Understanding Collective Trauma in Ethiopian Politics: A Case Study of the Amhara People

Girma Berhanu (Professor)

Introduction

For most of my professional life, I have been engaged in academia, with a focus on justice and equality—particularly in the fields of disability studies and cognitive anthropology, including intellectual abilities.

During the TPLF regime, I authored a paper exposing ethnic discrimination in Ethiopia, specifically in terms of the blatantly unequal distribution of academic scholarships. Shortly afterwards, I published another article that addressed an utterly taboo subject: the practice of male rape, or “sodomy,” in Ethiopian prisons. Both of these articles were empirical studies which were published in peer-reviewed journals. Unsurprisingly, both of these articles provoked significant backlash. Government supporters could have responded with reasoned critique, but instead resorted to insults and attempts at character assassination –my first brush with the pernicious effects of ‘cancel culture’. Following the change of government, instead of witnessing an improvement, the overall situation deteriorated. Those hoping for a new dawn were met with an exponential increase in ethnic apartheid, gross human rights violations, and systemic injustices. Undeterred, I continued reporting and writing on these issues for the past seven years. However, the response became increasingly hostile. The current regime, along with its ethnically affiliated organizations, appears unwilling to tolerate dissent.

In my efforts to help stop the ongoing genocide in Amhara region and the collective punishment of its population, I have interacted with a broad range of activists, intellectuals, and former politicians, especially those from the Amhara ethnic group. What I encountered, however, was troubling: pervasive conflict, fragmentation, self-sabotage, and a lack of sustainable, unified action.

I addressed this issue in a reflective article, where I analyzed the political activism landscape through the lens of social, emotional, behavioral, and cognitive maturity—particularly within the Amhara struggle for democracy, freedom, and equality. Although many factors contribute to the polarization and fragmentation within this movement, I focused on emotional instability as a key dimension undermining cohesion and effectiveness^[1]. The ultimate goal of my reflection was to foster unity and healing by encouraging self-awareness and maturity among advocacy groups and within the broader Amhara community.

In this specific article, I argue that many of the barriers to achieving peace, harmony, and a cohesive national struggle in Ethiopia stem from collective trauma. This unaddressed trauma continues to shape not only our personal identities but also our political behavior, often to our own detriment. Acknowledging and addressing this trauma is essential if we are to move toward meaningful change.

I was encouraged to write this reflective essay by a number of recent experiences and influences. One of the most significant was my recent involvement with the research network Trauma-Informed Approaches to Conflict and Crisis in Education,^[2] which expanded my intellectual horizon and deepened my understanding of trauma in conflict-affected societies.

Additionally, I had a moving and insightful conversation with a London-based journalist and philanthropist who expressed a genuine concern for Ethiopia’s collective trauma. Around the same time, I engaged in a long and thought-provoking discussion with an Ethiopian heart surgeon based in Sweden, focusing on the experience of highly educated women in Ethiopia. We explored how, despite their achievements, women are often reduced to their gender—treated “as just women”—regardless of their expertise. In Ethiopia, to be both attractive and highly educated as a woman often comes with a daily psychological burden. The pervasive tendency among men to not take these women seriously is itself a form of trauma that is routinely normalized.

Further deepening my reflections, I read a timely and relevant article titled Conflict, Trauma, and Coping: The Experiences of Internally Displaced People in Northern Ethiopia. The study highlighted the severe mental health consequences of conflict and forced displacement experienced by participants, and it emphasized the urgent need for mental health interventions in Ethiopia’s conflict-torn regions. It called for efforts focused on enhancing social capital, leveraging spirituality, and promoting communal culture to foster resilience and mitigate the effects of trauma among internally displaced persons (IDPs)^[3].

One of the motivations behind initiating this writing was the recurring patterns of unpredictability, emotional volatility, and the lack of long-term sustainability I have observed in diaspora-led projects. It is possible that the fragmentation, pervasive anger, and erosion of trust and communal bonds are rooted in the collective trauma historically endured by the community. The cracks—of anger, of mistrust, of broken connection—may trace back to a deeper wound, a shared trauma etched into our collective memory.

Together, these experiences have shaped my understanding of how collective trauma manifests across different dimensions of Ethiopian society—gender, displacement, conflict—and how urgently we must address it through both scholarly and community-based approaches.

Collective Trauma: Unseen scars and the struggle for identity

While individual trauma has been extensively studied, collective trauma remains a relatively new area of research. Although collective traumas may appear to emerge “out of the blue,” many are rooted in unresolved crises of the past. The term collective trauma refers to the psychological responses to a traumatic event that impact an entire society. It encompasses more than just the historical record or the recollection of a tragic event experienced by a group—it signifies a deeply embedded memory within the collective consciousness of that group. Like all forms of memory, collective trauma is not a static reproduction of events but an evolving reconstruction through which a society attempts to make sense of its past.

This is precisely what the Amhara people have been experiencing for over 50 years. The trauma they endured, particularly during the infamous revolution, lives on in the collective memory of the group. Unlike individual memory, collective memory persists beyond the lives of direct survivors. It is carried forward by members of the group who may be temporally and geographically distant from the original events. Among the Amhara, the effects of this inherited trauma can be seen in the current generation, both within Ethiopia and across the diaspora. These generations, who did not witness the trauma firsthand, often remember and reconstruct these events differently from the original survivors. Over time, this reconstruction may take various forms and meanings, reshaping the narrative from one generation to the next^[4].

Such a memory dynamic can give rise to what psychoanalyst Vamık Volkan (1997)^[5] terms a chosen trauma, a phenomenon in which a group symbolically links a collective calamity suffered by its ancestors with its current identity and sense of ontological security. As Gilad Hirschberger (2018) explains, collective trauma is a cataclysmic event that shatters the basic fabric of society. Beyond the devastating loss of life, it represents a profound crisis of meaning. Hirschberger outlines a process that begins with the trauma itself, evolves into collective memory, and ultimately culminates in a new system of meaning that redefines group identity and shapes the direction of the group’s future.

Collective trauma refers to a devastating event in a group’s history that has enduring psychological, social, and political consequences—affecting both victim and perpetrator groups long after the event itself has ended. As Yehuda and colleagues (2002)^[6] observed, much of the early psychological literature on collective trauma focused primarily on its health-related and psychopathological impacts. However, recent scholarship has expanded this focus to explore the broader social and political dimensions of trauma^[7], particularly in relation to collective perpetration and victimization. This emerging body of work has produced important insights. For instance, research has shown that collective victim beliefs can serve to justify and legitimize contemporary political violence. It has also explored how the experience of collective victimhood may be linked to material gains and competition over those gains (Noor et al., 2012). Within the Ethiopian context, nationalist discourses—particularly among some Tigrayan and Oromo political actors—often frame their group histories through the lens of collective victimhood. In some cases, these narratives have been used to justify hostility or violence against the Amhara people, positioning them as historical perpetrators and thereby reinforcing cycles of interethnic tension and grievance.

Recent literature increasingly recognizes collective trauma as a genuine and impactful experience with lasting consequences for subsequent generations—an effect clearly observable in the case of the Amhara people. Given that one of the central aims of intergroup relations research is to understand and promote conflict resolution and reconciliation, the long-term effects of collective trauma are often evaluated through this lens. In this context, historical victimization is typically viewed as both a psychological burden and a barrier to peacebuilding, often serving as a distorting filter in intergroup dynamics (Schori-Eyal et al., 2017). Abrutyn (2024) argues that the memory of victimization has both adaptive and maladaptive dimensions. While such memories can lead to distrust of adversaries and reluctance to compromise—reactions that may hinder reconciliation—these responses can also serve a protective function, safeguarding the group from disingenuous peace overtures or potential exploitation. This duality is evident among many Amharas today, who express deep suspicion toward the intentions of certain Oromo and Tigrayan political actors. Although the enduring memory of trauma—such as that experienced by the Amhara—can contribute to a paralyzing, hyper-vigilant mindset, it can also foster post-traumatic growth. In this more constructive form, trauma becomes a source of meaning that underscores the group’s resilience and its capacity for recovery and transformation in the aftermath of historical calamity. These outcomes are especially relevant today, as new generations—both descendants of victims and perpetrators—grapple with the need to make sense of the past. In doing so, they seek not only to interpret historical events but also to craft narratives that guide present behavior and inform a collective vision for the future (Hirschberger, 2018)^[8].

The Legacy of Collective Trauma: Political and Social Implications for the Amhara People in Ethiopia

For several decades, I have observed the trauma endured by the Amhara people—wounds that remain largely invisible yet deeply embedded in the collective psyche. Though the data are often unsystematic, the anecdotal evidence is robust: a consistent and profound impact on mental health and emotional well-being is clear among many people I know.

My own experience is marked by personal loss and painful memory. My grandmother lost two of her cousins—Aklilu Habtewold and Akalework Habtewold—both high-ranking government officials who were executed without trial, along with sixty others, during the early days of the Derg regime. I remember vividly that she was not allowed to mourn them publicly or receive visitors who came to grieve with her. The regime was so brutal that it denied families even the basic human right to bury their loved ones or grieve according to cultural and religious tradition.

The infamous Red Terror campaign launched by the Derg in the late 1970s claimed the lives of countless young people. I, too, was caught in its grip. As a young boy, I was imprisoned in one of the Kebele detention centers in downtown Addis Ababa. I was tortured repeatedly using the parrot’s perch (Wofelala)—a tool (see below) designed specifically for inflicting pain. Despite the severe beatings, I managed to remain silent. Three of my friends, however, could not withstand the torture. Under duress, they confessed to things they had not done, falsely admitting involvement in activities they were never a part of. All three were executed.

Fig 1. A widely used name for this kind of setup is “the parrot’s perch”—in Portuguese, pau de arara. It’s a notorious torture position in which the victim’s wrists and ankles are bound to a pole or bar, forcing their body into an inverted, contorted suspension that inflicts intense pain.

I survived, not because I was innocent—none of us were guilty—but because I happened to be the youngest among the detainees. According to a former security official who knew my father, I was considered too young to be executed.

Echoes of the Red Terror: I remember losing 27 acquaintances—friends, classmates, neighbors—during the horrific Red Terror campaign of the late 1970s. Their faces, names, and voices have never left me. It was a time of fear so deep that even our silence could betray us. No one was truly safe.

Among the countless families torn apart, I still think most often of our neighbor, a kind and humble man whose life was shattered when five of his sons were taken and executed. Only one son, the sixth, survived—and that, by some miracle I still cannot explain.

The massacre was orchestrated by a man known in whispers and curses as Solomon the Fascist. His name struck terror in our hearts. He wasn’t just a man—he was a symbol of cruelty, of the merciless brutality that defined that era. His hands were stained with the blood of the innocent.

The surviving son—his eyes once full of life—became a quiet man, haunted by what he had seen. He carried a terrible burden: the memory of his brothers’ last moments, and the horror that unfolded near Gefersa, just outside Addis Ababa. I often wonder how he endured it all. How does one live with so much loss and yet keep moving forward?

He lived in Higher 15, Kebele 23. I don’t know if he is still alive. I wish, deeply, that he had written his story down—his account of those dark days. It is a story that deserves to be remembered, not just for the sake of history, but for justice, for healing, for truth. In those woods near Gefersa, tens of others were executed—young men and women, many of them barely out of school. Their stories, like his, are vanishing with time.

We must not let silence bury them!

This experience alone could fill a book. But what remains with me even more strongly, after four decades, is a growing realization: many of those who were executed shared a common identity—they were of Amhara origin. At the time, no one spoke in terms of ethnicity. We saw ourselves as Ethiopians. But looking back, the ethnic undertones and selective persecution become harder to ignore.

The Sociological Dimensions of Collective Trauma: The Amhara Experience in Contemporary Ethiopia

The sociological form of trauma experienced by the Amhara people has intensified over recent decades. Under the TPLF-led regime (1991–2018), the propagation of Tigrean superiority contributed significantly to the marginalization of the Amhara. This was followed, and in some ways worsened, by the administration that came to power in 2018, which has been characterized by Oromo-centric nationalist rhetoric that further deepens Amhara exclusion. These political regimes have perpetuated trauma through what can best be described as the collectivization and enculturation of social pain—a process in which evolved negative affective responses to separation, rejection, exclusion, and isolation from cherished social objects (such as status, recognition, and historical continuity) become ingrained in a group identity.

This process transforms individual experiences of pain into collective social trauma, and further, into cultural identity. For the Amhara people, trauma is not merely historical—it is lived. The group is subjected to persistent threats that undermine their ability to form and maintain meaningful attachments to social institutions that generate purpose and imbue identity with confidence.

This cultural trauma is rooted in exclusion from access to privilege, status, and power, while simultaneously being linked to an identity that is saturated with historical pain. It manifests in various forms of isolation—residential, marital, occupational, educational, and beyond—and in the rejection experienced through prejudiced expectations regarding competence, performance, and reward. In the worst cases, this trauma manifests as stigmatization, severely diminishing economic opportunities, weakening social networks, and curtailing personal agency (Link & Phelan, 2013).

As Desalegne Birara (2025) argues, the targeted killings, mass incarcerations, and displacement of Amhara civilians in regions such as Oromia, Benishangul-Gumuz, and Southern and Southwestern Ethiopia are not merely physical acts of violence. They constitute symbolic violence—intended to erase the Amhara people’s historical identity and delegitimize their role in the Ethiopian nation-state. This dynamic aligns with Michel Foucault’s theory of biopolitical control, wherein the state exercises power over life itself by regulating who lives, who dies, and under what conditions (Foucault, 1978). The violence against the Amhara, then, represents not only ethnic cleansing but also an attempt to reconfigure Ethiopia’s political and historical narrative by silencing one of its foundational peoples. The Amhara genocide, which began covertly in the 1970s and escalated dramatically after 2018, must be analyzed in relation to the historical construction of the Amhara identity as being associated with Ethiopian state power. The demonization of Amharas as an “oppressor class”, as shown in the works of Workneh (2023) and Mihiret (2025), has evolved into an entrenched discursive practice. Through a Foucauldian lens, one can argue that this narrative functions to justify and normalize the disenfranchisement and systemic targeting of the Amhara population. By portraying the Amhara as oppressors, the state establishes a power imbalance that legitimizes violence, exclusion, and dispossession. This narrative has rationalized ethnic cleansing and militarized repression in regions such as Welkait and Metekel, where civilians are deliberately targeted and their identity erased through massacres and forced displacement (Birara, 2025, p. 18)^[9].

Collective Trauma in Amhara Politics: A Necropolitical Perspective

Collective trauma in Amhara politics is a powerful and ongoing force that shapes political attitudes, group identity, and interethnic relations in Ethiopia. The Amhara people—one of the country’s largest ethnic groups—have endured a series of historical and contemporary experiences that have contributed to a pervasive sense of collective victimization. These experiences involve deeply shared emotional and psychological wounds, stemming from systemic violence, oppression, and exclusion. Importantly, these traumas are perceived not merely as isolated events, but as targeted assaults on the Amhara group identity—rooted in their language, religion, cultural history, and ancestral connection to key geographic regions of Ethiopia.

A compelling theoretical lens through which to understand this dynamic is necropolitics, as conceptualized by Achille Mbembe (2019)^[10]. He writes: “The ultimate expression of sovereignty resides in the power and capacity to dictate who may live and who must die… to define who matters and who does not, who is disposable and who is not.” Necropolitics, then, reveals how governments assign unequal value to human life and structure policies that create zones of abandonment, exclusion, and disposability. This framework is evident in the treatment of Amharas, and other marginalized groups, under contemporary Ethiopian governance. A stark example is the Addis Ababa City Corridor Project, which has led to the forced removal of Amhara residents from parts of the city under the guise of development. These individuals have been displaced from neighbourhoods they historically occupied and relocated to the peripheries, often receiving only nominal compensation for their demolished homes. This practice effectively marginalizes non-Oromo residents, particularly Amharas, reducing them to rootless citizens—stripped of their historical and spatial belonging. Under the logic of necropolitics, proximity to dominant ethnic power structures determines the perceived value of life. The closer one is to these centres of power, the more one’s life is protected and valued. Conversely, the further one is from ethnic-based privilege, the more precarious one’s existence becomes. The Amhara experience is thus not just a case of economic or political marginalization, but a deeper existential crisis marked by the systematic devaluation of life and identity.

Major sources of the Collective Trauma Among the Amhara, and Pathways Toward Healing and Resolution

It is important to note that during the 2020 conflict—widely referred to as the Tigray War—an estimated one million Amharas perished, marking one of the most devastating chapters in the community’s history. This loss is widely perceived as the systemic outcome of a coordinated effort by the federal regime in collusion with the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) to annihilate the Amhara population.

Currently, the Amhara region is under siege. The area faces relentless drone strikes, aerial bombings, and widespread dehumanization. The federal crackdown on Fano in 2023–2024 further deepened the collective trauma and sense of betrayal felt by the Amhara people, as countless civilians were caught in the crossfire. What is widely seen as an invasion of the region by the Abiy Ahmed regime has resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands.

The humanitarian situation is dire. Schools have been shut down; farms and industries are non-functional; health facilities are barely operational. Current estimates suggest that over 5 million students are out of school, and the number of internally displaced persons is in the millions. The region’s infrastructure is in ruins, and basic services have collapsed. According to some reports, Fano now controls approximately 85% of the region, reflecting both the scale of state withdrawal and the degree of local resistance.

Despite the scale of this catastrophe, it has received scant attention in international media. The ethnic cleansing, pogroms, and mass incarceration of Amhara journalists and politicians—which have continued for decades—have similarly failed to generate global outrage. One might justifiably say, “The Amhara: The Forgotten People of Ethiopia.”

The roots of this crisis can be traced to the establishment of the EPRDF/TPLF-led federal system, which institutionalized ethnic divisions under the guise of ethnic federalism. This system redefined Amhara identity as merely one ethnic category among many, leading to widespread perceptions that Amharas were being politically and geographically contained within the Amhara region. The loss of territories historically associated with Amhara identity—such as Welkait and Raya—became powerful symbols of dispossession. Furthermore, the propagation of the “Neftegna” narrative, which labelled the Amhara as historical oppressors, led to widespread vilification, despite the fact that many Amharas had themselves suffered under previous regimes.

Over time, a deep perception has emerged among Amhara communities that the federal government has consistently failed to protect them, fuelling resentment and mistrust. These developments have given rise to a militarized resistance identity.

The emergence of Fano, an Amhara youth militia, is a direct response to this long-standing sense of abandonment and insecurity. For many young Amharas, joining Fano represents both a protective measure and a symbol of dignity and defiance. With over a million youth reportedly participating in the resistance, the psychological and political ramifications are profound. This is not simply a movement; it is a manifestation of trauma-driven identity politics.

The collective trauma suffered by the Amhara people has contributed to a growing sense of suspicion and hostility toward other ethnic groups, especially Tigrayans and Oromos. These sentiments are not merely byproducts of propaganda or ethnic rivalry—they are grounded in lived experiences of systemic violence, exclusion, and displacement.

In the absence of formal acknowledgment and justice for the suffering endured by Amharas, many within the community view national peace initiatives as one-sided and illegitimate. As such, reconciliation efforts are often met with skepticism, interpreted not as genuine moves toward justice, but as strategies to maintain an ethnic hierarchy that continues to marginalize the Amhara.

The Road Forward: Healing Ethiopia Through Empathy, Justice, and Inclusive Transformation

The road forward for Ethiopia is easier to articulate than to implement. It is, in truth, a complex and demanding path—one that requires enormous sacrifice, courage, and a national reckoning. Ethiopia’s ongoing political instability cannot be fully understood without acknowledging the deep collective trauma carried silently by its communities, particularly the Amhara. Healing in this context is not merely psychological—it is political, social, and structural. It demands leadership, empathy, and above all, truth.

We can outline the path rhetorically, though each step is challenging in practice:

• National acknowledgment of Amhara suffering
• Equitable protection of all citizens, regardless of ethnicity
• Inclusive national dialogue
• Resolution of disputed territories
• Mechanisms for accountability and justice
• Support for cultural resilience, mental health, and civic engagement

Amhara political consciousness today is shaped by a complex fusion of historical pride, modern marginalization, and collective trauma. This trauma is not incidental—it is the result of decades of structural violence, political exclusion, and recent conflicts. Healing this wounded identity requires more than rhetorical gestures. It calls for a dismantling of ethnonationalist narratives, genuine political inclusion, and transparent accountability for violence and injustice.

Without sincere efforts to understand and address this trauma, Ethiopia risks perpetuating a cycle of mistrust, resentment, and violence. A peaceful and just future requires empathy, truth, and a transformative approach to politics rooted in human dignity.

A friend of mine, a medical doctor living in Sweden, recently shared an unpublished article he wrote—a powerful reflection on how Ethiopia has descended into its current crisis. In our discussion, he summarized his core message with a poignant question:
“Is there a path forward?”

His answer was both hopeful and sobering: Ethiopia has already transformed, irreversibly. The challenge now is not to resist change, but to build a new ethical and social framework suited to this transformed reality. A sustainable future must strike a balance between modern progress and the restoration of integrity, unity, and ethical leadership. The danger is not simply external conflict, but the risk of complete moral decay within society.

He concluded with a powerful reflection that resonates deeply:

“Only through conscious effort—at the individual, communal, and national levels—can Ethiopia regain a sense of purpose and direction. To create a better society, transformation must begin within myself, by recognizing my own share in the wrong actions and values I have followed, instead of always pointing to others.”

And so, we are left with a final, haunting question that demands our collective attention:
We brought our country to this abyss—can we repair it?

[1] https://borkena.com/2025/02/12/ethiopia-political-activism-and-emotional-labilities-the-case-of-amhara-struggle-for-survival-in-ethiopia-and-its-diaspora/

[2] https://weraonline.org/international-research-networks-irns/

[3] Mamed, G. E., Tefera, G. M., Bitew, M., Ngondwe, P., & Wolde, A. D. Conflict, trauma, and coping: The experiences of internally displaced people in northern Ethiopia. Journal of Traumatic Stress.

[4] Licata, L., and Mercy, A. (2015). “Collective memory, social psychology,” in International Encyclopedia of the Social & Behavioral Sciences, Vol. 4, 2nd Edn, ed. J. D. Wright (Oxford: Elsevier), 194–199. doi: 10.1016/B978-0-08-097086- 8.24046-4

[5] Volkan, V. (ed.) (1997). “Chosen trauma: unresolved mourning,” in Bloodlines: From Ethnic Pride to Ethnic Terrorism, (New York, NY: Farrar, Straus, & Giroux), 36–49

[6] Yehuda, R., Halligan, S. L., and Bierer, L. M. (2002). Cortisol levels in adult offspring of Holocaust survivors: relation to PTSD symptom severity in the parent and child. Psychoneuroendocrinology 27, 171–180. doi: 10.1016/S0306- 4530(01)00043-9

[7] Abrutyn, S. (2024). The roots of social trauma: Collective, cultural pain and its consequences. Society and Mental Health, 14(3), 240-256.

[8] Hirschberger, G. (2018). Collective trauma and the social construction of meaning. Frontiers in psychology, 9, 1441.

[9] Birara, D. (2025). From Defeating Colonialism to Facing Genocide: Historical Precedents and Prospects of the Amhara Existential Struggle in Ethiopia. Journal of Amhara Studies, 1(1), 1-28.

[10] Mbembe, Achille. 2019. Necropolitics. Theory in Forms. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Editor’s Note : Views in the article do not necessarily reflect the views of borkena.com      

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