegai Negash, a veteran of the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) who led the 10th ELF Veterans Reunion in Dallas, Texas, the movement’s early posture toward Eritreans serving under the Ethiopian regime was one of hostility. They were seen as collaborators—enemies of the revolution. But that paradigm began to shift under the visionary leadership of figures like Dr. Fitsum Ghebreselassie, whose strategic and inclusive thinking reframed these individuals not as traitors, but as dormant allies—reservists who, when awakened by conscience and circumstance, could be called upon to serve the cause of liberation.
Dr. Fitsum and his team began crafting pamphlets specifically designed to reach Eritrean commandos, police officers, and other government personnel. These writings were not mere propaganda—they were moral appeals, laced with historical clarity and emotional urgency. Tsegai himself was among those entrusted with disseminating these materials, often at great personal risk.
One of the first to respond was a young commando known as Michael Commandos, stationed in the Adi Keyih region where Dr. Fitsum was actively organizing. His defection was more than symbolic—it was a rupture in the psychological warfare waged by Haile Selassie, whose regime had begun to poison the minds of local communities with fear, suspicion, and division.
Michael’s presence among the tegadelti sent shockwaves through the region. A Muslim woman from Tegren, who had once known him as an enemy, saw him in ELF uniform and said, “Now that I have seen you as a Tegadalai, I feel today like I have seen the independence of Eritrea.” Her words captured the emotional transformation that was taking root—proof that reconciliation and unity were not only possible, but already underway.
In early 1974, Michael’s conscience was tested in the most harrowing way. Ethiopian soldiers were closing in on 22 Eritrean students, intent on executing them. Unable to stand by, Michael charged into the line of fire, engaging the enemy with fierce resolve. He held them off long enough for the students to escape unharmed. But in the end, he was overwhelmed. Michael Commandos was martyred—not in retreat, but in defiance, shielding the future of Eritrea with his own life.
His sacrifice remains a testament to the power of transformation, the courage of conviction, and the enduring truth that even those once seen as enemies can become the fiercest defenders of justice.
The courage of heroes like Michael Commandos and the wisdom of Dr. Fitsum Ghebreselassie embody what is most beautiful about Eritrea. Their lives reflect a rare fusion of valor and vision—honed in the crucible of struggle, yet rooted in a deep and abiding love for the people. They did not fight for abstractions; they fought for dignity, memory, and the right to exist without apology.
The wounds inflicted by Haile Selassie’s manipulative and divisive strategies—designed to pit one segment of our population against another—were left gaping by design. But those wounds began to heal when the very communities he sought to divide joined hands and returned fire. That moment of unity was not just tactical—it was redemptive.
The Commandos played a decisive role in Eritrea’s liberation struggle. Their defection from the enemy ranks was not merely symbolic—it recalibrated the strategic balance overnight. Armed with training, discipline, and an intimate grasp of imperial tactics, they became force multipliers for the revolution. Their choice to abandon the machinery of domination and stand with their people marked a turning point—living proof that even those once conscripted into oppression could become architects of freedom.
Figures like Asmelash Goitom set the gold standard for courage under fire. Fearless in battle, unwavering in conviction, they inspired those around them through raw bravery, quiet resilience, and principled leadership. These were not ordinary men. They were larger than life—embodiments of a generation that refused to be broken, and instead chose to rewrite history with their own hands.
On the other hand, we were blessed with intellectual giants like Dr. Fitsum Ghebreselassie. The more I learn about him, the deeper I feel the ache of his absence—a quiet, persistent grief that speaks to the magnitude of what we lost. In Dr. Fitsum, I see the embodiment of the ideal Eritrean citizen: principled, selfless, and unwavering in his devotion to the public good.
He was not merely a leader; he was a servant of the people in the truest sense—a man whose moral clarity and humility elevated everyone around him. There was something near-sacred in his presence, a quiet dignity that inspired trust without demanding it. His legacy is not measured in titles or accolades, but in the lives he touched, the minds he sharpened, and the conscience he helped awaken.
Dr. Fitsum is one of those rare individuals I wish I had met in life. I was barely three-four years old when he was martyred, yet even across time and memory, I find no better model to shape my own path. His legacy is not just historical—it is personal. It is the kind of light that guides without demanding, that dignifies without spectacle. To walk in his footsteps is to honor the best of what Eritrea has offered the world.
The Smallness Within the Tall Frame
Isaias’s contradictions extended to his image. Towering in stature, yet small in grace; imposing in frame, yet insecure in spirit. He embodied the Tigrinya proverb: “ነዊሕ ወይ ልቢ ወይ ስረ ይሓጽሮ”—“A tall man is always short on either wisdom or pants.” However crude the saying, it captures the irony of the man himself: large in presence, diminished in dignity. Modern studies tell us that height often correlates with confidence, cognition, and earnings. Yet Isaias refuted the data—not as an anomaly to celebrate, but as a cautionary tale. Stature alone does not confer wisdom; power without humility is merely the theater of insecurity. His plainness was never a gesture of solidarity—it was simply neglect. The safari suits, baseball caps, and open-toed sandals of his duck-footed gait (ጨጋዕ) were not the attire of a man grounded in the people, but of one indifferent to refinement altogether. There was no aesthetic discipline, no deliberate simplicity, only a habitual inelegance that mirrored his inner disorder. In him, the body became metaphor: tall yet unsteady, visible yet hollow—a figure whose physical stature could never conceal the smallness within.
Like Haile Selassie before him, Isaias Afwerki is a man shaped by profound insecurity. Haile Selassie, though diminutive in height, was acutely aware of his physical presence. He compensated with imperial regalia, towering thrones, and carefully staged portraits that magnified his image far beyond his frame. Obsessed with symbolism, he clung to power well into his eighties, refusing to transfer authority even to his own son—the Crown Prince. To relinquish the throne, for him, would have been to shrink—to be seen as mortal, fallible, replaceable.
The Mask of Humility
Isaias, too, has spent a lifetime compensating for what he could not reconcile. Born into an immigrant family, he grew up in the shadow of slurs—some directed at his kin, others at the communities they resembled. His grandmother, though widely known, was engaged in a line of work frowned upon by mainstream culture, and that legacy clung to him like a whisper he could never silence. These wounds did not soften him; they calcified. Insecurity became ambition. Shame became fuel.
Many who encountered him for the first time recall a man who went out of his way to appear humble—soft-spoken, deferential, almost self-effacing. But that humility was tactical, not temperamental. It lasted only until he had sized up his interlocutor, extracted what he needed, and secured his advantage. Then the mask slipped. One former comrade likened him to a hyena that limps until it’s ready to pounce—feigning humility to disarm, then devouring without remorse.
At his core, Isaias belongs to a lineage of historical figures whose ambition was born of perceived deficiency. Like Napoleon compensating for his outsider status in post-revolutionary France, Nixon nursing resentment over elite rejection, or Hitler weaponizing personal grievance into national catastrophe, Isaias has made power his only currency. For such men, morality is not a compass—it is an obstacle. They do not seek justice; they seek control. And they will stop at nothing to achieve it.
In the words of Winston Churchill, Isaias “has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.” It is a fitting epitaph for a man whose insecurities became a nation’s burden.
A Reflection on Haile Selassie: Power Turned to Mimicry — The Warning of the Proverb
A Tigrinya proverb warns: “ባርያኻ ዝነበረ ኣይግዛእካ”—“May you never be ruled by your former slave.” It speaks to a cruel irony of power: the oppressed, once enthroned, often imitates the very tyranny that once dehumanized him. History offers few examples of kindness from master to slave—for if such kindness had existed, it would not have been slavery. Abraham Lincoln captured the same bitter truth when he said, “Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”
In the intellectual and spiritual annals of our region, few voices have articulated the sanctity of human dignity with the clarity and moral force of Zera Yacob—the philosopher whose rational theology remains unmatched—and the two towering theologians who shaped the soul of the Northern Tewahdo tradition: Abune Ewostateos and Abba Estifanos. These three were not merely thinkers; they were sons of Tigray, a land whose spiritual depth and philosophical rigor have long nourished the conscience of the highlands.
Even Abune Teklehaimanot, revered across the Christian world, though born in Shewa, is traced by Sergew Hable Selassie to Tigrayan lineage—a testament to the region’s enduring role as the cradle of ecclesiastical and intellectual nobility. It is no surprise, then, that the old saying still echoes across generations: “ካብ ትግራይ ነይውለድ ነይጭዋ”—“One who is not of Tigrayan ancestry is not of noble birth.” This aphorism, far from mere tribal pride, reflects a historical consciousness rooted in Axumite sovereignty, theological resistance, and the defense of moral autonomy.
It is perhaps for this reason that Emperor Zera Yacob, the philosopher-king, despite his broader imperial reach, chose to be enthroned in Axum—a symbolic act of ancestral affirmation and spiritual legitimacy. And it is why Saint Mary of Zion, the sanctuary of Nubreid and the reputed resting place of the Ark, retains primacy of honor in the Tewahdo Church: not merely as a relic of faith, but as a living monument to a region whose legacy shaped the ethical and metaphysical foundations of an entire civilization.
However crude or prideful it may sound, the proverb reflects a historical truth: the moral architecture of our civilization—from philosophy to theology—was largely shaped by minds rooted in Tigray’s soil.
The Civic Inheritance of Bahre Negasi
As wedi Bahri Negasi (child of the kingdom of the sea), I say this plainly: ኣብ መረብ ጽግኢ ‘ይብለይ፡ ምስ ትግራዋይ ጽልኢ ‘ይብለይ—Across the Mereb, I claim no land and harbor no hatred. My roots are firm, my boundaries clear. In the political and legal traditions of Bahre Negasi, no one speaks in a Baito—a council or assembly—without observing the courtesy, “እነሀለካ ራእሲ ወዲ ባሕረ ነጋሲ”—“In the presence of the prince, son of the King of the Sea.” Such etiquette is not mere formality; it is a declaration of order, sovereignty, and respect. If our Tigrayan kin truly share the legacy of highland civilization, one must ask: why is this political decorum not mirrored across the Mereb? Why does our shared inheritance of law and reverence seem fractured by arrogance and command?
We, in Bahre Negasi, inherit Higi Indaba—the Law of the Fathers—a code of deliberation grounded in restraint, ancestral wisdom, and communal dignity. It is not a law of conquest, but of counsel; not a mandate imposed from above, but a consensus drawn from within. Authority, in our tradition, is earned through listening, not imposed through lineage.
By contrast, our northern and southern kin—Tigrayans and their imperial successors—were shaped by the Kibre Negest (Glory of Kings) and Fithi Negest (Justice of Kings), texts steeped in divine right and centralized command. Their tradition sanctifies the crown; ours sanctifies the circle.
Our political ethos, rooted in communal deliberation and rotational leadership, bears striking resemblance to the Oromo Gada system. Yet there is a key distinction: while the Gada tradition remained primarily oral, ours was codified in writing as early as the 14th century. This written legacy affirms not only the antiquity of our civic order, but its deliberate preservation—a testament to a society that valued consensus over conquest, and dignity over dominion.
And the circle is no abstraction. It shapes the way we eat, the way we dance, the way we deliberate, and the way we see the world. It is a symbol of inclusion, of shared space, of leadership that rotates rather than reigns. In the circle, no one stands above; all are seen, all are heard.
This is the essence of our opposition to Isaias’s regime. We seek, true to our heritage, ቃልና ነፍስሰሉ ባይቶ፣ ቆጽሊ ነውድቐሉ ሹም—an assembly where speech is soul-bound and leadership is chosen, not imposed. A system where our voices shape legislation and our votes determine who governs. Not rule by decree, but rule by consent. Not silence, but deliberation. Not fear, but dignity.
Memory as Resistance
Where theirs is a culture of command before counsel, ours is one of reverence before rule. As Higi Adkem Melgae of Seraye wisely teaches, “ሕጊ ተተኺሉ፣ ስርዓት ተቐያይሩ ይነብር”—Law must be permanently rooted, while administrations are meant to rotate. It is a philosophy that guards against tyranny by anchoring legitimacy not in personality, but in continuity—where the law endures, even as leaders come and go. The solution to our present predicament lies, in part, in reclaiming this rich and plural inheritance. We must remember the democratic election of Shum Asawrta (Saho), where leadership was earned through consensus and election, not coercion. We must revive the justice-oriented republicanism of Akeleguzai, where fairness outweighed force. We must honor the culture of tolerance and acceptance in Senhit, the mercantile openness and cultural diffusion of Semhar, and the fierce independence of Dankalia. We must learn again from the egalitarian ethos of the Kunama, the rugged individualism, autonomy, and the art of conversation of Barka, and the outward-looking and accommodating spirit of Hamasien—from Adi Teklai to Marsa Teklai. This is not nostalgia—it is memory as resistance. A refusal to forget the civic wisdom embedded in our own soil.
Between Throne and Council: A Civilizational Question
It is a reminder that our political imagination need not be confined to imported ideologies or authoritarian habits. Within our own traditions lie the seeds of a more just, plural, and enduring civic order.
Eritrea, like the 53 other African nations, was ushered into modernity through the rupture of European colonization. Yet the people within it carry a far older inheritance—a civilizational pedigree shaped by deliberation, diversity, and dignity. Long before foreign hands carved borders across the continent, our communities practiced governance rooted in counsel, restraint, and mutual respect—fortified by a centuries-old Christian-Muslim tradition that prized coexistence over conquest.
Ours is a culture that honors inheritance not merely through bloodlines, but through moral continuity. It is guided by a precept etched into our cultural DNA: ናይ ኣቡኡ ኮይንዎ። ናይ ኣቦ ንመን ንሃቦ—“It is his father’s. Who else should inherit the father’s legacy but his son?” This is not just a proverb; it is a philosophy of stewardship, of generational dignity, of rightful succession grounded in respect rather than ambition.
To reclaim this legacy is not to retreat into the past, but to recover the moral architecture for a freer future—one built not on domination, but on continuity, belonging, and shared responsibility.
To reclaim that legacy is not to retreat into the past, but to recover the tools for a freer future. It is to remember that our foundations were not built on domination, but on dialogue; not on divine right, but on communal wisdom. In a time of imposed systems and fractured sovereignty, memory itself becomes a form of resistance—and tradition, a blueprint for renewal.
This contrast with our kin in the South is not a condemnation—it is a question. A quiet invitation to reflect on how two branches of one civilization, born of shared soil and memory, came to diverge so profoundly in their political temperament.
What does it mean to inherit a throne rather than a council? To govern by divine sanction rather than ancestral restraint? And what might it mean, in our time, to restore the balance between them—to reconcile the vertical with the horizontal, the crown with the circle?
This is not a question unique to us. It echoes in the voices of our Oromo brothers and other Southern communities in Ethiopia, who are also reexamining the foundations of authority, memory, and belonging. It is a question that asks not only where we come from, but what kind of future we are willing to imagine—together.
Yet across these divides, intermarriage, migration, and intellectual exchange have long bound us together. Among all the groups that left a lasting imprint on Eritrea, none shaped it more profoundly than the Tigrayans. One of our most revered founding fathers, Woldeab Woldemariam—Wel Wel—was himself born to Tigrayan parents. A man of piercing intellect and moral clarity, Wel Wel embodied the spirit of principled resistance and democratic aspiration. He stood not for domination, but for dignity; not for rule by decree, but for governance by consent.
As Eritrea moves—however haltingly—toward the future he envisioned, his legacy will only grow taller in memory. In a region often defined by rupture, Wel Wel remains a bridge—between peoples, between traditions, and between the promise of justice and the reality of power.
The Erasure of Great Men
And yet, according to Semere Solomon, author of Eritrea’s Hard-Won Independence and Unmet Expectations, Isaias Afwerki personally instructed the now-imprisoned Abdella Jaber to deny Woldeab Woldemariam—Wel Wel—any public recognition upon his return from decades in exile, just as Eritrea was gaining its independence. It was a deliberate act of erasure—petty, insecure, and telling. This is how small men treat great ones. This is how a regime built on fear and control treats the very architects of Eritrean dignity.
Unlike Wel Wel, who honored his lineage with quiet pride, Isaias Afwerki—like Haile Selassie before him, who famously concealed his Oromo heritage—has long distanced himself from his Tigrayan and Ethiopian roots. By most credible accounts, Isaias is at least three-fourths Tigrayan-Ethiopian. And when one surveys the prominence of figures such as Hagos Kisha, Yemane “Monkey,” and Yemane Gebremeskel—each with at least one Tigrayan parent—the composition of Eritrea’s ruling elite begins to echo an old proverb: “እንኮነ ዓጸቦ ህሩ ሃገረ ሓማሴን”—“In times of hardship, turn to the land of Hamassien.”
Many did. And most blended in without friction—accent reduction was all it took. The politics of assimilation, cloaked in nationalism, became a quiet strategy of survival and dominance. But beneath the surface, the contradictions remain: a regime that denies its roots while relying on them, that silences its founders while exalting its enforcers.
A veteran Tegadali once recounted to me an episode from the early 1970s in Sahel, when the question of Eritrean versus Tigrayan identity surfaced in the presence of Isaias Afwerki. Isaias swiftly dismissed it, saying, “Don’t pay attention to this nonsense and unfounded allegations. I’m positive some people would even say that I am Tigrayan.” According to the Tegadalai, that offhand remark was enough to dispel any lingering suspicion about Isaias’s ancestry—at least for the moment.
The truth, long buried beneath revolutionary fervor and wartime unity, began to surface in post-independence Eritrea—quietly at first, then unmistakably—as members of the ruling party broached the subject of future elections, representation, constituencies, and candidacies. These discussions, both formal and informal, unearthed a politically radioactive question: lineage. No longer whispered as gossip, it reemerged as strategic calculus. The fear was palpable. If the truth slipped out, it could become Isaias Afwerki’s Achilles’ heel.
Ambassador Andebrhan Woldegiorgis, a seasoned Eritrean diplomat and leading intellectual, recounts in his book that Isaias, when intoxicated, would mock Eritreans with chilling arrogance, boasting that just as he had “given” them Eritrea, he could just as easily take it away. That grotesque sense of ownership—of a people, a nation, a history—explains one of his most disturbing public utterances when he visited Ethiopia in 2018: “Words cannot express the joy we are feeling now. History is being made as we speak…Lives have perished but we are lucky to observe today… We are one people—whoever forgets that does not understand our situation.”
But many did not forget. Least of all those who had been taught, with militant clarity, that we were not “one people.” The EPLF’s ideological training made that distinction explicit. They told us our mothers’ hair was braided, while the Ethiopians’ was coily. They taught us to see difference not as division, but as dignity—an affirmation of our distinct identity, forged in struggle and sacrifice.
Who can forget the words of Lingo, the charismatic leader of the EPLF’s Cultural Troupe, as they toured the diaspora? His performances were not mere entertainment—they were declarations of cultural sovereignty. In song, dance, and allegory, they reminded us that Eritrea was not a gift bestowed by any man, but a birthright reclaimed by its people.
Among Isaias’s most cynical performances was his appearance in Ethiopia alongside Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed during the so-called peace accord of 2018. The spectacle was hailed as a historic breakthrough—a moment of reconciliation after decades of hostility. But like every initiative bearing Isaias’s signature, it died upon arrival.
His presence in Addis Ababa was not a gesture of healing, but a performance of control. The man who once mocked Eritreans for believing they owned their independence now stood beside Ethiopia’s prime minister, grinning like a victor returning to a conquered province. The symbolism was chilling. No apology, no reckoning, no truth-telling—just a handshake and hollow proclamations.
Isaias has the Midas touch in reverse. Where others build, he corrodes. Where hope flickers, he extinguishes. Every virtuous endeavor—be it peace, unity, or democratic reform—tends to perish in his grasp. Not because the ideals are flawed, but because he cannot coexist with accountability. His legacy is not one of reconciliation, but of arrested possibility.
The 2018 peace accord, like the 1994 constitutional process, the 1997 elections, and the 2001 reform movement, was never meant to live. It was a mirage—useful for optics, lethal for substance. And those who dared to believe in its promise were once again reminded: in Isaias’s Eritrea, even peace must serve power.
Heritage, Hospitality, and Healing
We have long been a hospitable people. For us, hospitality is no mere relic of nostalgia—it is a living ethic, rooted in dignity, solidarity, and grace. Though Isaias and his circle have desecrated this sacred tradition, we must not allow their cynicism to corrode our values. A few bad actors do not justify the abandonment of a heritage forged in compassion and courage. Eritrea’s cause has been carried not only by native sons and daughters, but by also a few Eritreans of Tigrayan, Amhara, Oromo, Somali, Yemeni, and Sudanese origin—men and women who bled, sacrificed, and stood firm. No Eritrean of conscience dares to question their belonging or their loyalty. Their commitment is woven into the very fabric of our nation. After all, a true Hamasienai is መግቡ ጎጎ ዘረቡኡ ሕደጎ—his food is Gogo, and his speech is forgiveness. This is the very ethic of reconciliation we must revive: not as performance, but as principle. It is precisely this spirit—humble, nourishing, and forgiving—that our fractured society needs most.
Saints of the Highlands: The Spiritual Roots of Equality
Among the saints of our shared heritage, the 13th-century Abune Ewostateos stands as a singular force—a spiritual reformer whose influence helped abolish slavery in the northern highlands. From his headquarters in Seraye, he revived the church with quiet conviction, and his disciples went on to establish the monasteries that now crown the mountainous terrain. This may well explain the remarkable concentration of monastic life in Seraye.
To this day, believers across Tigray and Eritrea proudly call themselves Deqi Ewostateos—children of Ewostateos. His legacy transcends theology; it is moral, civic, and generational—a revolution of conscience expressed through faith. He and his spiritual heir, Abba Estifanos, embodied a radical vision of human dignity and equality, grounded in the belief that all are born in the image and likeness of God.
Abba Estifanos did not merely preach this truth—he lived it. He rejected the hierarchical order that demanded one human bow before another, even under the guise of divine kingship. His refusal to prostrate before Emperor Zara Yacob (not to be confused with the philosopher of the same name) was not an act of rebellion, but of spiritual integrity. For that act of conscience, he was condemned to death by hanging in Debre Birhan, the imperial capital at the time.
His martyrdom remains a haunting testament to the cost of truth in a world ruled by fear. And his legacy, like that of Ewostateos, continues to inspire those who seek a faith that liberates rather than subjugates—a faith that insists on equality not just before God, but among men.
During the 1998–2000 war of choice between Eritrea and Ethiopia, a popular saying circulated among Eritreans: We kneel only twice—once to pray to God, and once to shoot at an enemy. It was a declaration of defiance, a creed of dignity forged in conflict.
Yet the true intellectual and spiritual fathers of human dignity—and of the refusal to kneel before another human being—were giants of Tigrayan heritage. Their legacy, however, was even more profound, because it did not prescribe violence. It was a philosophy of moral equality, not militant pride. They taught that dignity lies not in domination, but in conscience; not in the right to retaliate, but in the refusal to submit.
Their resistance was not forged in the battlefield, but in the soul. And in that quiet defiance, they offered a deeper kind of strength—one that still calls us to rise without needing to strike.
The Call for ሓተታ (Hatata): A Return to Reason
Under enlightened leadership, one might have imagined a School of Philosophy named for Zera Yacob, and a Theological Seminary honoring Abune Ewostateos, Abba Estifanos, and Abune Teklehaimanot. Instead, both Eritrea and Ethiopia have fulfilled the scriptural warning: “If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit.”
The Qur’an, in Surat Al-A’raf, echoes this lament:
“They have hearts with which they do not understand, eyes with which they do not see, and ears with which they do not hear. They are like livestock—no, even more astray. It is they who are heedless.”
لَهُمۡ قُلُوۡبٌ لَّا يَفۡقَهُوۡنَ بِهَا وَلَهُمۡ اَعۡيُنٌ لَّا يُبۡصِرُوۡنَ بِهَا وَلَهُمۡ اٰذَانٌ لَّا يَسۡمَعُوۡنَ بِهَا ؕ اُولٰۤـئِكَ كَالۡاَنۡعَامِ بَلۡ هُمۡ اَضَلُّ ؕ اُولٰۤـئِكَ هُمُ الۡغٰفِلُوۡنَ
The Sufi orders that shaped the spiritual landscape of our region—those that spread Islam not merely through doctrine but through lived ethics and communal grace—deserve equal recognition in any account of our moral and historical inheritance. Their role in sustaining a moral order, cultivating humility, and resisting material excess was no less vital than that of formal institutions.
Among these, the legacy of Sheikh Ibrahim Al-Mukhtar Ahmed Omer and the Al-Mirghaniya order stands out as a pillar of modern spiritual continuity in Eritrea. Their teachings bridged the sacred and the civic, offering a model of leadership rooted in introspection and service. Equally deserving of honor are the Ad Sheikh of Semhar, whose founding figure, Sharif Husayn, laid the groundwork for a tradition that would stretch across generations and geographies. His spiritual descendants—such as Sheikh al-Amin b. Hamid b. Nafutay—carried this torch into the Sahel, weaving a network of devotion and moral instruction that transcended borders.
Alongside these orders, Eritrea has been blessed with venerable religious families whose quiet stewardship has nourished the spiritual health of their communities for generations. The Ad Mua’lim, Ad Kebire, and Ad Syedna Mustapha families, among others, have served as anchors of moral guidance, education, and intergenerational continuity. Their homes became sanctuaries of counsel and prayer, their names synonymous with trust, learning, and spiritual care. In times of upheaval, they offered not only theological clarity but also social cohesion—reminding us that the strength of a people lies as much in its living traditions as in its written texts.
These figures and families were not merely religious leaders—they were architects of ethical resilience. In times of political fragmentation and cultural erosion, they offered a compass rooted in dhikr, discipline, and dignity. Their influence extended far beyond ritual; they cultivated moral clarity, social cohesion, and spiritual endurance. Their legacy reminds us that the soul of a people is often preserved not in palaces or parliaments, but in zawiyas, in whispered prayers, and in the quiet fortitude of those who walk the path of spiritual refinement.
Ethiopia, too, bears the imprint of towering Muslim theologians whose wisdom shaped their communities and landscapes. The Wollo region, in particular, produced luminous figures such as Haykh Talha b. Jaʽfar, Al-Ḥājj Bushrā Ay Muhammad, Shaykh Jawhar b. Haydar b. ʽAlī, Shaykh Aḥmad Shaykh Sirāj, and Muhammad Tāğaddīn Ahmad. These scholars were not only custodians of faith—they were stewards of justice, educators of conscience, and guardians of cultural memory.
Eritrea is as deeply Christian as it is Muslim, and its spiritual temperament reflects a rare and radiant balance. A typical Eritrean, in the words of Khalil Gibran, harbors “Jesus in one half of his heart and Mohammed in the other.” It is a poetic truth that speaks to the country’s pluralist soul—a soul shaped by reverence, not rivalry. I hope Ethiopians feel the same. My guess is that they do, especially those who remember the quiet wisdom of their elders and the shared sanctity of the land.
The Finest Wood is Reserved for the Tabot
Can we, as nations, at last, learn to entrust the right people with the right responsibilities?
The stakes are not administrative—they are moral, generational, and sacred. A Tigrinya proverb commands: “ዝበለጸ ዕንጨይቲ ንታቦት ዝበለጸ ሰብ ንሽመት”—“The finest wood is reserved for the Tabot; the finest person for leadership.” Leadership, then, is not a privilege but a consecration: the sacred duty to bear the weight of justice and dignity as the Tabot bears the Word of God.
Whether legend, theology, or history, our ancestors understood this truth. The Queen of Sheba’s pilgrimage to test Solomon’s wisdom, and the Prophet Muhammad’s command—“Seek knowledge even in China” (ا طْلُبُوا الْعِلْمَ وَلَوْ بِالصِّينِ)—both honor the same principle: that reverence for wisdom is the seed of civilization. Progress does not bloom from slogans or sentiment, but from disciplined understanding. Where inquiry thrives, generations do not merely survive—they flourish.
What we need now is ሓተታ (Hatata)—the spirit of moral reasoning and self-examination embodied by Zera Yacob. His legacy is not a relic but a compass. We are heirs to an intellectual tradition both profound and indigenous, a pedigree of thought that can lift us beyond mimicry and mediocrity—if only we choose to reclaim it. It is time to build upon it, and soar.
Conclusion: The Mirror and the Measure
Every empire, every revolution, and every leader eventually meets the same reckoning—the point where image collapses under the weight of its own illusion. In the figures of Haile Selassie and Isaias Afwerki, we see not merely two men, but two mirrors reflecting the same sickness of power: the obsession to appear immortal in a mortal world. One crowned himself divine; the other cloaked himself in false humility. Both mistook control for vision, fear for loyalty, and silence for peace. Both ruled with an iron fist.
Yet history is not only a ledger of failure. It is also a summons—to remember that nations are sustained not by thrones or rifles, but by conscience, counsel, and courage. The Ethiopian philosopher Zera Yacob and the reformers Ewostateos and Estifanos understood this truth centuries before modernity arrived at our shores: that power without virtue is ruin, and knowledge without humility is blindness.
Eritrea and Ethiopia today stand at the same threshold these men once faced—the choice between mimicry and moral awakening, between rule by fear and governance by principle. The question before us is not whether we have inherited the wisdom of our ancestors, but whether we will have the courage to use it.
To reclaim ሓተታ (Hatata)—the discipline of thought, reflection, and moral reason—is to break the long cycle of imitation and return to the wellspring of our own civilization. Only then can we escape the shadows of our giants and become, at last, a people measured not by the height of our rulers, but by the depth of our humanity.
It was too late for Haile Selassie. He paid for his shortsightedness with an ignominious death—abandoned, suffocated, and erased by the very system he once ruled. There remains, however, a narrow window of opportunity for Isaias Afwerki to change course and redeem himself. The handwriting is on the wall, and the sword of Damocles hangs not just over his head, but over the legacy he will leave behind.
All he needs to do is abdicate power and return it to its rightful owners: the Eritrean people. The mechanics of transition are not insurmountable. They can be sorted out through the combined will of democratic forces inside and outside Eritrea—civil society, diaspora networks, constitutional scholars, and seasoned patriots who still believe in the promise of self-rule.
I can even envision a role for Isaias in the transitional period—not as a ruler, but as a witness to the restoration of the civic order he once helped birth. But the question remains: does he possess the wisdom to learn from the failures of his predecessor? Can he recognize that clinging to power in defiance of history only ensures a tragic end?
For the sake of Eritrea, for the dignity of his family, and for whatever remains of his conscience, I still hold out hope that he chooses the path of redemption. However late, redemption is never beyond reach—but it demands humility, courage, and the wisdom to relinquish power before history does it for him.
Letting go is not weakness. It is the final act of moral strength.
I remain convinced that even the most imperfect, peacefully negotiated transition from authoritarianism to democracy is better—far better—than the most efficient revolution executed through violence. Peace, when rooted in accountability, preserves not only lives but the moral fabric of a nation. Violence may deliver change, but it rarely delivers healing.
To Be Continued:
To contact the author: weriz@yahoo.com
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