The Religion of Eritreanism in Exile
Author’s Note: This essay is not a tactical critique of government or opposition, but an attempt to reframe how we think about Eritreanism itself. I argue that in exile, Eritrean identity has taken on the qualities of a religion (sustained by longing, ritual, and taboo), which creates a pseudo-reality that confuses expression with political participation. My aim is not to dismiss this longing but to name it honestly so we can move beyond faith alone toward a reality-based imagination of Eritrea’s future.
Eritrea is at once a real country and an imagined one. On the map, it is a state on the Red Sea with perhaps more than 4 million people, a seat in the United Nations, and a government that rules with an iron grip. But in lived reality, Eritrea is fractured between silence at home and longing abroad. Inside the country, citizens have been muted by repression and fear, their voices denied any institutional channel. Outside, a scattered diaspora fills the vacuum with proclamations, slogans, and debates that often take on the weight of national dialogue. My thesis in this essay is simple: this substitution has transformed Eritreanism in exile into something more like a religion than a politics. In the absence of functioning institutions, Eritrean identity is preserved through rituals of memory and expressions of faith. And just as in religion, critique becomes heresy, unity becomes a sacred commandment, and honest analysis becomes nearly impossible.
This confusion produces what one might call a pseudo-reality (or false reality). Diaspora conversations (be it on social media or in seminars) are treated as though they were the deliberations of a national public. But Eritrea does not have such a public. The regime monopolizes decision-making, while parliaments, parties, and independent media are absent. What the diaspora performs is not politics in the sense of shaping governance; it is a form of symbolic survival. Yet because the citizenry inside Eritrea has been silenced, exiles mistake their own expressive acts for the voice of the nation itself.
The truth is that Eritrean exiles are not, in the practical sense, citizens of Eritrea. We do not pay taxes to Asmara, do not vote in Eritrean elections, and do not serve in Eritrean institutions. We live under other governments, carry other passports, and participate in other polities. Our connection to Eritrea is emotional, cultural, and patriotic, but not political in the direct sense of participation in statecraft. To confuse this longing with citizenship is to confuse what we feel for what we can do.
And so, in exile, Eritreanism begins to look less like politics and more like faith. Like Jews scattered after the fall of Jerusalem, Eritreans dispersed across the globe sustain themselves through memory and imagination. Eritrea becomes less a state than a sacred homeland, invoked with reverence rather than described in institutional terms. Its failures are excused or spiritualized; its memory is preserved through rituals (martyrs commemorated, flags raised, festivals reenacted). In the absence of institutions, Eritrea survives abroad as a religion.
This religious Eritreanism makes critique dangerous. In politics, disagreement is natural; in religion, there is such a thing as blasphemy. And Eritrean discourse abroad often treats criticism as precisely that. To question whether the martyrs’ sacrifice has been squandered is to desecrate the sacred text of liberation. To doubt the value of diaspora activism is to risk digital excommunication. To suggest that the diaspora is not in fact Eritrea is to invite charges of betrayal. Faith sustains identity, but it also transforms dissent into sin.
The effect is that Eritrean politics abroad resembles a church more than a parliament. Its leaders preach, its media outlets serve as pulpits, and its followers gather as congregations. The highest virtue invoked is unity, not as a concrete framework for cooperation but as a spiritual commandment, a harmony of souls. The louder the call for unity, the more it betrays the fragility of its basis.
We see this religious turn in many ways. The memory of martyrs is treated as scripture, their blood as the foundation of belonging. Dissenters are branded as traitors or mercenaries, apostates who threaten the faith. Festivals and community gatherings become rituals of symbolic return, rehearsing a homeland that cannot be lived in. And in digital spaces, where attention rewards provocation, the pattern intensifies: those who shout the loudest are exalted, while those who pursue sober analysis are deprived of an audience.
Some may argue that there is nothing wrong with treating Eritreanism as a faith. After all, it has preserved identity in exile and created solidarity. But the danger is clear: when politics becomes religion, critique becomes impossible. If Eritreanism is sacred, then to analyze its failures feels like desecration. If the diaspora is “the people,” then to question its representativeness feels like treason. If unity is the highest virtue, then to disagree is to sin. In this way, religious Eritreanism not only distorts our view of reality. It blocks the clarity we need to understand our predicament.
Meanwhile, the regime benefits. Inside Eritrea, there is no institutional dialogue; outside, the diaspora exhausts itself in rituals of debate, sustained by longing but detached from power. The people at home are silenced by fear; the people abroad are silenced by faith. In both cases, the possibility of honest, critical dialogue is suffocated.
The way forward begins not with louder slogans but with honesty. We must admit that diaspora discourse is not national dialogue. It is expressive, symbolic, and emotional, but not political in the sense of shaping decisions of state. We must admit that we are not, in practice, the citizenry of Eritrea. We are citizens of or refugees in other countries, struggling to keep alive ties to a homeland we cannot govern. And we must, of course, admit that our nationalism has taken on religious qualities, sustaining us but also distorting us.
This honesty is not defeat. It is a clearing of illusions. Once we know where we stand, we can imagine where we might go. Instead of mistaking our debates for national dialogue, we can channel them into something constructive: building knowledge, drafting blueprints, and creating spaces that privilege precision over slogans. Instead of treating unity as a spiritual commandment, we can practice it as civic cooperation, working together on projects and institutions that prepare the ground for a future Eritrean state.
Eritrea will not be rebuilt by faith alone. Longing preserves memory, but only institutions can turn memory into a future. To move from religion to politics requires speaking plainly, naming the realities. It requires that we stop treating critique as heresy and begin treating it as responsibility. If we can shift from a faith-based Eritreanism to a reality-based one, from pseudo-reality to clarity, then exile need not mean paralysis. To resist distraction, to speak of Eritrea on its own terms, and to imagine institutions rather than rituals. I believe this is the first step toward turning a religion of longing into a republic of citizens.
Awate Forum