Identity is the sum of qualities, outlooks, traits, and appearances that distinguish one person—or one nation—from another. Ethiopia, as a country, has its share of such defining characteristics: coffee that awakens the world, spiritual treasures that baffle and inspire, and tourist sites that remain unmatched in their mystique. But beyond these external markers lies something deeper—an etiquette and collective sensibility that quietly define who we are.
In earlier times, leaders were guided not just by laws, but by codes of conduct that extended to their smallest gestures—how they walked, laughed, ate, or addressed others. The ideal was a soft talk and light walk, an understated refinement that conveyed dignity.
Recently, I was reminded of how enduring some of these values remain. On July 8, the day taxes are collected annually, I found myself in a crowded woreda revenue office. Dozens of residents had gathered—some to receive their tax estimates, others to ask questions or make payments. What struck me most was not the bureaucracy but the grace of the people waiting. Young men and women rose without hesitation to offer their seats to the elderly. In turn, elders yielded their places to religious leaders, regardless of age. The hierarchy was unspoken, yet universally understood.
We are a communal people. Visiting family, friends, or neighbors is not a luxury but a necessity. Attendance at weddings, funerals, and other gatherings is expected, even at personal inconvenience. We have a word for the instinct to consider others’ opinions before acting—yelugnta.
This respectfulness recalls something Emperor Haile Selassie I once told The New York Times when asked to define Ethiopianness:
“Ethiopianness is pride and humility. You see a very ordinary farmer’s house. Wash your feet, kiss your washed feet; he leaves the bed for you, but he lies down on the floor. At the same time, if you come against him and his land, he will shoot you in the forehead. It does not conflict. But to understand this, you have to be Ethiopian yourself.”
One of our most beautiful customs is to rise when an elder enters the room, greeting them with norn!—a word whose final “n” is silent, meaning “we have lived thus.” The reply, Be Egziabher!—“by the grace of our God”—affirms the shared blessing of longevity. These rituals are more than courtesies; they are social laws.
To ignore them is to risk being labeled asedabi—embarrassment, uncultured, undisciplined—a mark not only upon the individual but upon their entire family. This shared accountability shapes how many Ethiopians conduct themselves in public and private life. Etiquette governs everything from how we eat and walk to how we speak and laugh.
In truth, social norms often bind us more strongly than proclamations and legal codes. I have seen adolescents yield to elders’ commands with full obedience—something no statute could compel. The respect is not enforced; it is inherited.
Other nations have their own traditions of honor. In the United States, Veterans Day is set aside to honor military service. In Ethiopia, we have seen similar efforts, such as granting scholarships to the children of fallen soldiers, presented with full ceremonial dignity. These gestures matter because they affirm a community’s memory and gratitude.
But these values are fragile. Technology, social media, and cultural assimilation risk eroding them. While there is much we can learn from other societies, in this respect Ethiopia has something to teach the world: the art of honoring elders, leaders, and one another—not as formality, but as a way of life.
Sophistication is not always imported. Sometimes, it is an ancient treasure waiting to be recognized, cherished, and passed on.
Contributed by Selamawit Kidane
