Giants and Lilliputians: Power, Image, and Machiavellian Survival (Part V)
Giants and Lilliputians: Power, Image, and Machiavellian Survival
Beyond Emperor Haile Selassie and President Isaias AfwerkiThe centralizing dogma of empire, religion and revolutions
Eritrea and Ethiopia are lands where mosque and monastery, Qur’an and Psalter, have long breathed the same air. At their deepest currents, the histories of these nations are not tales of division, but of convergence—braided lineages, shared memory, and faiths entwined across generations. Yet imperial ambition sought to sever this inheritance, sanctifying a singular identity while casting pluralism as peril. Lij Iyasu’s gestures toward inclusivity—whether strategic or sincere—echoed an older truth that Haile Selassie later buried beneath the architecture of centralization.
The liberation fronts that followed inherited this architecture, cloaking it in the fervor of revolutionary promise. Democratic centralism, once hailed as a corrective to imperial domination, became a new vessel for the same old hierarchy—where the rhetoric of equality masked the consolidation of power. The domination of one group over others did not end; it merely changed its uniform. What was proclaimed as transformation proved, in practice, to be continuity by another name.
To envision a just Eritrea today is to exhume that buried pluralist legacy and reject the inherited fear that difference is danger. This is not a dismissal of the hard-won gains in either country, but a call to reckon with the historical, cultural, and religious forces that have long worked against heterogeneity. Justice demands more than stability—it requires the restoration of memory, the embrace of multiplicity, and the courage to imagine a civic future rooted not in uniformity, but in shared dignity.
Cultural Plurality vs. Political Control
Consider Emperor Zara Yacob, an absolute tyrant and yet one of Abyssinia’s most enlightened monarchs, who had five wives—each accorded queenly status. His reign, marked by theological inquiry and moral reform, defied simplistic readings of Christian orthodoxy. Likewise, Ras Alula, the revered military strategist and statesman, was known to wear garments resembling Arab dress. In one famous photograph, he evokes a darker, more formidable version of Lawrence of Arabia—an image that speaks to the fluidity of cultural symbols in the region.
Against this backdrop, Lij Iyasu’s sartorial choices, having multiple wives, and familial gestures—such as honoring his Muslim lineage—were not necessarily signs of apostasy, but expressions of cultural plurality. After all, he was the first imperial descendant of a Muslim forcibly converted to Christianity under Emperor Yohannes IV. Was it inconceivable for him to show empathy toward his kin by adopting some of their customs? Imitation, as the saying goes, is the sincerest form of flattery. In a region shaped by centuries of interfaith coexistence and conflict, Iyasu’s gestures may have reflected not religious defiance, but a deeper political instinct: to unify, not divide.
To understand why Iyasu’s pluralist gestures were intelligible rather than transgressive, we must recall the long interwoven history of Islam and Christianity in the region.
The Convergence of Faiths in Eritrea and Ethiopia
Eritrea may hold the distinction of being one of the earliest lands outside Mecca to receive the Companions of the Prophet—those who fled persecution and found refuge across the Red Sea. Yet it was in southern Ethiopia that Islam truly flourished. Cities like Harar became radiant centers of Islamic scholarship, jurisprudence, and spiritual authority, shaping the religious and cultural landscape of the Horn for centuries.
The parallel with Christian monasticism is striking. While the monastic tradition have germinated in Eritrea—its earliest seeds sown in the mountainous regions of the Highlands, Debre Sina—it was in Ethiopia, particularly in Tigray, that it matured into a vast spiritual architecture. The monasteries of Tigray became citadels of asceticism, manuscript preservation, and theological inquiry, drawing pilgrims and scholars from across the region.
It is for this reason that our cousins across the Mereb—the Tigrayans—who understood the primacy of honor in visiting the firstborn monastery, made the journey to Debre Sina. But they were met with a quiet astonishment: the people of Hamasien, heirs to that sacred ground, did not visit it as one might expect. From this dissonance emerged a poignant saying, half lament, half rebuke:
ከም ደብረ ሲና ንሓማሴን ሪሒቓቶም ዘላ ዶ ትርሓቕካ—“May it become to you as distant as Debre Sina has become to the people of Hamasien.”
This phrase, steeped in historical irony, reveals a deeper truth: proximity to origin does not ensure reverence, and spiritual inheritance can be forsaken even by those who live nearest its source. Christianity’s expansion owes more to Antioch, Alexandria, Constantinople, and Rome than to Jerusalem. Likewise, Islam’s flourishing has been shaped more profoundly by Damascus, Baghdad, Cairo, and Cordoba than by Mecca and Medina.
This shared religious legacy was never confined to doctrine alone—it was woven into families, kinship lines, and the intimate memory of place.
The Interwoven Religious Heritage of Eritrea and Ethiopia
Eritrea was undeniably first in line to receive both Christianity and Islam—its shores among the earliest to welcome the Companions of the Prophet, its highlands, its Hamasien-Saqla, its Bahri and Metahit among the first to cradle monastic life. Yet the story of Eritrea and Ethiopia—of Islam and monasticism, of refuge and renaissance—is not merely a matter of geography. It is a meditation on memory: on how sacred traditions are planted, how they flourish or falter, and how they are reclaimed across generations.
In the layered tapestry of Eritrean history, Ismael Ibrahim Mukhtar shines as a luminous thread—son of Eritrea’s first Mufti and heir to one of its most revered religious and intellectual legacies. Like father, like son: Ismael remains one of the most authentic and morally grounded voices championing Eritrea’s interfaith harmony. He carries Asmara in his heart—not as nostalgia, but as inheritance. He carries Eritrea in his soul because that is what he absorbed at home: the principled care of his parents and the quiet love that defined the Asmara of his childhood.
The recent passing of Fatima Ibrahim Mukhtar—“the Darling of Asmara,” a modern embodiment of Eritrean womanhood, known as “the horse rider” (በዓልቲ ፈረስ) and “the bicyclist” (በዓልቲ ቢሽከለታ)—deepens this legacy. That she, too, was the daughter of Eritrea’s Mufti tells you everything you need to know about the moral and cultural richness of this land.
This is the heritage we must preserve, cherish, and promote: a legacy of dignity, pluralism, and quiet strength.
In Milestones in the History of Islam in Eritrea, Ismael offers more than scholarship—he offers testimony. He reveals that his towering Muslim lineage is braided with a proud Christian priestly heritage, tracing its roots to Qeshi Abraham. This ancestral convergence is no anomaly; it is emblematic of the spiritual interweaving that shaped Eritrea’s soul—a land where faiths did not merely coexist, but co-created a shared moral horizon.
I, too, stand within that braided inheritance.
Though I authored Reflections on the History of the Abyssinian Orthodox Tewahdo Church—a work rooted in the Tewahdo Christian tradition and historical critique—I also carry within me a Muslim heritage. My ancestor is Menasse Humed of Hirgigo, a name that evokes the coastal legacy of faith, trade, and resilience. His memory, like that of Qeshi Abraham, reminds us that Eritrea’s religious identity is not a tale of rupture, but of convergence.
When my two younger brothers, raised in the diaspora, journeyed back to Eritrea, they made sure to visit the three places we hail from: Deqeteshim in Hamasien, Seharti in Hamasien, and Hirgigo in Semhar. They were warmly received in the highland villages—our kin still rooted in the soil. But Hirgigo left them disheartened. It had become another highland town in name and feel. There was no trace of the Belew or Naib. It was as if the coastal soul had been erased from the map of Eritrea.
I remember meeting ami Adem, an Eritrean businessman in Dubai and a distant relative from Hirgigo. He told me many of our people had settled in Saudi Arabia, and if I ever made it there, he’d gladly introduce me to them. Over the years, my mother would regale my sibling and I with stories of our distant Muslim relatives—some of them merchants and businessmen in Asmara—who would visit our home and rekindle old familial bonds. Their presence was more than a social courtesy; it was a quiet reaffirmation of shared lineage, memory, and the interwoven heritage that shaped our family’s place in Eritrea’s pluralist mosaic.
One of my favorite stories from my father’s life took place during a business exchange in Asmara. He was working with a Muslim businessman who, after inviting him to lunch, noticed something unusual as my father washed his hands. The man suddenly grasped his palm, studied it intently, and said with quiet conviction, “Son, where are you from? The lines on your hand say you’re family.”
Startled but intrigued, my father named his village. Without hesitation, the man asked if he knew a certain priest—who, as it turned out, was my father’s second uncle. That moment wasn’t just uncanny; it was a revelation. It spoke to a deeper truth: that lineage, memory, and spiritual vocation were inscribed not only in blood, but in gesture, tradition, and even the lines of a hand.
In our family, there was a long-standing tradition: the first-born son was expected to become a priest. My late brother was meant to carry that mantle. But with the intensification of the war of liberation in the mid-1970s, we could no longer live in our own home—let alone uphold ancestral customs. The war disrupted many things, but it could not erase the quiet dignity of that tradition, nor the deep interfaith kinship that moment in Asmara revealed.
In the late ’70s, as a child, my father told me that the people of Aleit in Barka were of our lineage. That, too, is part of the mosaic.
This is the Eritrea I know. This is the Eritrea I love. And this is the one worth fighting for.
This convergence—between mosque and monastery, between scripture and scroll—is not merely historical. It is personal. It is the inheritance of those of us who walk with both the Qur’an and the Psalter in our blood, who know that the sacred is not always divided by doctrine, but often braided through kinship, geography, and memory.
Yet alongside this inheritance of convergence, another legacy was passed down—one of suspicion, hierarchy, and inherited fear.
The Burden of Historical Prejudices
The seed may fall first on one soil, but it is the care, the cultivation, and the continuity that determine whether it becomes a grove or a ghost. Eritrea’s early encounters with divine traditions are etched in the annals of faith—but it was across the Mereb, in the Ethiopian interior, that these traditions were most fully institutionalized, monumentalized, and sustained.
Eritrea’s early encounters with sacred traditions are beyond dispute. But it was Ethiopia that nurtured those encounters into enduring civilizations—where Islam found citadels of learning in Harar, and monasticism rose to architectural and spiritual heights in the rock-hewn sanctuaries of Tigray and Gonder. The seed may have landed first in Eritrea, but it was across the Mereb that it was most fully cultivated.
Iyasu’s Gestures and the Legacy of Pluralism
Iyasu’s gestures, then, were not anomalous. They were part of a long and complex history in which Ethiopian rulers, Muslim communities, and imperial politics intersected in ways that defy simplistic binaries. His refusal to demonize Islam was not a rejection of Christianity, but could easily be a recognition of Ethiopia’s pluralist inheritance—an inheritance that imperial orthodoxy had long sought to suppress in favor of a singular, sanctified identity. The father of Haile Selassie, Ras Makonnen, was the governor of Harar and it was in the town of Ejersa Goro that the future Emperor was born.
True diversity in Abyssinia—and by extension, in Bahre Negash—has long been cast as a threat to both Crown and Cross. For all its imperial grandeur, Abyssinia has labored under a siege mentality: the enduring conviction that it is a Christian island surrounded by a hostile Muslim sea. This worldview treats homogeneity not merely as tradition, but as a bulwark against existential erosion. Pluralism, in this frame, is not a source of resilience but a portal to vulnerability.
Tragically, it is Ethiopia’s most educated and elite circles that suffer most acutely from this inherited siege psychology. At its core lies the Tewahdo Orthodox Church—not as a spiritual refuge, but as a cultural fortress. In contrast, Eritrean elites are less encumbered by this mindset, largely because many stand at a theological remove: either as Muslims or as converts to other Christian denominations. This distance, whether doctrinal or experiential, has spared them the full weight of Abyssinia’s defensive imagination.
As more Eritrean Tewahdos reclaim their place in civic and intellectual life, a quiet reckoning begins. The question now is whether this resurgence will continue to shed the siege mentality that has long shaped Tewahdo identity—a worldview forged in isolation, sustained by fear, and reinforced through inherited biases. Historically, this posture served as a survival mechanism: a theological and cultural armor against perceived encirclement. But in today’s Eritrea—where pluralism is not merely tolerated but lived—the challenge is to embrace a more expansive vision of belonging.
This reckoning is not without its tensions. The recent reemergence of ethno-religious currents such as Tigray-Tigrini and Agazanism, though peripheral, reflect residues of that insular heritage. If left unchecked, they risk undermining the pluralist ethos by re-inscribing identity as exclusion. At the opposite pole, Islamic Jihadist and federalist movements—including the Lowland League—seek to institutionalize difference, often in ways that mirror the very centralizing impulses they oppose.
The path forward demands vigilance and imagination: a civic culture that honors distinct traditions without weaponizing them, and a political discourse that resists both homogenizing fear and fragmenting zeal. Eritrea’s pluralism is not a threat to be managed—it is a legacy to be deepened.
This moment offers both risk and promise. The risk lies in reverting to inherited defensiveness, mistaking doctrinal purity for civic authority. The promise lies in reimagining Tewahdo identity not as a fortress, but as a wellspring: rooted in tradition, yet open to dialogue, diversity, and shared dignity. Whether this transformation takes hold will shape not only the future of Eritrean Christianity, but the moral architecture of the nation itself.
Such anxieties have etched deep cultural scars.
In Highland Eritrea, following the restoration of the so-called anointed kings after the Zemene Mesafinti—the Era of Princes—Islamophobia seeped so thoroughly into the social fabric that certain proverbs, recited with the solemnity of ancestral wisdom, came to normalize exclusion. The persecution and forced conversion of Muslims under Emperor Yohannes left an indelible mark—not only on Muslim communities, but also on the Christian conscience of Eritrea.
It must also be acknowledged that Yohannes imposed his own version of Tewahdo Orthodoxy upon Eritrean Christians with such force that many referred to it as Kara Haymanot—a faith of the knife. I won’t go too deep into theology here, but the Kara Haymanot tradition was deeply concerned with doctrinal clarity. They feared that people were conflating unction with sonship, and so they taught: በተዋህዶ ወልደ ዋህድ—Christ is the only Son by Union. In their view, Christ alone is both the ointment and the anointer.
It was also during this turbulent period that Catholicism, fleeing persecution in Tigray, found refuge in Eritrea. Contrary to popular belief, the roots of Catholicism in Eritrea predate Italian colonization. Its arrival was not a colonial imposition but a theological migration—another thread in the complex tapestry of Eritrea’s spiritual history.
These intertwined histories later intersected with shifting political structures, missionary education, and colonial influence, reshaping leadership and representation.
Let me be clear: I am not drawing a false or unjust equivalency between the suffering endured by Muslims and the hardships faced by Christians. That would be both inaccurate and morally wrong. My aim is to illuminate the complexity of what transpired—and to recover the vital nuances we lose when we reach for easy answers or pluck the lowest-hanging fruit of historical judgment.
There is no question that Emperor Yohannes possessed a crusading spirit. His reign bore the marks of religious imposition and zeal. Yet, especially in its early years, it also revealed moments of tolerance and pragmatic alliance. One striking example is his close friendship with Haj Abubaker, a Muslim leader who not only served as a confidant but played a pivotal role in helping Yohannes establish Mekele as his capital. That effort was supported by Haj Abubaker and a dozen Muslim families—an episode that complicates the narrative of absolute exclusion and reminds us that history often moves through contradiction.
Sayings like “ኣስላማይ እንተነገሰስ ኣይምፈረደን ምሓረደ” (“If a Muslim becomes king, he will not dispense justice, but slaughter people”) and “ሰማይ ዓንዲ የብሉ፣ ኣስላማይ ዓዲ የብሉ” (“Heaven has no pillar, just as a Muslim has no home-village”) do not reflect insight—they echo inherited prejudice. These are not cultural truths to be preserved, but distortions to be unlearned.
And yet, the same cultural landscape that harbors prejudice also offers proverbs that affirm coexistence and mutual value. Consider the saying: “ስኒ ዘይብሉ መንጋጋ፣ ስጋ ዘይብሉ ኣፋስጋ፣ ኣስላማይ ዘይብሉ ዕዳጋ፣ ሓደ”—“Gums without teeth, Easter without meat, a market without a Muslim—are all the same.” Rich in metaphor, this proverb affirms the indispensable role of Muslims in the social and economic life of the nation. It reminds us that exclusion is not destiny, and that cultural wisdom can be reclaimed to heal rather than divide.
History, too, offers its own quiet rebuttals to sectarian narratives. Ras Alula, one of the most formidable military strategists of the 19th century, appointed Aboy Berhanu—a Muslim—as his first Negede Ras, Minister of Trade and Commerce. It was a recognition not only of competence, but of trust across religious lines. Likewise, many of the emissaries and commercial envoys of the Gonderine Kingdom were Muslims, serving as bridges between highland courts and coastal markets long before they were displaced by European missionaries, adventurers, scholars, scientists, and intelligence operatives.
Ras Alula did not support Emperor Yohannes’ policy of expelling Muslims from Tigray. When many of those displaced Muslims arrived in Eritrea, Ras Alula brokered a Tripartite Agreement with Naib Hamid of Hirgigo and Degezmat Hailu of Tseazega. Under this arrangement, Hamid was tasked with supplying arms and facilitating commerce, while Hailu was entrusted with protecting the Muslim refugees encamped in Adi Teklai and Godaief. In recognition of his protection, the Muslim community began referring to Hailu with reverence as Aslam Degezmati—the Muslim Degezmat.
To further complicate the narrative, it’s worth noting that the Muslims of Barka fought alongside Ras Alula against the Mahdist forces of Sudan, led by Osman Digna, in the Battle of Kufit on September 22–23, 1885. The majority of Eritrean Muslims belonged to the Khatimiya Sufi Order, which was staunchly opposed to the Mahdist movement. However, there were exceptions: small pockets of support for the Mahdiya existed among the Habab of Sahel and the Ad Sheikh holy family and their followers in Sahel and Semhar.
These historical facts remind us that pluralism is not a modern invention—it is a buried inheritance. Our task is not to fabricate harmony, but to recover it. To remember that Eritrea’s strength has always come from its ability to braid difference into dignity, and to resist the forces—foreign and domestic—that seek to unravel that bond.
Another saying, more intimate in tone, captures the legacy of religious transformation: “ከይ መስለምካ ዓንዱ ምስ መስለምካ ዓብዱ፣ ስም ኣባሕጎ ደኣ ኣበይ ከይዶ”—“Before you became a Muslim, you were called Andu; now you are Abdu. What happened to your grandfather’s name?” This proverb reflects the custom surrounding voluntary conversion to Islam, where the individual might adopt a new name and, in some cases, alter their father’s name—but rarely their grandfather’s. The ancestral name served as a tether to pre-conversion identity, a quiet acknowledgment of continuity amid change.
This is why many Eritrean Muslims—especially those from the Hamasien-Saqla regions—will tell you that beyond the fourth or fifth ancestor, their lineage is unmistakably Christian. It’s not merely a genealogical detail; it’s a testament to the fluidity of religious identity in Eritrea and the layered nature of belonging, where faith, family, and memory are braided together across generations.
While I was writing this, a friend from the Maria called me. I remembered one time that, in passing, he mentioned that his fifth ancestor was a Christian named Tedros. Another friend, from the Mensae, shared that his grandfather was a Tewahdo Christian. Both Maria and Mensae hail from the region historically known as Hamasien-Saqla—a place where ancestral memory defies rigid boundaries and reminds us that Eritrea’s spiritual landscape is one of convergence, not division.
The task before us is not to romanticize tradition, but to interrogate it—to sift the wisdom from the wound, and to build a civic culture where dignity is not conditional and belonging is not contested.
The Path Toward True Liberation
These are precisely the kinds of biases we must confront—fearlessly and collectively—and purge from our moral imagination. This is not to deny the progress forged through shared sacrifice and struggle, but to underscore how much remains unfinished. If we are to be worthy of the dream of a just, peaceful, prosperous, and democratic Eritrea, then equality among citizens must cease to be a slogan and become a lived reality.
Pluralism is not a threat to justice—it is its foundation. The fear of religious difference, when left unexamined, becomes a tool of division and domination. To build a future worthy of Eritrea’s pluralist heritage, we must interrogate these inherited fears, not enshrine them. The struggle for liberation must include the liberation of memory—from the distortions that pit neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother, and from the myths that confuse uniformity with unity.
The Complexity of Interfaith Coexistence in Eritrea
In Eritrea, there remains a persistent tendency to romanticize Christian-Muslim coexistence. The narrative of shared struggle and mutual respect carries genuine weight—but the portrait is far less pristine than we often imagine. Beneath the surface of interfaith solidarity lies a more intricate history, shaped by suspicion, hierarchy, and inherited bias.
Aboy Berhanu and the Colonial Influence
Consider the revealing words of Aboy Berhanu, Negede Ras (Minister of Commerce and Trade) to Ras Alula and namesake of a neighborhood in Asmara. In an 1896 interview with an Italian newspaper, he remarked, “ሳላ ጥልያን ብርሃን ርኢና”—“Because of the Italians, we are finally able to see the full light.” (I’m paraphrasing it but I am sure if it is not exact, it is pretty close. My home library is undergoing work and don’t have access to my books.) He was speaking about Muslim Eritreans. Italy, after all, had positioned itself as a patron of Islam in Africa, championing its cause to undermine Abyssinian Tewahdo orthodoxy.
Aboy Berhanu’s comment was more than a political aside—it was a moment of reckoning, suggesting that colonial intrusion had exposed truths long obscured by imperial dogma.
These attitudes later became entangled with colonial and missionary intervention, reshaping religious identity and political representation.
Divisions and the Struggle for National Unity
Indeed, Italy’s pro-Islamic and anti-Tewahdo policies—amplified by European missionary proselytization—profoundly undermined the once-dominant status of the Tewahdo community. By the 1940s and 1950s, and even throughout the liberation struggle, Tewahdos were conspicuously absent from leadership roles proportionate to their demographic presence. The two Chief Executives of the Eritrean government were a Protestant (Tedla Bairo) and a Catholic (Asfeha Woldemichael), while both presidents of parliament between 1952 and 1957 were Muslims. After the forced resignation of Idris Mohammed Adem, an emblematic figure of early nationalist resistance, a Tewahdo priest, Keshi Dimetros G/Mariam of an Amhara decent, widely regarded as a pliant agent of Ethiopian interests—assumed leadership. In collusion with Asfeha Woldemichael, he delivered the final blow to Eritrea’s federal status, sealing its political subjugation.
At the First National Congress of the Eritrean Liberation Front (ELF), Idris Mohammed Ali—a Muslim—was elected president, with Herui T. Bairu, a Protestant, serving as vice-president. By the time of the Second National Congress in 1975, the ELF’s executive leadership reflected a similar pattern: six of the nine members were Muslims, one was Catholic, and only two were adherents of the Tewahdo faith.
A comparable distribution emerged in the 1977 First Organizational Congress of the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF). Of the thirteen executive members, six were Muslims, one was Protestant, two were Catholics, and only four were Tewahdo. Yet despite this leadership composition, the rank and file of both liberation movements remained overwhelmingly Tewahdo—underscoring a persistent disjunction between grassroots demographics and elite representation.
This contrast was even more pronounced under Haile Selassie’s imperial administration. Of the ten Eritreans who held ministerial or cabinet positions during his reign, only one was Muslim and one Tewahdo. The remaining eight were evenly divided between Protestants and Catholics—revealing a pattern of elevation that consistently bypassed the majority faith. This is not necessarily an indictment of favoritism, but rather a reflection of how colonial legacies and missionary education reshaped the social architecture of Eritrean life.
When accusations of nepotism and regional favoritism were leveled against Chief Executive Tedla Bairu—who had appointed a disproportionate number of Protestants, many from Hamasien, to director-level posts—the great Mohammed Omar Akito rose in his defense. Akito argued that the appointments were not sectarian, but meritocratic: the prerequisites for these positions were education and administrative skill, and Protestants, by virtue of their missionary schooling, held a comparative advantage. In this light, Haile Selassie’s preference for Eritrean Catholics and Protestants in cabinet roles was less a matter of religious bias than a pragmatic selection from the pool of those most qualified.
Still, the implications are profound. The very institutions that once marginalized Eritreans became the gatekeepers of advancement, and the faith traditions most aligned with colonial pedagogy found themselves disproportionately represented in the corridors of power. What began as a survival strategy under foreign rule evolved into a quiet recalibration of influence—one that continues to shape Eritrea’s political and cultural memory.
This tension between pluralist inheritance and exclusive identity continues to define Eritrea’s civic life today.
This paradox—of numerical dominance and political marginality—exposes the deeper tensions that coexistence narratives often conceal. It challenges us to move beyond romanticized accounts and reckon with the layered realities of Eritrea’s interfaith history: a history shaped not only by moments of solidarity, but also by exclusion, recalibration, and the enduring shadow of imperial realignment. Prior to Eritrea’s independence, Catholics and Protestants were prohibited from building churches in most highland villages. Such religious accommodation and tolerance were never the product of grassroots consensus; they were imposed from above—by successive regimes, foreign and domestic—for over a century.
And any top-down imposition—however well-intentioned—is likely to falter over time if it lacks popular legitimacy. If Eritrea is to move beyond inherited fault lines and build a durable civic compact, it must allow all its people—not just its rulers—to participate in shaping the nation they wish to inhabit and bequeath to their descendants.
Some Eritrean Muslims argue that Arabic was enshrined in the 1952 Constitution and that neither Isaias, the EPLF, nor the current government has the legal or moral authority to alter that foundational status. On its legal face, this is a compelling argument—rooted in precedent and principle. Many have voiced deep frustration with the deafening silence of their Christian compatriots, who, in their view, have failed to speak out against what amounts to a flagrant and egregious violation of a national covenant.
Yet this grievance does not resonate widely among Eritrean Christians, largely because the original designation of Arabic and Tigrinya as official languages was not the product of grassroots negotiation. It was a top-down decision, shaped by geopolitical pressures and elite consensus rather than broad civic participation. In this sense, the argument echoes a familiar refrain: the reluctance of some Eritreans to embrace the ratified 1997 Constitution, citing their exclusion from its drafting and deliberation.
To be clear, this is not a perfect comparison. The elevation of Arabic and Tigrinya in 1952 occurred without public consultation or participatory mechanisms. By contrast, the 1997 Constitution—despite its exclusion of opposition parties and its anchoring in the PFDJ’s political monopoly—did allow for widespread public engagement. Eritreans inside and outside the country were invited to comment, critique, and contribute. While imperfect, it bore the imprint of civic involvement in ways the 1952 language designation did not.
Legitimacy cannot be decreed; it must be earned. It must flow from inclusive dialogue, shared sacrifice, and mutual recognition. It must reflect the voices of all stakeholders—not just the ruling elite, but the farmers of Gash-Barka, the merchants of Massawa, the elders of Sahel, the youth of Asmara, the legal experts of Adkeme Mlga’e, and the exiles who still dream of return. Only then can Eritrea become not just a sovereign state, but a moral republic.
There are voices within the Eritrean diaspora who treat the language question as a make-or-break issue—an immovable pillar upon which national legitimacy must stand or fall. But ironically, it is precisely because the issue is so foundational, so deeply tied to identity and belonging, that it cannot be resolved through absolutist posturing. Its weight demands not rigidity, but deliberation.
If language is indeed a matter of national covenant, then it must be addressed through a democratic and legal process that honors the consent of the governed. That means full participation from all stakeholders—across regions, faiths, and generations—and resolution through mechanisms such as a referendum. Anything less risks replacing one imposed settlement with another, and turning a symbol of unity into a source of fracture.
If Eritrea is to honor its own history, it must not merely remember pluralism—but actively sustain it.
Aboy Berhanu’s comment was startling—not merely for its political candor, but for the deeper discomfort it exposed: imperial Abyssinia’s and the Tewahdo community’s unease with religious plurality. His words suggested that colonial intrusion, however self-serving, had inadvertently illuminated truths long buried beneath imperial and religious dogma. This was not merely a moment of political realignment. It was a rupture in the façade of unity—a glimpse into the fractures that polite nationalism had long concealed.
Coexistence, when unexamined, can become a mask. It can obscure the tensions it claims to resolve, and silence the voices it pretends to include. Berhanu’s remark pierced that silence. It reminded us that unity without introspection is brittle, and that pluralism without reckoning is performative.
We must let enlightenment enlighten us—not as a slogan, but as a discipline. That is where our redemption lies. That is where our salvation lies. That is where the promise of a more honest future begins.
Haile Selassie’s Weaponization of Religion
In such a climate, Lij Iyasu’s inclusive posture—his refusal to demonize the faith of his ancestors—was interpreted not as magnanimity, but as betrayal. His gestures, however, were not anomalies. They were rooted in a long tradition of cultural interweaving, one that imperial ideology sought to suppress in favor of a singular, sanctified identity. Iyasu’s vision, though politically risky, gestured toward a more pluralist Ethiopia—one that acknowledged its Islamic heritage not as a threat, but as part of its historical fabric.
But identity has never been static. It is always in motion—shaped by memory, migration, conquest, comingling, and moral imagination. I often wonder how much those of us who take pride in our Axumite inheritance truly share with that ancient civilization—just as one might ask how much modern Italians resemble imperial Rome. The symbols endure, but the substance evolves.
Present-day Eritrea, following the decline of the Axumite Empire in the 9th century, emerged as a crossroads of civilizations. Its highlands, midlands, lowlands, and coastal plains absorbed successive waves of conquest, migration, and cultural diffusion—each leaving behind enduring traces of language, faith, and custom.
The Agew peoples and their Zagew Dynasty, originating from Lasta and Gonder, introduced new dynastic models and architectural forms that reshaped the political and cultural landscape. The Solomonic Dynasty from the Amhara heartland brought with it a theology of divine kingship and a codified highland orthodoxy that would come to define imperial ideology for centuries. From the west, the Beja peoples of Sudan infused the lowlands with a distinct Cushitic resilience and nomadic ethos—an influence that extended beyond the plains and into the highlands themselves.
Indeed, many highland villages trace their origins to Beja ancestry, just as numerous lowland, coastal and Saqla communities claim descent from highland forebears. These reciprocal migrations and interwoven genealogies defy simplistic binaries, reminding us that Eritrea’s identity has always been layered, plural, and in motion. It is a land where borders—geographic, cultural, and religious—have long been porous, and where belonging has often been negotiated across lines of difference rather than confined within them.
Consider the enduring ties between a Muslim Belew from Semhar and a Christian from Hamasien—connections often stronger, historically and economically, than those between co-religionists separated by region, such as a Muslim in Barka. These affinities have not only shaped local solidarities but have also manifested in pivotal national moments, from pro-union alliances to the formation of the PLF and EPLF. Eritrea’s pluralism is not an abstraction—it is a lived inheritance, forged through shared struggle and sustained by relational depth across lines of faith and geography.
The Ottomans, who occupied the coastal regions for over four centuries, layered the Red Sea corridor with Islamic administration, trade networks, and architectural imprints. The Egyptians followed, extending their influence through military and religious channels. And from across the sea came religious families from Yemen and the Hijaz—scholars, merchants, and mystics—who helped spread Islam and anchor it in the spiritual soil of the region.
Eritreans today are the living outcome of this long arc of diffusion and co-mingling—a mosaic of traditions, tongues, and temperaments. This rich heritage is not a burden to be simplified, but a foundation to be honored. It is upon this layered inheritance that the promise of the Eritrea—the dream, the vision—must be built. Not by erasing complexity, but by embracing it. Not by retreating into static symbols, but by animating them with renewed moral imagination.
To honor the past is not to mimic it, but to interrogate it—to ask what it meant, what it cost, and what it might still teach us. As Heraclitus reminds us, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” Identity, like history, is a current—never still, always reshaping.
Iyasu’s gestures, then, were not merely personal. They were political, theological, and historical. They challenged the imperial orthodoxy that equated legitimacy with religious exclusivity. And for that, he was cast out—not because he failed to rule, but because he dared to imagine a different kind of Ethiopia.
The Role of Religion in Legitimizing Power
Few forces legitimize power as effectively as religion. For the masses, it offers meaning and moral order; for rulers, it confers divine sanction. Albert Einstein captured this entanglement when he observed, “Those who believe that politics and religion do not mix, understand neither.” Voltaire, ever the cynic, grasped its political utility: “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” And Mark Twain, with his signature wit, exposed the hollowness of inherited dogma: “In religion and politics, people’s beliefs and convictions are in almost every case gotten at second-hand, and without examination, from authorities who have not themselves examined the questions at issue.”
Let this not be mistaken for an endorsement of theocracy. It is not. I am, in principle and practice, as secular as one can be. But I also recognize the enduring relevance of religion in public life—not as a tool of domination, but as a reservoir of moral imagination. Our religious traditions, when engaged thoughtfully, help us redefine and recalibrate our ethical contours in a language attuned to contemporary sensibilities. They offer not only spiritual depth but a sense of doctrinal permanence—a continuity of conscience that anchors us amid the flux of modernity.
Twain’s indictment holds true across the globe—but it resonates with particular acuity in Eritrea and Ethiopia. Seldom do I meet Eritreans or Ethiopians, Christian or Muslim, who have read their sacred texts in full. The same affliction plagues the Revolutionary generation, whose reverence for Marx, Lenin, and Mao borders on idolatry. For most of them, their citations stem not from rigorous study, but from second-hand slogans and half-digested ideology. This is not conviction—it is mimicry dressed as insight. And I am not speaking of the masses. I am speaking of the elite.
Conclusion and Challenges Ahead
Haile Selassie’s political use of religion reveals how power in the Horn has long been legitimized through the manipulation of faith and identity. His accusations against Lij Iyasu—unsubstantiated yet effective—tapped into inherited fears, weaponizing religion to delegitimize a rival and consolidate authority. Iyasu’s gestures toward Islam were not acts of apostasy but attempts to acknowledge the region’s historically pluralist inheritance; however, in a political culture that viewed religious plurality as threatening, his inclusivity was recast as subversion. Once in power, Haile Selassie formalized the fusion of throne and altar, subordinating the Ethiopian Orthodox Church to imperial rule and transforming it into an instrument of political discipline. In Eritrea, this strategy assumed an even more divisive character as the liberation movement was reframed as a Muslim and Arab-sponsored conspiracy, deepening mistrust and obscuring the pluralist foundations of Eritrean nationalism.
This history underscores a central difficulty: pluralism, though morally compelling, is not self-sustaining. In societies where religious identity has been repeatedly politicized, pluralism requires deliberate cultural work and institutional commitment. Without addressing the structural inequalities and historical grievances that shape interfaith relations, pluralism risks becoming purely symbolic—recognized in principle but absent in practice. Haile Selassie’s weaponization of faith illustrates the ease with which religious sentiment can be redirected to fracture solidarity and reinforce hierarchy, making clear the necessity of coupling pluralist ideals with safeguards against the instrumentalization of belief.
The logic that equates unity with uniformity did not end with Haile Selassie. Although Isaias Afwerki rejects religious institutions as sources of political authority, his approach to power still reflects the same centralized logic: identity is narrowly defined, autonomous social bodies are weakened, and pluralism is treated as a threat to state cohesion. Where Haile Selassie used the Church to sanctify the state, Isaias neutralizes religious and civic institutions altogether, consolidating authority through the Party and Security Apparatus. The mechanisms differ, but the underlying conviction is similar: political stability is achieved not by accommodating difference, but by restricting it.
Yet Eritrea’s past offers a different inheritance. Its history is not one of homogeneity, but of convergence—of shared lineages, overlapping traditions, and communities sustained by both mosque and monastery. Pluralism is not an imported aspiration but a historical reality that lived in families, marketplaces, and communal memory long before it became a political ideal. The task before Eritrea, then, is not to construct pluralism from scratch, but to retrieve and protect what already existed: a civic culture where dignity is not conditional and belonging is not contested. To honor this inheritance requires confronting inherited prejudices, disentangling identity from fear, and building political structures that allow for genuine participation across religious and regional lines.
In this regard, the regime’s slogan ሓደ ህዝቢ፣ ሓደ ልቢ—“One People, One Heart”—contains a truth worth preserving, but it is incomplete. Unity does not require sameness of thought; it requires shared commitment to mutual dignity. If the nation is indeed one people and one heart, then it must also accept the reality of many perspectives, experiences, and aspirations. The more fitting aspiration is therefore not a uniform mind, but a shared moral horizon: One People, One Heart, Millions of Minds. This expands unity rather than constricting it and allows for a civic culture rooted in cooperation, not conformity.
Only by pairing this pluralist inheritance with institutional reforms that protect diversity and guarantee participation can Eritrea move toward a stable and just democratic future—one grounded in responsible coexistence rather than enforced uniformity.
To Be Continued…
To Contact the Author: weriz@yahoo.com
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