Mengistu Musie (Dr)
Readers may rightly ask: why respond now to an article written four years ago? It is a legitimate question. At first glance, replying after such a long time may appear inappropriate, outdated, or even unnecessary. Yet time itself often serves as the best filter through which truth emerges. I chose to wait precisely because the political and social circumstances surrounding the debate needed to mature—to allow the “dust to settle,” as it were—so that we might see things more clearly, free from the heat of emotion and the fog of ethnic sentiment.
This response to Dawit Seyoum’s article is therefore not a hasty reaction but a considered reflection. It aims to revisit his arguments with the benefit of hindsight and to assess how facts have emerged over the years of Ethiopia’s political evolution. Dawit’s writing, particularly his reflections on ethnic relations and identity, deserves scrutiny—not out of hostility, but out of a commitment to intellectual honesty and the pursuit of national truth.
Dawit’s Ethnic Framing and Its Contradictions
In his article, Dawit posed a series of emotionally charged questions:
“Why do they hate us? Why do they want our subjugation and possible elimination? Where did we go wrong?”
The key question here is: Who are “they”? Dawit never clearly defines his “they,” but it becomes evident that he refers to those outside the “Tegaru” ethnic group. In doing so, he engages in a sweeping generalization that blurs historical nuance and frames Ethiopia’s complex national struggles through a narrow ethnocentric lens.
This is precisely where Dawid’s argument falters. Rather than offering a balanced reflection on Ethiopia’s shared struggles, he chooses to cast blame on entire populations, mirroring the very ethnic essentialism that the TPLF leadership has long used to justify its divisive politics.
Dawit was once a leading figure in the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP), a movement born in the 1960s revolutionary generation—a generation that dreamed of a united, democratic, and classless Ethiopia. Yet, his later writings reveal that deep within his convictions, he harbored a strong ethnocentric bias. His tone and choice of words suggest a man who has lost faith in the universal ideals of the EPRP and instead succumbed to the narrower politics of ethnic loyalty.
For instance, when Dawit writes:
“Were we wrong to be responsible for and to be the original center of Coptic Christianity in sub Saharan Africa? To have Axum Tsion in our midst?”
This statement implies that religious and historical achievements—like Axum Tsion, the pride of Ethiopian Orthodoxy—belong exclusively to the people of Tigray. This notion is both inaccurate and divisive. Axum, Tsion, like Lalibela or Debre Damo, is part of Ethiopia’s shared spiritual and historical heritage. It belongs not only to Tigrayans but to all Ethiopians—Amhara, Oromo, Sidama, Agew, Gambela, and beyond.
To claim otherwise is to fragment a collective identity that has been woven over centuries through shared struggle, faith, and sacrifice.
The Historical Misinterpretations
Dawit’s selective reading of Ethiopian history is another reason for this response. When he invokes the legacy of Emperor Yohannes IV, Dawit writes:
“Or was it because Yohannes responded to the pleas of Gondar when it was ransacked, burnt, and looted by the Mahdists? Or when he fell fighting gallantly at Metemma/Gallabat (1889)?”
In Dawit’s interpretation, Yohannes appears as a regional hero rather than a national one—as though his sacrifice at Metemma was for Tigray alone. But history tells a broader story. Emperor Yohannes was not a regional ruler defending Tigray; he was an Ethiopian emperor who died defending the sovereignty of the Ethiopian state against foreign invaders. His domain may have been centered in Tigray, but his cause was national.
Moreover, Dawit’s attempt to suggest that Yohannes’ death or the subsequent political changes were “not his responsibility” reflects a misunderstanding of the historical realities of 19th-century Ethiopia. The Mahdist invasion of northern Ethiopia prompted Yohannes’s march to Metemma— a threat not to one ethnic group but to the entire Ethiopian polity.
Equally concerning is Dawit’s narrative about Menelik II. He accuses Menelik of betraying Tigray and conspiring with foreign powers through the Treaty of Wuchale (1889), claiming that:
“We allowed our family and land to be split in half by Menelik, who, with his intent to harm the Tegaru, conspired with a foreign force and disposed of Bogos, Hamasien, Sheketi, and Segeneyti to the Italians…”
This statement is both historically and morally reductionist. The politics of the late 19th century were shaped by competing imperatives of survival during the European “Scramble for Africa.” Like other monarchs of the era, Menelik made compromises—sometimes strategic, sometimes flawed—to preserve Ethiopian independence. His decisions must be understood within that geopolitical context, not through the lens of modern ethnic grievance.
If we were to evaluate all of Ethiopia’s monarchs through Dawit’s lens, none would stand innocent. Emperor Tewodros, for instance, sought alliances with Britain that ultimately led to the disastrous British Expedition of 1868 and his death at Maqdala. Yohannes and Menelik each made alliances and decisions that balanced national preservation with personal power. But taken together, these three rulers—Tewodros, Yohannes, and Menelik—were instrumental in safeguarding Ethiopia’s sovereignty during the height of European colonial expansion. Without them, Ethiopia might have shared the fate of colonized African nations.
The Problem of Ethnic Sentiment in Intellectual Discourse
Dawit’s writing also reflects a more profound intellectual crisis that has long haunted Ethiopia’s political culture: the temptation to interpret national history through ethnic pain rather than collective purpose. His question, “Why do they hate us?”, echoes not reasoned inquiry but ethnic resentment.
This mindset mirrors the ideological posture of the TPLF—a movement that, despite its revolutionary rhetoric, built much of its political legitimacy on ethnic polarization. It is therefore unsurprising that Dawit’s language and tone resemble those of TPLF’s ethno-nationalist narrative.
His attempt to locate all of Tigray’s historical suffering in the supposed hostility of the Amhara and other groups is neither historically sound nor politically constructive.
Ethiopia’s tragedy lies precisely in this habit of translating political or historical events into ethnic animosities. Every group in Ethiopia—Amhara, Oromo, Tigrayan, Somali, Afar, Sidama, and others—has suffered at different times from the injustices of state formation, civil war, and dictatorship. To isolate one group’s suffering as exceptional or to cast another as perpetual oppressor is to deny the shared pain that defines the Ethiopian experience.
In Retrospect: Why Respond Now
Four years ago, responding to Dawit might have seemed futile. Emotions were high, political allegiances hardened, and truth was buried beneath slogans. But now, as the consequences of ethnic politics have become painfully clear—civil wars in Amhara, Oromia, and Tigray, mass displacement, the breakdown of trust among communities—it is time to speak with calm reflection.
What Dawit wrote may have resonated with those driven by ethnic sentiment at the time, but today, reality has exposed the dangers of that thinking. Ethiopia’s survival as a nation depends not on ethnic competition but on reclaiming a shared sense of identity and purpose.
This response is not merely to debate Dawit Seyoum but to reaffirm the idea that Ethiopia’s destiny is collective. The triumphs of Axum, Lalibela, and Adwa belong to all of us. The sacrifices of Yohannes, Tewodros, and Menelik were made for all Ethiopians. To divide their legacy along ethnic lines is to betray the very essence of Ethiopian history.
The most striking and troubling part of Dawit Seyoum’s argument — and the foundation of his “why they hate us” question — lies in his self-congratulatory defense of the TPLF era. He writes: “Perhaps the most identifiable wrong was to be a prime actor in the writing and promulgation (1995) of the first ever voted upon constitution that guaranteed the rights of nations and nationalities to inhabit the country, speak their own languages, promote their distinct cultures, and control their own economy. Or were we wrong to be the harbinger of a socio-economic movement with the objective of fighting poverty, registering a hitherto unseen growth rate and bringing the country onto the world map? Not to mention, the skillful diplomatic movement by its Tegaru children that led the country to be respected among its African brethren, and which resulted in unmatched recognition on a global level.”
In this passage, Dawit passionately defends the TPLF period — a time when ethno-centric thinking and divisive identity politics reached their peak in Ethiopia. His tone suggests nostalgia for what he calls a “transformative” era. Yet, behind his glorified words lies the reality of a deeply fractured society — one systematically divided along ethnic lines, and one in which blame, exclusion, and revenge became instruments of governance.
During the TPLF-led EPRDF era, an ideology of ethnic nationalism was institutionalized, and the Amhara people, in particular, were repeatedly vilified as the supposed architects of past injustices. This narrative of blame served as a political tool to consolidate TPLF’s dominance and to justify acts of retribution and marginalization. The dangerous labeling of an entire people as “enemies” of others became a national disease whose long-term effects we still witness today.
Let us revisit the 1995 Constitution that Dawit proudly mentions. He celebrates it as a milestone in Ethiopia’s democratic evolution, but the truth is far more complex. That constitution divided Ethiopia along ethnic lines, effectively creating a federation based not on shared citizenship but on identity and descent. It resembled, in many ways, the apartheid-era Bantustan system of South Africa — where ethnic homelands replaced national unity and solidarity. What Dawit calls a “right of self-determination” became, in practice, the legal foundation for perpetual ethnic fragmentation and suspicion.
Ironically, Dawit — once known as an internationalist thinker and member of the EPRP who championed class unity and national cohesion — now glorifies the very ethno-centered project that undermined Ethiopia’s social fabric. It is painful to see an intellectual of his generation praising a constitution that not only institutionalized ethnic identity as the basis of political power but also paved the way for cycles of exclusion and violence.
The same system he defends was later exploited by Abiy Ahmed’s regime — the very one that waged a devastating genocidal war against the people of Tigray. The ethnic federal structure became a double-edged sword: first weaponized by the TPLF to marginalize others and later turned against the Tigrayan people themselves. In this tragic irony, Dawit’s beloved constitutional order became the very tool that legitimized division, displacement, and mass atrocities.
Equally disturbing is Dawit’s silence on the long history of violence and ethnic cleansing directed at the Amhara people across the country. He never once wrote a piece condemning the Amhara massacres in Wollega, or the ongoing genocidal attacks in Oromia. He did not utter a word about the killings and expulsions of Amharas in Arba Gugu or Bedeno during the early years of TPLF rule. The same man who laments “why they hate us” has shown no empathy for the millions of Amharas who have suffered persecution, displacement, and death under the very system he praises.
Dawit’s one-sided moral vision is troubling. His selective outrage exposes a deep inconsistency — he readily blames the Amhara people, the victims of systemic exclusion, while excusing the architects of ethnic division. If he truly sought justice or reconciliation, he would have spoken against all atrocities, regardless of who the victims or perpetrators were.
Let us also remember who Dawit is — or rather, who he once was. He grew up in Jimma, a town known for its multiethnic harmony, where Amharas, Oromos, Gurages, and others lived side by side. His father, a respected provincial school superintendent, was a figure of unity and education. How, then, did Dawit — a man raised in such diversity — end up defending one of the most ethnically narrow political movements in modern Ethiopian history?
Finally, Dawit must reckon with his own historical responsibility. As someone once affiliated with the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP), a movement that stood for equality and national liberation, where does he stand now? After all the suffering, after the wars in Tigray, Amhara, and Oromia — which have devastated millions — which side of the TPLF legacy does he claim as his own?
He has never written about the burned villages of Wollo, the displaced families of North Shewa, or the devastated towns of Gondar — places where ordinary Ethiopians, regardless of ethnicity, have lost everything. Yet he finds pride in the TPLF’s “diplomatic achievements.” This moral blindness reveals the true nature of his argument: it is not a defense of justice or history, but of a failed ideology that privileged one group at the expense of the nation.
In conclusion, Dawit Seyoum’s attempt to rewrite the legacy of the TPLF is not only historically inaccurate but also ethically troubling. The very constitution he celebrates laid the groundwork for ethnic hatred, displacement, and genocide — the same social poisons that destroyed both the Tigrayan and Amhara peoples. Ethiopia will never heal until voices like Dawit’s stop glorifying the architects of division and start acknowledging the shared pain of all its children.
Only through an honest reckoning — one that transcends ethnic loyalties — can Ethiopia ever reclaim its humanity and rebuild a nation based on truth, justice, and unity.
Conclusion
Many may wonder why I chose to respond to Dawit Seyoum’s article after four long years. My decision is not driven by impulse or belated resentment, but by two important reasons that time itself has helped to clarify.
First, the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP)—a genuinely multi-ethnic and panEthiopian organization—became a victim of systematic hostility from several fronts: the TPLF, the EPLF, and the OLF. All of these groups, though different in ideology and region, shared one common animosity toward the EPRP. The reason was simple yet profound: the EPRP’s political program was based on a united, democratic, and multi-ethnic Ethiopia, an ideal that directly challenged the ethnocentric and separatist tendencies of its rivals. Dawit Seyoum himself was once part of this very movement that championed those inclusive principles.
Second, when a minor crisis emerged within the EPRP, Dawit and three of his close associates abandoned the struggle, leaving behind their comrades at a critical time. This act of desertion had devastating consequences. The collapse of the Second Regional Army was not the result of external enemies alone but also of internal weakness within its leadership—of which Dawit was a part. His decision to vacate his position during the most fragile moment of the movement contributed to the demoralization and disarray that followed.
The writer can be reached at : mmusie2@gmail.com
Editor’s Note : Views in the article do not necessarily reflect the views of borkena.com
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