Emperor Haile Selassie and President Isaias Afwerki – Part Six
Giants and Lilliputians: Power, Image, and Machiavellian Survival
Emperor Haile Selassie and President Isaias Afwerki – Part Six
1 — Introduction
The Two Propaganda Campaigns
The Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF) became the target of a sustained campaign of political defamation—first from Emperor Haile Selassie’s Ethiopia, and later, far more powerfully, from the Isaias-led People’s Liberation Forces (PLF), which evolved into the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF). Both forces accused the ELF of sectarianism, Arab influence, and disloyalty to Eritrea’s Christian communities. Yet the outcomes diverged sharply.
Why Ethiopia Failed and the EPLF Succeeded
Ethiopia’s imperial narrative was easily dismissed as the propaganda of a collapsing foreign and “colonial” regime. Far more corrosive, however, was the EPLF’s internal vilification—born not of external hostility but of fraternal rivalry. In reshaping the liberation era from within, the EPLF etched an orchestrated memory deep into Eritrea’s political consciousness. What Eritreans rejected from an enemy, they embraced from one of their own—and in that paradox lies the nation’s enduring wound.
A Manufactured National Memory
The nation’s authentic narrative—nuanced, complex, and richly diverse—was supplanted by a linear, simplified, and less truthful yet more effective EPLF account. This imposed memory erased the multiplicity of Eritrean experience: the plural voices of regional and overlapping tribal and ethnic struggles, the cultural and linguistic richness of its people, and the layered sacrifices of communities beyond the EPLF’s orbit. In their place, a singular storyline was enthroned—one that conflated liberation itself with the supremacy of a single organization.
The Lasting Wounds of Distorted History
For more than three decades, this narrative has defined Eritrea’s official memory, leaving many Eritreans unable to recognize themselves in the story told on their behalf. The result has been a profound sense of cultural, historical, and political marginalization—a fracture between lived experience and imposed remembrance. The wound is not merely historical; it continues to shape identity, belonging, and legitimacy in the present, as Eritreans struggle to reclaim a narrative that honors the full breadth of their struggle and the plurality of their voices.
The tragedy of Eritrean political history is not simply that the ELF was defamed, but that only one version of that defamation took root. The EPLF understood something Ethiopia never grasped: memory is most malleable when reshaped from within. By turning political rivalry into moral indictment and clothing ambition in the language of national salvation, it achieved what no external enemy could—cultural and historical hegemony.
We continue to live beneath the long shadow of the ELF’s fragmentation and the subsequent splintering of the PLF into rival factions—marked by ዓማ ሓራዲት (Amma the killer), fratricidal civil wars, and the purges of Menkae and Yemin. The collapse of the ELF, its disintegration into factions, and the rise of religious- and ethnicity-based oppositions—some transnational in orientation—combined with the EPLF’s consolidation of power to etch deep, lasting scars into Eritrea’s national spirit. These wounds remain active political fault lines: breeding mistrust, suffocating reconciliation, and entrenching authoritarian control.
Despite relentless propaganda, slogans of unity, and state-engineered “integration” (more accurately, homogenization), Isaias’ government has failed profoundly. The promise of independence was squandered by imposing uniformity rather than cultivating pluralism. Instead of healing the fractures of the liberation era, the state deepened them—silencing dissent, erasing memory, and narrowing national identity to fit the contours of one faction’s worldview.
The generation born after independence is tragically more vulnerable to these maladies than the Gedli generation. Unlike those who lived the struggle and could decode propaganda through experience, the post-independence generation was raised on curated memory, authoritarian pedagogy, and hollow rhetoric ungrounded in justice. They inherited not resilience, but disillusionment.
Unless Eritrea confronts its political and historical legacy with honesty—acknowledging the violence of memory, dismantling divisive myths, and restoring dignity to all who fought and suffered—the cycle of fragmentation will persist. For Eritrea to move forward, it must confront its legacy with courage and clarity.
Isaias has never grasped the vital distinction between state formation and nation-building, and the past thirty-four years have laid bare his profound unfitness for the task. His political life has been governed by impulses of control, dominance, and suspicion—traits that have stifled every possibility of renewal. As the proverb reminds us, the leopard cannot change its spots; በዓል ኣመል ምስ መግነዝ—one bound by old habits goes to the grave wrapped in shroud.
This raises a crucial question: Why did Eritreans reject Ethiopia’s imperial propaganda yet some internalize the EPLF’s remake of history? The message remained the same—only the messenger changed. Proximity lent legitimacy; fratricidal propaganda succeeded where imperial propaganda failed. This paradox continues to shape Eritrea’s political psyche.
2 — The Architecture of Political Memory and Internal Propaganda
The EPLF’s mastery of internal narrative manipulation succeeded where Ethiopia’s propaganda failed. It was not imposed from outside but delivered as a “fraternal correction,” a moral indictment rather than a foreign intrusion. Internal propaganda became a mechanism for political persuasion, transforming rivalry into truth and rewriting history in a way that became inseparable from national identity.
The EPLF’s reshaping of the liberation story did not remain confined to the battlefield. Its psychological imprint followed Eritreans into exile, altering diaspora politics, personal relationships, and community identity far from home. The journey of propaganda from frontlines to diaspora communities underscores the depth and durability of this engineered memory.
3 — Anecdote From Exile: A Case Study in Narrative Power
This psychological imprint did not remain confined to Eritrea. It followed Eritreans into exile, resurfacing in diaspora communities far from home. One anecdote illustrates this dynamic with heartbreaking clarity.
In the early 1980s, several ELF veterans resettled in America through the Refugee Resettlement Program. Among them was a Muslim fighter. The local Eritrean community—largely Highlanders aligned with the EPLF—welcomed the newcomers with warm greetings and gestures of unity. Yet the atmosphere abruptly shifted when an EPLF supporter branded the ELF as ዓማ ሓራዲት—“Amma the killer.”
The Muslim ELF veteran, wearied by the familiar slander, responded quietly: እንታይ እሞ ካራና ምስ ጎደመት እንዶ ኮይኑ—“What can one say… this is what happens when our knife has grown dull.”
The remark carried dignity, sorrow, and a refusal to reignite old wounds. More than a personal exchange, it revealed the lingering power of sectarian narratives, the fragility of reconciliation, and the moral depth of those who chose restraint over bitterness.
4 — Justice vs. Power: The EPLF’s Strategy of Division
The difference between Ethiopia’s failed narrative and the EPLF’s successful one lies in motive. Ethiopia’s accusations aimed at imperial survival; the EPLF’s accusations aimed at internal hegemony. In environments without strong institutions, power is rarely governed by principle—it is governed by opportunity.
The EPLF recognized opportunity in Eritrea’s social cleavages and exploited them ruthlessly. A hallmark of its political culture was its elastic double standard:
- The ELF negotiating with the Derg was treason; the EPLF doing the same was strategy.
- ELF marriages were mocked as frivolous; EPLF marriages were celebrated as patriotic duty despite ELF allowing marriage first.
- ELF forced conscription was condemned; EPLF conscription became “national necessity.”
- The EPLF mocked the ELF’s claim that the field could not sustain multiple organizations, yet enforced that principle violently once in power.
- After independence, the PFDJ meeting the EPRDF was diplomacy; the opposition doing so was betrayal.
This selective morality was not accidental—it was a Machiavellian strategy to monopolize legitimacy and delegitimize rivals. It also justified the EPLF’s alliance with the TPLF to expel the ELF from Eritrea—a partnership that revealed the primacy of dominance over principle.
Ironically, when Yemen proposed an alliance to eliminate the EPLF, the ELF refused, insisting the rift was a “family matter” to be resolved through dialogue, not annihilation. In hindsight, that moral restraint may have sealed the ELF’s fate—but it also revealed its commitment to justice over expedience.
One might excuse—though not condone—the EPLF’s ruthlessness during the struggle had it transitioned toward democratic nation-building. But after thirty-four years of authoritarian failure, it is clear that its fixation on discipline, control, and conformity was never a temporary wartime adaptation—it was its essence.
Organizations mirror their founders, and nowhere is this truer than in the EPLF. Isaias embodies a narrow, corrosive vision of success, captured in the old adage: “It is not enough to succeed; others must fail.” In its modern iteration, as Larry Ellison bluntly put it, “Winning is not enough; all others must lose.”
Tragically, in the case of Eritrea, this ethos has meant that at least about half—if not more—of the nation’s population must lose. The promise of liberation was transmuted into a politics of exclusion, where survival and recognition are rationed, and where the state’s triumph is measured not by collective flourishing but by the systematic diminishment of its own people. What should have been a project of nation-building became instead a machinery of negation, ensuring that Eritrea’s greatest resource—its people—remain divided, diminished, and denied their rightful stake in the national story.
This analysis does not diminish the sacrifices of the beloved tegadelti—the freedom fighters—nor the successful fulfillment of their mission: Eritrea’s liberation. Rather, it exposes the roots of the authoritarianism now suffocating the nation. Tragically, the tegadelti themselves have become among the primary victims of Isaias’ totalitarian order. They were granted neither veterans’ benefits nor the enduring respect they once commanded; instead, a younger generation has come to associate them not with triumph, but with exile, servitude, and endless war.
5 — Identity as Instrument, Not Principle
The EPLF’s treatment of dissident groups such as Menkae and Yemin followed the same logic: ideological disagreements were reframed as regional “diseases.” Once identity became a diagnostic tool, repression could be justified as preservation.
Identity—religious, regional, or subnational—is not inherently divisive. It can unify or fragment depending on who wields it. The EPLF weaponized identity with precision, mobilizing mostly Christian highlanders as a broad bloc while exploiting fissures within that bloc to neutralize rivals. This is not to diminish the contributions of Muslims within the EPLF, particularly from Semhar and a few from other regions and ethnic groups. It is to underscore the organization’s strategic manipulation of identity to consolidate power.
This culture calcified after independence. The 1998 border war with the TPLF/EPRDF exposed a deeper pathology: a political order allergic to pluralism, addicted to dominance, and incapable of dialogue. Ambassador Adhanom Gebremariam recalled that as early as 1972, Isaias predicted Christian highlander dominance. This was not analysis—this was blueprint.
6 — Religion, Myth, and the Misinterpretation of Political Fractures
Eritrean political fractures are often reduced to religion, but this is reductive and misleading. If faith were truly the engine of division, the ELF would not have fought the ELM, the PLF factions would not have split so violently, and the EPLF would not have clashed with the TPLF. These conflicts were political and ideological, later reframed through sectarian language for strategic gain.
Isaias, like Haile Selassie before him, weaponized identity not to explain division but to exploit it. This tactic scarred Eritrea’s political imagination. To build a future worthy of its people, Eritreans must dismantle these engineered myths. Rallying behind religion, region, or ethnicity will serve none; it will prolong suffering and strengthen dictatorship. Justice, equality, democracy, and rule of law—not sectarian allegiance—must guide the nation forward.
Even today, those who have failed to learn from history continue to replicate the same maladies within the Eritrean opposition. They strike familiar chords of impatience, feign frustration at the supposed ineffectiveness of others, belittle compatriots who devoted their lives to the struggle for their country, and cling to an inflated confidence that they alone can deliver change. The faces and names may differ, yet the fractures remain unchanged—rooted in demographic cleavages, recycled rhetoric, and a language of exclusion that mirrors the very authoritarianism they claim to resist.
I too have wrestled with one or two of these maladies, but I strive to keep learning, to be a better man than I was yesterday. My hope is that many others are doing the same.
The tragic irony is that, though none has managed to become Isaias, far too many have unconsciously mirrored his methods: centralizing power, dismissing dissent, and mistaking domination for leadership—often comically, like cowboys without cattle. Yet the truth endures: loose unity is better than no unity, and even a fragile coalition is preferable to fragmentation. Any effort that gathers people together, however imperfect, deserves support and encouragement to grow stronger. In the long run, building upon modest gains is far better for the country than waiting endlessly for perfection.
The pursuit of unity is not a single event but an ongoing process, one that demands the continual celebration of every milestone, however small. Eritrea does not need another Isaias; the one we have should serve only as a cautionary tale—a stark reminder of how arrogance, intolerance, and the refusal to embrace pluralism can suffocate a nation’s future. True change will not come from replicating authoritarian impulses, but from dismantling them, and from cultivating a culture of humility, cooperation, and inclusivity that honors the full diversity of Eritrean voices.
7 — Competing Visions: Reform or Control?
The splits from the ELF harmed the liberation struggle immeasurably. The Rectification Movement and the creation of the secret Labor Party showed that ideological reform was underway. Why, then, did the PLF factions reject internal reform? Was pluralist evolution impossible—or was the true aim not reform but control?
Half a century later, the answer is unmistakable: the PLF/EPLF was never about reform—it was about dominance. This trajectory was not without precedent. The political fractures of the 1940s and 50s offer a telling clue: the Independent Muslim League of Massawa, under the leadership of Omer Gadi, representing the Central and Eastern provinces, broke away from the Eritrean Muslim League and aligned with the pro-union camp rather than resolving its differences within the independence bloc or the EML. That choice foreshadowed a recurring pattern in Eritrean politics—splintering, exclusion, and the pursuit of supremacy over consensus.
This ethos is captured in the proverb that smacks arrogance and conceit: ጣዕሚ ስራሕ ባዕልኻ ትገብሮ ጣዕሚ ዘረባ ባዕልኻ ትብሎ—“The best work is the work you do yourself; the best speech is the speech you give yourself.” No wonder that what began as a call to self-reliance hardened into a cult of action—ህዝባዊ ግምባር ብተግባር—that elevated conformity, obedience, and self-sacrifice above pluralism and dialogue. In this culture, dissent was not a resource but a threat, and collective struggle was reduced to uniformity under command.
True leadership empowers others to speak, think, and contribute. The EPLF rejected this principle. Isaias’ ambition surfaced early: when the Alla group chose the lesser-known Habteselassie after Abraham Tewelde’s martyrdom, Isaias was incensed. He demanded the mantle of leadership, invoking seniority as his claim. Habteselassie eventually yielded, and with that concession, the PLF—later EPLF—was indelibly cast in Isaias’ image. From that moment, the organization’s DNA was fixed: not reform, not inclusivity, but domination. The Semhar Group’s acceptance of Isaias as chairman of the secret party—the ultimate power behind every PLF/EPLF decision—cemented his founding role.
Memhr Woldemichael warned of this danger as early as the Adobha conference and later reiterated it in private reflections long after the seeds of authoritarianism had taken root.
8 — The ELF, Early Christian Participation, and the Sudanese Context
Christian ELF members who remained within the organization faced no internal discrimination, though reform—especially at the leadership level—was neither swift nor fully to their liking. Their service exposes the bankruptcy of the claim that the ELF was a Muslim-only movement. By the time the ELF was expelled from Eritrea by the EPLF-TPLF alliance, its rank and file had become majority Christian. This transformation directly threatened the EPLF narrative, which relied on caricaturing the ELF as narrow and sectarian.
Veteran fighters from both the ELF and EPLF attest that more Christians were liquidated by the EPLF than by the ELF. If religious persecution had truly been the motive, the EPLF—an openly Marxist organization—would have been the easier target for accusations of anti‑Christian sentiment. Yet the EPLF evaded this charge by monopolizing and controlling the narrative, presenting itself as the sole guardian of Eritrean liberation.
Whatever crimes are laid at the feet of either front, the evidence suggests they were driven less by religion than by the ruthless calculus of politics and power. The liquidation of rivals, whether Christian or Muslim, was part of a broader strategy to consolidate authority and eliminate competing centers of loyalty. In this sense, sectarian accusations functioned more as propaganda than as genuine ideological animus.
Even today, most reports indicate that more Christians are imprisoned for their faith than Muslims—particularly adherents of evangelical and charismatic churches. Yet the regime’s hostility appears less theological than political. These communities, with their decentralized networks, grassroots organizing, and emphasis on individual empowerment, represent precisely the kind of autonomous civic energy the state fears most. Their capacity to mobilize followers outside state control poses a direct challenge to authoritarian monopoly.
The pattern is clear: repression in Eritrea has never been primarily about belief, but about power. Religion becomes suspect only when it nurtures independent organization, voluntary association, and alternative sources of legitimacy. In this way, the persecution of Christians today mirrors the EPLF’s earlier suppression of rivals—an unbroken thread of authoritarian logic that cloaks political insecurity in the language of ideological or sectarian struggle.
Christian recruits did encounter real obstacles in the ELF’s early years. The culture shock was profound, and integrating differences proved a formidable challenge. Many of the early fighters had served in the Sudanese military, itself shaped by Arabization policies and campaigns that suppressed Christianity, particularly in South Sudan. Under Ibrahim Abboud’s Sudan (1958–1964), Christian Eritreans seeking to join the ELF were often detained and handed over to Ethiopia. In a 1988 interview, Idris Galaydos recalled the harsh realities of Abboud’s rule: many Christian Eritreans who attempted to join the ELF were detained and delivered to Ethiopian authorities.
Abboud’s Arabization policies—enforced even in Sudan’s Christian-majority South—created an atmosphere inhospitable to Christian Eritrean activists. Arabic was promoted; Islamic schools were established in Juba, Wau, Yei, Maridi, Raga, and Kadok; and Christian religious gatherings outside churches were banned. In 1962, his government expelled all Christian missionaries from Southern Sudan.
These dynamics shaped aspects of the movement’s internal culture, but they did not define its ideology. Eritrean soldiers serving in Sudan under Abboud absorbed political and cultural cues that inevitably influenced ELF dynamics. Abboud’s regime, ruling from 1958 to 1964, coincided with the rise of Eritrean nationalism among soldiers in the Sudanese army. Many were deployed to South Sudan, where rebellion against Arabization and Islamization was at its height.
In addition, many ELF founders were influenced by the United Arab Republic (UAR), the short-lived union of Egypt and Syria formed in 1958. This political experiment, driven by Gamal Abdel Nasser’s pan-Arab nationalism, Arab socialism, and anti-imperialism, left a lasting mark on Eritrean activists. While the ELF drew inspiration from Nasser’s anti-colonial vision, its leaders sought to adapt those ideas to Eritrea’s unique social fabric—resisting the temptation to impose a singular religious or ethnic identity on the liberation struggle.
Despite the early barriers, Christian participation was both significant and indispensable. Leaders such as Sereqe Bahta, Woldai Kahasai, Seyoum Ogabamichael, Woldedawit Temesgen, Gebrihiwet Himberti, Tedla Bairu, Heruie T. Bairu, Dr. Eyob, Melake Tekle, and others played central roles. Their contributions dismantle the myth of the ELF as parochial or exclusionary.
Equally important, the ELF’s early outreach in Tigrinya—led by figures like Mulu, Bahlibi, and Mohammed Berhan Blata—underscored the movement’s national vision, affirming its commitment to inclusivity and broad-based struggle.
The arrival of former Sudanese soldiers introduced parochial attitudes that unsettled early civilian nationalists such as Aboy Ykealo. Personal testimonies sharpen this history. In Houston in the early 2000s, I spoke with the late Mr. Ykealo Tukabo, a Police Customs officer who had known Hamid Idris Awate personally. He remembered Awate as the embodiment of courage—a leader who could inspire, instruct, and unify.
Yet the ELF’s internal culture did shift when former Sudanese soldiers joined the Eritrean Liberation Army (ELA). Their assertive and parochial attitudes unsettled some of the early collaborators—including Aboy Ykealo—who eventually withdrew. This “Sudanese dimension” shaped aspects of the operational culture, but it did not define the organization.
The founders of the ELF—Idris Mohammed Adem, Osman Saleh Sabbe, and Idris Osman Galaydos—were educated nationalists shaped by anti-imperial thought rather than sectarian agendas. Their vision was of a pluralistic Eritrea, rooted in democratic governance and territorial integrity.
Conclusion: Repairing a Nation Begins With Repairing Its Narrative
The liberation struggle produced both heroism and damaging narratives crafted not for unity but for dominance. Ethiopia’s propaganda failed because its motives were transparent. The EPLF’s propaganda succeeded because it was cloaked in nationalist language and delivered from within.
Eritrea’s crisis is not merely political—it is narrative. A nation cannot heal while clinging to myths designed to secure control. Reclaiming Eritrea’s future requires reclaiming its memory: restoring the truth of the ELF, PLF’s Sabbe group, the Falul, the liquidations of the Menkae and Yemin, and acknowledging that Eritrea’s early fractures were political rather than religious, and rejecting the manipulation of identity for authoritarian ends.
Eritrea is a diverse nation, and its differences will endure. The task is not to erase them, but to transform them into engines of democratic citizenship. Strengthening civil society, fostering urbanization and integration, and building voluntary associations across identities offer the surest path toward a new civic culture—one rooted in shared aspirations rather than inherited fractures. To achieve this, associations such as the National Confederation of Eritrean Workers, the National Union of Eritrean Women (NUEW), and the National Union of Eritrean Youth and Students (NUEYS) must either be dismantled or reconstituted as voluntary, independent bodies free from government affiliation.
Only recently has Asmera reportedly surpassed one million inhabitants, and with that milestone it is beginning to look and feel like a true city. Urban life fosters voluntary associations, civic imagination, and the habits of citizenship; it is in cities—and in the networks of towns, villages, and hamlets that surround them—that civilization takes root and flourishes. Eritrea’s future depends on nurturing these spaces, where a new national narrative grounded in truth and pluralism can finally emerge.
Asmera’s growth is not merely demographic; it signals the possibility of a civic culture that transcends inherited fractures. Cities concentrate diversity, compel interaction across identities, and generate the institutions—schools, unions, cultural centers, and voluntary associations—that make democratic life possible. In Eritrea, where authoritarianism has long sought to silence dissent and homogenize identity, the vitality of urban spaces offers a counterpoint: a chance to cultivate pluralism, empower communities, and restore dignity to public life.
If Eritrea is to reclaim its future, Asmera and other urban centers must become laboratories of civic renewal—places where voluntary associations thrive independently of the state, where cultural and linguistic diversity is embraced rather than suppressed, and where citizens can imagine themselves not as subjects of power but as participants in a shared democratic project.
To contact the author: weriz@yahoo.com
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