It was just after 3 p.m. The sun hovered low in the Addis Ababa sky, casting long shadows over Meskel Square. At a popular hotel nearby, a group of about 15 people—young, idealistic, and energized—had gathered on the terrace to support the creation of an Ethiopian chapter of a an international organization led by students and recent graduates.
We settled into the hotel’s lush garden terrace, drawn by the warmth and ambiance—the sunset unfolding before us with quiet grandeur that made the place feel ideal for an informal meeting.
But soon after we sat down, a waitress approached, uneasy. Only a few of us had placed orders. She gently hinted that occupying the space required everyone to make a purchase. We shrugged off her request. Soon, the head waiter arrived, replacing courtesy with command. We were told in no uncertain terms: most of us had to order or leave.
Reluctantly, we complied—except for one young woman.
That one exception was unforgettable. The young woman—confident, composed, and charismatic—calmly asked the head waiter for the general manager’s contact. Moments later, she was on the phone with him. Within minutes, the situation had flipped entirely. We were welcome to stay, and the once-stern head waiter suddenly became gracious and accommodating.
More than a decade later, I still remember her—not just for what she did, but for how she did it.
It was a quiet triumph. Many of us watched her in awe. She had no formal position, no seniority in academia. Among us were students of law, political science, and international relations, some senior in their academic pursuits. Yet none had wielded influence with such subtle force. She possessed something rare and powerful: the ability to persuade, not through confrontation but with calm clarity and charm.
In the days that followed, and even years later, we often reflected on her gift. “I wish I could express myself like that,” we would say. “To be heard. To convince. To lead.” We assumed such skill was innate—unreachable through effort or training.
Over the years, I’ve tried to persuade others—from family members to professors, friends to strangers. I’ve often failed. And yet, I’ve come to believe something simple: there are those who possess an extraordinary gift—the rare ability to inspire, convince, and lead with words.
Diplomacy, too, acknowledges this truth. The success of foreign policy, as seasoned diplomats know, hinges not only on strategy or power, but on the people chosen to represent a nation’s voice. As Joseph Nye famously articulated, soft power is “the ability to attract and persuade,” distinct from the coercive force of military or economic might. True influence, he argued, comes not from imposing one’s will, but from shaping the preferences of others—through culture, ideals, and compelling narratives. It is the art of making others want what you want.
Soft power’s true instrument is language. Words craft agendas, elicit empathy, and reframe conflict. And nowhere is this more urgent than in humanitarian diplomacy. Diplomacy, especially in its humanitarian form, relies heavily on this intangible strength.
April 24 marks the United Nations’ International Day of Multilateralism and Diplomacy for Peace—a timely reminder that dialogue, not domination, is what sustains global peace.
Humanitarian diplomacy, in particular, must lean entirely on soft power. It is the language of compassion, used to advocate for the world’s most vulnerable. Ethiopia’s ongoing humanitarian crisis demands this kind of engagement. As recently reported in this paper, more than 10 million Ethiopians face hunger and malnutrition. Conflict in neighboring countries, including Sudan and South Sudan, is pushing more refugees into Ethiopia. Meanwhile, the Somali region, still reeling from a years-long drought, now braces for poor rainfall once again.
Nearly 90 years ago, the term “Weapons of Mass Destruction” entered the global lexicon. Today, we might imagine its antithesis: Words for the Multitudes’ Dignity—an arsenal of language deployed to restore peace, elevate humanity, and defend the powerless.
We need diplomats—not just the official kind in embassies, but those who can speak up where it matters. Those who, like the young woman at that hotel, use words as bridges, not barriers.
It is my hope that we plant the seeds of that kind of diplomacy—soon. Let us begin, even in small ways. One conversation. One cause. One quiet but transformative act of persuasion. If planted with care, the seeds of soft power might one day grow into a global culture of empathy, dialogue, and lasting peace.
Contributed by Selamawit Kidane
