Abiy’s Errand to Abu Dhabi
The entire Middle East region is going through a precarious situation. Neither the sea, the dry desert, nor the mountains provide safety. High-rise buildings are the least secure. Homes have windows but are dark inside. Every morning people usually rush to open the windows to air the rooms; soon they close them to ward off the heat of the scorching sun or the biting cold. Now most windows are reinforced by wooden panels—no one wants to be slashed by flying glass. The windows look ugly from the inside and outside, making the rooms resemble large coffins. Worse still, when it is a high-rise building, maybe even a luxury hotel that is no more comfortable but simply frightening—no one wants to die on the 10th or 15th floor with glass shards everywhere.
I lived through that situation in the First Gulf War in Kuwait
On August 1, 1990, I moved to a new company apartment. It was half furnished; I was expecting IKEA to bring the rest on August 2nd. I also had an appointment with telecommunications technicians who were supposed to connect my telephone line.
Usually I left for work at 7 a.m., but the technicians had arrived and were working on the wall connection. My toddler daughter followed me across the room. Suddenly a jet roared overhead. Don’t ask me how, but my toddler was so frightened she sprang from the floor into my chest. There were more jets. They kept thundering overhead and shaking the building—or at least that is how it felt. Nobody knew what was happening until the building guard came beating his chest in distress: “Sewwoha Ya Saleh, Al Iraqyeen sew’woha!” The Iraqis did it!
The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait had begun.
Iraqi forces had invaded Kuwait. Yassin, the building guard was extremely anxious because the Iran–Iraq War had only recently ended. Naturally, he feared he would be targeted as an Iranian enemy. I am not sure, but I think I tried to calm him, though I myself needed someone to calm me.
The technicians tried calling the center to activate the line—there was no answer. I walked outside and found the entire neighborhood wandering aimlessly in the street. It was war; the cracking of guns testified to it, and the jets were still roaring overhead until they suddenly stopped.
The invasion had begun a few hours earlier. Television was off, as was the radio station. I had to go to work and check on the army of drivers, salesmen, helpers, and others who worked under me. I lived close to the Fourth Ring Road, one of the busiest highways, about fifteen minutes from my office. The moment I passed the Hawalli neighborhood and turned toward Shuwaikh, it was chaos—tens of crash scenes with multiple cars blocking the road. People were running everywhere. Two army vehicles passed, then several more followed.
It took me over an hour to reach my office, where I met a developing mutiny. A dozen workers surrounded me:
“We want our pay.”
“I don’t pay you; the cashier deposits it into your account.”
“But the cashier is not here…”
It was an irrational demand.
Most of the salesmen and helpers were Egyptians who had come to Kuwait to work, leaving their families behind. They were distressed and held me responsible. Outside, more workers from other companies gathered as if my office were the headquarters of a labor union. I did my best to calm those who worked for me and asked the rest to return to leave.
Across the street stood a large warehouse whose main entrance was on the other side of the block. Someone peeked through a crack in the back door and saw dozens of brand-new BMW cars inside—I had never known it was the dealer’s warehouse.
Soon the Financial and store managers arrived, and we held a mini summit to calm the heated situation—but to no avail. Suddenly the crowd rushed the BMW warehouse; even people who could not drive took a car and disappeared into the streets. In half an hour, only a dusty floor remained where grease-smeared new cars had been parked.
As if choreographed, all the neighboring warehouses were broken into. Apparently looting had already begun across Kuwait.
Colleagues advised that we stock food because supplies would soon disappear. By then everyone realized they were on their own and dispersed. Along the roads, people were already standing behind sacks of flour, oil, sugar, and other goods. No one knew if they owned them or had looted them, but those were the only items available. I picked two gallons of oil and large sacks of flour and sugar and put them in my car.
When I returned through the road I had taken earlier, in just a few hours it looked like a devastated battle zone.
Why people suddenly became so rude took me time to understand.
That is what happens in war: people are caught unaware; the poor, the old, and the children suffer the most for what adults do.
Usually heads of state do not visit countries experiencing war unless they are on diplomatic missions—to mediate or initiate negotiations. I have not heard of such an initiative. Yet on Thursday, March 12, 2026, I saw Abiy Ahmed’s plane land at the Presidential Airport in Abu Dhabi, where he was received by officials of the United Arab Emirates.
It is a secure airport, which made it safe for him. Otherwise, what was so urgent that he had to meet Mohamed bin Zayed Al Nahyan in person when many who are his patrons—not clients—did not do so?
Abiy claims he cares for the people, but that’s empty; no leader says otherwise. At the same time, he is challenging Ethiopians: “You are either with me or against me!” But the only litmus test is what is happening to Ethiopians who are being immersed in deeper violence and confrontation.
From the Gulf War to the Gulf War
I gave the above introduction to illustrate that I have lived through instability and wars since childhood. I can confidently say that I am an expert in victimhood, like many of my generation.
In 1990 I was in the middle of the Gulf War when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, followed by Operation Desert Storm, commanded by Norman Schwarzkopf, to liberate the country.
Because of that experience, I can visualize the human and material tragedies unfolding in the current multi-layered conflicts around the Arabian Gulf. I feel deeply for the victims.
I am sure Abiy has had sleepless nights since the wars began. But Abiy is not a victim. I know he served as a radio operator during the Eritrea–Ethiopia border war of 1998–2000. Being a soldier in war is natural. But had he been a civilian then, perhaps he would not have gambled so recklessly since 2019.
Abiy went to the UAE because he is a client of MBZ, whose oversized ambitions have pushed millions into destitution—from Yemen to Sudan, Libya, and Somalia. He is part of the problem.
But to be clear: Abiy is a miniature toy compared to the seasoned dictators of the Horn of Africa, a region ruled by leaders accountable neither to their people nor to any other human—or supernatural—system. He is a newcomer to the club of calcified rulers. Yet instead of learning from their mistakes and injustices, he eagerly joined them.
Some leaders in the region cling to power for decades by exploiting the weakness of the governed. Others rule absolute dictatorships with no semblance of rule of law or fair justice. Abiy has learned the tricks; Ethiopia is now drifting between theocracy and autocracy. Stability is scarce. Goodwill is exhausted.
Abiy has long been a loyal instrument of MBZ. The UAE injected billions into the Ethiopian economy, much of which helped Abiy launch projects intended to make Addis Ababa resemble Abu Dhabi, he is obsessed with spectacle. For him, development means glittering corridors and grand avenues meant to impress visitors, while millions of Ethiopians struggle to survive.
For the destitute, he has provided only one opportunity—to die for their country in service of his ambitions.
The beneficiaries, regional warlords such as Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo the warlord of Darfur, need to be paid. But given the current crisis, the UAE might not be able to fulfill its timely obligations, or may change its policies.
Abiy’s confrontation with Eritrea over a port was not born of necessity. Ethiopia can use ports peacefully or negotiate alternatives. The sudden obsession with Assab was not simply strategic—it reflected a client obligation.
The UAE has a huge company called the Dubai Port Authority, which is structured like the colonial British East India Company. It has been shopping for ports to control in the Red Sea and Arabian Sea mostly by creating clients or twisting arms: its base near Assab was dismantled after about a year, a short time, and left. Its presence in Yemen was disrupted by Saudi Arabian bombardment.
Next, Abiy tried to secure sovereign Somali territory from North Somalia in parallel to his threat to occupy Assab. That threat almost ignited a serious confrontation, which was averted by pressures from vested regional and other countries—many believe Abiy’s maneuvers are to serve MBZ’s bidding. The threats against Assab have not totally stopped, but they are continuing in low pitches and insinuations.
Abiy jumped into a swamp, encouraged by forces beyond Ethiopia. Like many before him, he failed to see how deep the swamp is and has not fully pulled himself out in time. But he might already be trapped in it.
Awate Forum