We are tired of the endless headlines that bring new deaths, the names of the fallen read out like grim poetry, the villages burned, the children orphaned, the farmers who can no longer farm, the refugees who have lost everything. We are tired of the politicians who incite or stay silent while the country is torn apart, and of the narratives that force us to choose sides instead of demanding justice, truth, and peace for all.
We are tired, but we are also angry. We are angry not at individual soldiers or fighters, but at the political and military leaders whose choices have allowed war after war to erupt and now, again, at the threat of renewed conflict between the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) and the Federal Government.
Enough is enough. The current tension must de‑escalate, immediately. Any further slide into open war is not only a moral crime, but a political and economic disaster for a country that cannot afford another round of bloodshed.
The people of Ethiopia have nothing more to gain from war. We have everything to lose.
The Ethiopian human toll of recent years is staggering. Hundreds of thousands dead, millions displaced, countless women and children exposed to violence, trauma, and malnutrition. The scars run deep, not just in the physical wounds, but in the broken trust between communities, the fear in the eyes of children, and the silence of elders who have seen too many cycles of hope and betrayal.
And the economic cost? It is no less devastating. The war in the North alone destroyed hospitals, schools, roads, dams, and industries. It reversed years of development, pushed millions deeper into poverty, and turned productive land into zones of ruin. Now, with the country already struggling with inflation, debt, and unemployment, another war would be catastrophic.
Yet, despite all this, we see the same old patterns repeating. Political disputes become framed in existential terms. Each side accuses the other of betrayal and illegitimacy. Rhetoric becomes more aggressive. Troops are mobilized. The drums of war beat again. And once again, it is the ordinary peasant, the trader, the teacher, the student, who will bear the heaviest burden.
The people are watching. We are not blind. We see the posturing and the brinkmanship. We see the blame games, the nationalist slogans, and the silencing of voices that call for restraint. And we are clear: Ethiopia cannot survive another war.
There are many who still believe that war can bring decisive victory — that military force can crush opposition, restore order, and stabilize the state. This is a dangerous illusion.
History has shown, over and over, that war in Ethiopia does not end problems; it deepens them. It does not build national unity; it fractures it further. It does not deliver lasting peace; it plants the seeds of the next conflict.
Even if one side achieves a military “victory,” that cannot be the foundation of a stable, prosperous Ethiopia. Victory through war creates resentment, not reconciliation. It breeds a culture of distrust and revenge, not one of justice and shared citizenship.
Ethiopia is not just a state; it is a nation of many nations, of many languages, religions, and histories. None can be forced into submission without destroying the very fabric of the country. The idea that one group can dominate the rest through force, or that another group can secede by force, is a fantasy that has already brought immense suffering.
War is not justice. War is not development. War is not strength. War is, ultimately, a failure — a failure of political imagination, a failure of leadership, and a failure of humanity.
The current tension between the TPLF and the Federal Government must not be allowed to erupt into open conflict. The signs are clear that the situation is volatile, and every day of escalation brings the country closer to a new round of violence.
De‑escalation is not weakness. It is wisdom. It is the only responsible choice for leaders who claim to serve the Ethiopian people.
First, both sides must stop the aggressive rhetoric and the military posturing. Words matter. When leaders speak as if war is inevitable, they make it more likely. They must instead choose language that creates space for dialogue, not justification for violence.
Second, the federal government, as the authority with the greatest responsibility for national security, must take the initiative to de‑escalate. This means halting any military movements that could be seen as preparing for war, reducing troop concentrations, and making clear, public commitments to a peaceful resolution.
At the same time, the TPLF leadership must also show restraint. The right to political grievance is real, but resorting to armed confrontation is not acceptable in a country that is still recovering from so much bloodshed. All parties must recognize that political differences must be settled through constitutional and democratic means, not through bullets.
Third, and most importantly, Ethiopia needs a credible, inclusive process of dialogue that addresses the root causes of conflict. This is not just about Tigray; it is about Ethiopia as a whole. Core issues — questions of power, identity, justice, land, the constitution, and the future of the federation — must be discussed in a forum that brings in all major political and regional actors, civil society, and independent mediators.
One‑sided decisions and closed‑door negotiations are not enough. The people of Ethiopia are not pawns in a power struggle between elites. They must be at the centre of any process that will determine the country’s future.
The Ethiopian people have already paid too high a price. We have sacrificed children, livelihoods, and years of progress. We have poured our tears into the soil, praying for peace. We have endured the silence of the oppressed and the arrogance of the powerful.
Now, we say clearly: we will not accept another war. We will not accept another cycle of destruction in the name of politics, ideology, or so‑called “regional security.”
The youth of Ethiopia, especially, must be heard. They did not ask for this war. They did not ask to grow up in a country where their dreams are limited by borders, checkpoints, and insecurity. They are demanding education, jobs, justice, and a peaceful homeland. They deserve that, not another generation of loss.
The clergy, elders, women, traders, and civil society leaders who have repeatedly called for peace have shown the true Ethiopian tradition. Peace is not surrender; it is courage. Peace is not passive; it is the active pursuit of reconciliation, justice, and a shared future.
To the leaders in Addis Ababa and Mekelle: the people are watching. History is watching. The world is watching.
You have a choice: to continue down the path of confrontation, risk another war, and leave your names tied to more suffering and ruin — or to choose the harder, braver path of peace, dialogue, and national healing.
The people of Ethiopia are tired of war. We are not ready for peace, we are ready for survival, for dignity, for a future where our children can grow up in a country at peace.
War is never the answer. Ethiopia has already proved that beyond any doubt. The only way forward is through de‑escalation, dialogue, and a genuine commitment to peace.
Enough. No more war.
Sudan at the zero point: Why 70 of independence demand new political thinking
By Abdulgadir (Abdul) Mohammed
Today (January 2, 2026) marks 70 years since Sudan emerged from colonial rule in 1956 with immense hope: hope for dignity, justice, and a state that would serve its people rather than dominate them.
Seventy years later, Sudan is at war with itself. But it is essential to say this clearly, especially on such a symbolic date: this war does not reflect the character of the Sudanese people.
Anyone who has spent time among Sudanese communities knows this. Sudanese society is marked by generosity, civic solidarity, humor in hardship, and an instinctive care for others. Even during this devastating war, ordinary people have shared what little they have, sheltered strangers, organized neighborhood aid, and protected one another across ethnic, religious, and regional lines. The humanitarian work of the emergency response rooms speaks volumes about the character and spirit of the Sudanese people.
This civic spirit deeply impressed President Thabo Mbeki during his years leading the African Union mediation on Sudan. After travelling widely across the country and engaging communities far beyond negotiating halls, he once remarked: “I hope and pray that one day Sudanese will have a government that is as good as them.”
That hope still matters. It matters because Sudan’s tragedy is not a failure of its people. It is a failure of politics.
Why Zero Point matters for Sudan
I recently read a book called Zero Point by Slavoj Žižek. I did not read it looking for answers about Sudan, and I am not an academic. I am an African political activist and mediator. I read widely because reading sometimes helps me find language for realities that are difficult to name.
Žižek writes about moments when societies reach a point where the old order has already collapsed, yet everyone continues to behave as if it still exists. Governments are recognized, institutions function in name, negotiations continue, and official language remains confident—but none of this connects with lived reality anymore.
He calls this moment a “zero point.”
It is not the end of politics. It is more dangerous than that. It is the moment when the ground under politics gives way, but we keep using the same words, tools, and assumptions as if nothing fundamental has changed. The state exists, but no longer governs.
Sudan officially has a government led by the Sudanese Armed Forces. It is recognized internationally. Ministries exist. Flags fly.
But recognition is not the same as responsibility.
The state does not protect civilians at scale. It barely provides services. It does not organize social life beyond survival and coercion. It offers no shared national vision capable of commanding consent.
On the other side, the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) control large parts of the country. Their leaders claim to be dismantling the unjust “1956 state,” a message that resonates with Sudanese at the peripheries who were excluded for decades. But what exists under RSF control is not reform or governance. It is rule by extreme uncertainty, displacement, and atrocity.
This is not a setback. It is disaster.
Much international engagement with Sudan treats the war as a setback: a failed transition, a power struggle between two generals, a crisis that can be managed with enough pressure and patience.
This is a profound misreading of the destructive nature of the war dynamic and its hostility to political settlement.
Defeat implies recovery. Disaster destroys the conditions of recovery.
In Sudan today, violence is not a breakdown of order—it is the order. Atrocity is not accidental—it is how control is exercised. Fear, hunger, and displacement are tools of power.
Polarization as an instrument of defeat
One of the most destructive features of Sudan’s war is polarization—not as a social by-product, but as a political strategy.
Polarization narrows political space until only existential camps remain. Compromise becomes betrayal. Politics becomes war by other means. Even if guns fall silent, politics cannot resume because trust and shared language have been destroyed.
What Zero Point teaches
The key lesson from Zero Point is this: when societies reach a zero point, repeating old formulas becomes part of the problem. Reformist language, procedural optimism, and technical fixes no longer illuminate reality; they obscure it.
At the zero point, the choice is not between good and bad options. It is between thinking honestly or surrendering to catastrophe.
Mamdani and the slow poison of collapse
This warning resonates deeply with African political thought, especially the work of Mahmood Mamdani and his recent book, Slow Poison.
Mamdani argues that many postcolonial crises are not sudden failures but the result of long-term, incremental damage—the slow hollowing out of political institutions, civic life, and popular sovereignty.
His critique of neoliberal governance is especially relevant. Neoliberalism weakens the state’s social foundations while strengthening its coercive arm. Over time, politics is emptied of meaning, leaving force to fill the vacuum.
Sudan’s collapse fits this pattern.
Beyond Islamism and neoliberalism
Sudan cannot be rebuilt within old ideological binaries. Islamism failed to build inclusive politics. Neoliberalism failed to build a socially rooted state.
New thinking must move beyond both. This does not negate negotiation or the urgency of stopping the war immediately. Ending the war is a moral imperative.
But without new thinking, a ceasefire risks freezing disaster in place.
Seventy years to nowhere—and a chance to begin again.
Seventy years after independence, Sudan stands at a painful crossroads. One could describe this history as seventy years to nowhere—a cycle of militarization, exclusion, and aborted democratic promise.
But Sudan’s people have not failed. They have resisted, organized, and cared for one another. The failure lies in political systems that never rose to their level.
The Sudanese people deserve a government as good as they are.
Politics is still possible—but only if we are willing to think differently and rebuild from the truth.
