On an overcast October morning in Addis Ababa, the quiet corridors of the Ethiopian National Archives and Library Agency (NALA) hummed with the whir of old recordings and the flicker of moving images. Inside the Blatta Merse Hazen Wolde Qirqos Hall, a small crowd of archivists, artists, broadcasters, and historians gathered—bound by a shared reverence for the fragile yet enduring power of audiovisual memory.

The occasion was Ethiopia’s commemoration of the World Day for Audiovisual Heritage, an annual observance established by UNESCO to honor the images and sounds that shape humanity’s collective memory. Celebrated globally every October 27th, the day serves both as tribute and warning: history is not only written in ink, but recorded in voices, gestures, and sound.

“Audiovisual archives tell us stories about people’s lives and cultures from all over the world,” reads a UNESCO statement that guided the day’s reflection. “They represent a priceless heritage—an affirmation of our collective memory and a valuable source of knowledge, since they reflect the cultural, social, and linguistic diversity of our communities. They help us grow and comprehend the world we all share.”

In Addis Ababa, that truth resonated with particular force. The idea that a single photograph, a broadcast, or a melody could carry generations of meaning hung in the air—an unspoken theme of the gathering, where the country’s renewed efforts to preserve its audiovisual past took center stage.

The familiar saying that a picture is worth a thousand words found fresh urgency in this context. Ethiopia’s films, sound recordings, and broadcast archives are not relics of nostalgia; they are living documents of social transformation, creative endurance, and national identity.

This year’s commemoration carried special significance. It coincided with the official establishment of the Ethiopian National Committee for the Registration of Documentary Heritage, a body tasked with ensuring that the country’s audiovisual treasures are inscribed in UNESCO’s Memory of the World Register.

The committee’s mission extends far beyond cataloguing. It is about reclaiming narratives—safeguarding the collective memory contained in photographs, films, and recordings that tell the story of Ethiopian life in all its texture and complexity.

For Serse Feresebhat, Director General of NALA, the moment was both celebration and reckoning.

“Indeed, perhaps the Agency has not done as much extensive work in this area as it has in its 82 years of work in the field of manuscripts,” he admitted, speaking with measured candor. “However, the fact that we have managed to collect such rare and valuable audiovisual materials cannot be overlooked.”

He reminded the audience that while most Ethiopians associate NALA with books and manuscripts, the agency is also the custodian of the nation’s sonic and visual memory—from the rhythms of early music recordings to the first flickering reels of television drama.

Tucked away in its vaults lies a trove of vinyl records, magnetic reels, cassettes, VHS tapes, and 35mm and 16mm film. Together, they trace the nation’s artistic and social evolution—some dating back to the dawn of Ethiopian broadcasting, when the voice of an announcer or the strain of a folk tune carried the optimism of a new era.

State Minister of Culture and Sports Nebiyu Baye, who attended the commemoration, described the country’s audiovisual legacy as “truly remarkable.”

“From the German recording of Negadras Tesema Eshete onward,” he said, “we possess over a century of musical recordings that trace a living history.”

That living history encompasses not only the music of celebrated performers but also the soundscapes of ordinary life—radio dramas, public speeches, folk performances, and the first televised debates. Together, they capture the rhythm of a nation growing through song and story.

Nebiyu also reflected on Ethiopia’s early and often overlooked role in African cinema. Films such as Hirut Abatua Manew? (Whose Daughter is Hirut?), produced more than 60 years ago, stand, he noted, as expressions of modernity that predated the rise of many other African film industries.

Cinema in Ethiopia, he suggested, has always been more than entertainment—it has been a mirror of social transformation, often created amid scarcity yet rich in ambition. That Ethiopia could produce such work so early, he said, speaks to a long tradition of visual storytelling.

“Even in those early films,” Nebiyu added, “you can see the desire to document, to express, to modernize. That, too, is heritage.”

But beyond nostalgia, the day’s conversations carried a note of urgency: the need to protect and digitize these fragile records before time erases them.

For decades, Ethiopian Radio and Ethiopian Television have amassed vast repositories—roughly ninety and sixty years’ worth, respectively—of audio and visual recordings. Together, they form not only a technical archive but a spiritual one: the voices of musicians, statesmen, poets, and ordinary citizens whose lives unfolded through sound and image.

Yet preserving these archives demands resources, expertise, and institutional resolve. Magnetic tapes decay; film reels corrode; even digital files can vanish with a power surge or a forgotten password. A proposal emerged during the event: to permanently deposit the archival copies held by both broadcasters at NALA, where they could be restored and safeguarded under one national roof.

The idea resonated deeply. Centralizing the collections, many argued, would improve accessibility for students and researchers while allowing for professional restoration and long-term preservation.

Audiovisual archives, speakers emphasized, are not static relics but living resources—indispensable for education, research, and the understanding of Ethiopia’s linguistic diversity, musical evolution, and media history. For scholars tracing the shifts in Amharic broadcasting or filmmakers studying the roots of local cinema, these collections bridge the distance between past and present.

Inside NALA’s exhibition area, visitors found that bridge made tangible. A modest display of sound, video, and photographic artifacts offered intimate glimpses into the country’s creative memory.

Old vinyl records, their labels fading but still legible in looping Amharic script. A weathered reel of film, coiled in its metallic case. Black-and-white photographs of early television studios—technicians in crisp shirts, standing proudly beside bulky cameras. These were not merely relics but time capsules, holding the laughter, applause, and dialogue of another era.

And as the day’s reflections made clear, preservation is not a backward-looking act but a creative one. To restore a film, to digitize a fading broadcast, to catalogue a forgotten voice—these are acts of storytelling. They ensure that the voices which built a nation can still be heard, long after the reels stop spinning.

At Golden Tulip, Thursday nights transform into an oasis

On Thursday nights in Addis Ababa, as the city’s traffic dissolves into the evening haze, a quieter rhythm begins to pulse. Inside the Golden Tulip lounge, the lights dim to a soft amber and the first piano chords drift into the air — tender, deliberate, almost conversational. The music moves through the room like a shared breath.

It isn’t simply a performance. It’s a ritual — a gentle reclaiming of what music once meant in this city: intimacy, expression, connection.

These Thursday Piano Nights are quickly becoming one of Addis Ababa’s most understated yet essential musical gatherings. They remind audiences — and perhaps the musicians themselves — that live music doesn’t always need spectacle. Sometimes, all it needs is a piano, a voice, and a room willing to listen.

The evening begins without fanfare. No announcements, no spotlight, no demand for attention. The pianist starts quietly, easing into melodies that live in the nation’s collective memory: faint jazz improvisations, timeless Amharic ballads, fragments of songs that feel older than the walls themselves. Conversations soften; the mood shifts.

Soon, the singers join in — two voices trading interpretations of love, longing, and light. One lingers on the melancholy of Tilahun Gessesse’s classics; another glides through Mehamud Ahmed’s modern phrasing. Their voices do not compete but converse, weaving harmonies that suggest both respect and restraint.

There is humility here. No theatrics, no amplifiers straining for dominance — just craftsmanship. The kind of musicianship that grows from years of playing, listening, and trusting the silence between notes. In a city that rewards volume, these Thursday nights celebrate quiet mastery.

But what happens here is more than entertainment; it is a subtle cultural correction. In Addis Ababa’s evolving art scene, live music has often tilted toward the loud, the social, the easily consumed. Yet here, the audience listens. They do not talk over the pianist or scroll through their phones. They listen — fully. And in that collective stillness, something beautiful unfolds: a shared quiet that feels both rare and necessary in the capital’s restless tempo.

For older guests, the experience recalls the golden days of hotel lounges and orchestral cafés — when musicians played from the heart, not the playlist. For younger listeners, it is a revelation: that music can be intimate without being private, emotional without being extravagant.

That, in essence, is what Thursday Piano Nights have revived — a culture of attentive listening.

The repertoire bridges generations. The pianist moves fluidly between jazz standards and Ethiopian classics: a reimagined “Yene Konjo” one moment, a delicate “Autumn Leaves” the next. The blend feels seamless, but more importantly, intentional.

These nights are not curated to impress; they are curated to connect. Each piece carries a memory — of dance halls and smoky cafés, of afternoons when a record player anchored the living room. The musicians seem aware of this lineage. They play not only for the audience before them, but for the generations that built Ethiopia’s musical identity: the keyboardists of the 1960s, the vocalists who shaped Amharic pop, the jazz bands that once filled city hotels with improvisational fire.

There is reverence in their sound, a quiet recognition that music, like memory, survives only when played aloud.

What makes these evenings remarkable is not merely the skill of the players, but the intimacy of their exchange. You see it in the way the pianist nods before shifting key, or how the singer closes his eyes at the peak of a verse — not for drama, but to hold the moment steady. Every gesture feels deliberate; every note lands with quiet significance.

There is no barrier between musician and listener. No stage, no elevation, no distance. The piano sits in one corner of the room, yet the music feels central — an anchor around which everything else orbits. Conversations hush when the first few measures of a beloved tune begin. Couples lean closer, not to whisper, but to listen. That shared silence, that collective pause, becomes a kind of music itself.

Addis Ababa has always been a city in motion — cranes rising, traffic swelling, nights filled with amplified sound. But amid that constant acceleration, spaces like this remind the city of its craving for softness.

The Thursday Piano Nights have become a refuge for that softness — a weekly reprieve from the city’s intensity. A place where an artist can linger on a melody, and an audience, for once, allows time to slow with it.

It isn’t nostalgia driving this revival of quieter performance; it’s recognition — recognition that live music is not just entertainment, but emotion, communication, and care.

“You don’t just hear the piano here,” one regular attendee said. “You feel what the city has been missing.”

Though the piano is the evening’s heart, it rarely beats alone. Spontaneous collaborations often emerge: a singer joins a fellow musician, an amateur steps in for a song or two, a guest performer blends languages and styles. These moments blur the line between planned and improvised, echoing the soul of Ethiopian jazz and its instinct for improvisation.

The result is a kind of fluid artistry — alive, unrepeatable, never rehearsed the same way twice. Perhaps that’s what gives these nights their quiet power. In an age of digital playlists and studio perfection, they offer imperfection — the human kind.

But the rebirth of piano-led evenings is about more than art. It signals a broader shift within the city’s creative community — a renewed respect for craftsmanship and connection. As Addis transforms, its art is finding new homes in familiar spaces: cafés, bars, and hotel lounges where the line between performer and listener dissolves.

Each Thursday performance at the Golden Tulip is a reminder that the piano remains one of the city’s most eloquent storytellers. It has accompanied generations — through revolution, romance, and rebirth — and still speaks, without words, to what Addis feels like at its most sincere.

When the final song fades, the applause rises — not loud, but genuine. The pianist nods. The singers smile. And for a brief moment, everything — the sound, the silence, even the city outside — seems suspended.

Then the spell gently breaks. People return to their tables; conversations resume. But something lingers — an afterglow only live music can leave behind.

These Thursday nights are not grand. They are not crowded. But they are necessary. They give Addis Ababa something beyond entertainment — they give it reflection, rhythm, and tenderness. And as long as there’s a piano willing to play, and a few people willing to listen, the city will always have its softer pulse.

At just 24, Amanuel Tilahun has built his life around a camera lens. His journey into photography began eight years ago, armed with nothing more than a cell phone his parents had bought him.

“That phone became my first camera—and my teacher,” he said, recalling the early days when he spent hours photographing everyday scenes around Addis Ababa. Each shot, he added, trained his eye to notice light, texture, and emotion—the subtle details that would later define his work.

In 2021, Amanuel joined Board Cellphone (BC), a local collective that helped shape his creative direction and refine his technical skills. “The experience exposed me to new ways of seeing,” he said. “It helped me understand my own potential as a photographer.”

His time with BC opened new doors, including participation in major public showcases such as the Tecno Ethiopia Photo Exhibition. The exhibition became a turning point in his career, allowing him to share his interpretation of Ethiopia’s people and landscapes with a wider audience.

The show followed a photography trip organized by BC and Tecno Mobile, taking participants through Harar, Dire Dawa, Kududo Mountain, and back to Addis Ababa. Over the course of the journey, Amanuel captured more than 40 images that highlighted the country’s dramatic landscapes, vibrant traditions, and the daily rhythms of its communities.

Two of his photographs stood out for their emotional depth and composition. One depicted wild horses galloping across the plateau of Kududo Mountain, with fellow photographers racing behind them—a fleeting, cinematic moment. Another framed the colorful streets of Harar, layered with meaning that, in Amanuel’s words, “goes beyond the visible scene.”

For Amanuel, the exhibition was not just a showcase—it was an affirmation. His work, seen by more than 5,000 visitors, invited audiences to experience Ethiopia through his lens. “My images tell stories of faces and movements that words cannot express,” he told The Reporter. “It was also a chance to show the quality of my craft.”

That spirit of creative exploration continued this year. On October 11, 2025, Tecno Ethiopia, in partnership with BC, hosted the Camon 40 Series Promotion and Photo Exhibition at the Addis International Convention Centre. Featuring more than 250 photographs captured with Tecno’s latest camera innovation, the exhibition blended technology and artistry in one space.

The event brought together established and emerging photographers—including Amanuel—whose works reflected scenes from across Ethiopia. Visitors of all ages wandered through the exhibit, discovering stories told in light and color. For the organizers, the event was more than a celebration of photography; it was a bridge between technology and creativity, giving young visual storytellers the tools to reimagine how Ethiopia is seen.

For Henok Solomon, public relations manager at Tecno Ethiopia, the Camon 40 Photo Exhibition was more than a product showcase—it was a celebration of creativity through technology.

“The exhibition marked a milestone in the collaboration between innovation and art,” Henok said. “It served as a platform to promote photographic work created through mobile technology, while also celebrating Ethiopia’s visual diversity through the eyes of its photographers.”

Organized in partnership with Board Cellphone’s photography team, the exhibition was designed to encourage exploration—both artistic and geographic. “We wanted the public to see their country through local photographers’ perspectives,” Henok said. “By sending the team to different regions and letting them capture images with their phones, we hoped to inspire others to travel and appreciate the beauty around them.”

This year’s event marked the second edition of the exhibition open to the general public in Addis Ababa. The first was held a year ago with the program showcasing around 80 photographs taken in Arba Minch and Awassa, highlighting the landscapes and communities of Ethiopia’s southern regions.

The broader goal, he explained, is to spark public curiosity about Ethiopia’s cultural and natural diversity while demonstrating the capabilities of Tecno’s Camon camera series. The recent exhibition featured the work of more than 20 photographers who completed a week-long photo tour through various regions, taking about 10 days in total to capture their images.

Beyond this particular collaboration, the team continues to document life across Ethiopia. “Recently, they traveled to the Gurage region during the Meskel holiday to capture local traditions and celebrations,” Henok noted. These tours, he added, are part of an ongoing effort to tell diverse stories through photography.

Encouraged by strong public engagement, Henok said they plan to organize more exhibitions in the coming years. “The response has been overwhelmingly positive,” he said. “This year’s turnout was significantly higher than last year’s, with many visitors coming specifically to view the photographs.”

For Amanuel, the exhibition also signaled a personal milestone. Looking ahead, he hopes to continue developing his craft as a full-time photographer and to reach wider audiences through his work. “My goal is to become a well-known photographer and to hold my own exhibitions,” he said.

Every photograph, he believes, is a fragment of a larger story—one that connects people to the landscapes and communities around them. For young photographers like Amanuel, exhibitions such as the Camon 40 Photo Exhibition offer more than visibility; they provide a space to exchange ideas, refine technique, and explore how everyday scenes can become art.

What began as playful imitation for her siblings soon evolved into stage performances in school and local youth clubs, nurturing a fascination with storytelling that would later define her life’s path. Over time, a pastime turned into a purpose: to tell stories through film.

That dream took a decisive turn when Elisabeth moved to the United States to study filmmaking—an experience she describes as the realization of a childhood vision. “Film, for me, has always been more than storytelling,” she told The Reporter. “It’s a bridge between imagination and experience, connecting who we are with who we hope to become.”

Her studies at the New York Film Academy, which she joined in 2012 to pursue film acting, opened a new world of creative rigor. After completing her training, she performed in several Off-Broadway productions across small New York theaters before moving to Los Angeles to continue her education and earn a bachelor’s degree in film.

For Elisabeth, the path was far from straightforward. “Many people in my life questioned why I didn’t study nursing or something that promised better income,” she recalled with a smile. “But my goal was never just to make money—it was to honor a dream I had sacrificed so much for.”

Before film school, she built a different life altogether. In Italy, she trained as a hairdresser, later opening her own salon in Baltimore, Maryland. Leaving a stable business to chase a career in cinema came with real risks—and plenty of unsolicited advice.

Still, she followed her conviction. “If a person’s talent isn’t for doctoring, they’ll become doctors who make mistakes,” she said. “Working without passion—whether as a doctor or a hairdresser—doesn’t lead to fulfilment or real success.”

Elisabeth’s graduation project marked her first foray into filmmaking. She created an educational short film, Asalafi (“The Bartender”), which explored domestic violence and the efforts of individuals seeking to transform the lives of young people affected by alcohol addiction and family abuse.

The short film opened doors to the industry, leading to an unexpected opportunity: she was invited to work on a documentary about Ethiopia. Though she had no prior experience, the producer offered her the role of casting director. Elisabeth accepted—but on one condition: the project must not portray her country negatively.

The resulting one-hour, twenty-minute documentary included a court scene depicting the atrocities of the Red Terror. Casting proved challenging; Elisabeth scoured communities to find actors, navigating obstacles that would later inspire her to create a platform for Ethiopian filmmakers.

With the support of fellow Ethiopians Negede Yilma and Dagmawi Abebe, Elisabeth helped establish a film association designed to connect professionals worldwide and foster collaboration. Today, she serves as its president. The California-based, volunteer-run nonprofit has grown to more than 300 members.

Elisabeth believes Ethiopian cinema has untapped potential, driven by a generation rich in talent and creativity. She encourages filmmakers—whether TikTokers, YouTubers, or traditional producers—to focus on work that reflects Ethiopia in a positive light.

Balancing filmmaking with a day job, she notes, is not a barrier. The proliferation of digital technology and social media has made recognition more accessible than ever.

“Many professionals in the past faced significant challenges with equipment and access to networks. One should work with the better opportunities available today,” she said. “Working only for money and fame is a waste.”

Abraham Tekle contributed to this story.

By Yonas Amare and Abraham Tekle

The bulbous, vase-shaped glass vessel, has long been an enduring emblem of Ethiopian heritage. Once central to communal gatherings and ritual celebrations, it is most closely associated with tej—the country’s traditional honey wine.

Historians trace its origins to the Aksumite Empire, where tej was reserved for royalty and the elite. Over the centuries, the vessel made its way into households and tej betoch—specialized honey-wine houses—its form inseparable from the ancient craft of fermenting honey with gesho, a bittering plant that defines the drink’s flavor.

The Berelé’s distinctive shape is not merely decorative: its wide bowl and narrow neck are thought to concentrate the wine’s floral aroma, turning a simple sip into a ceremonial act. “It was more than just a drinking vessel—it was part of a traditional Ethiopian living,” said Abel Assefa, director and curator of the Yimtubezina Museum and Cultural Centre.

But with shifting social practices and the spread of modern customs, the Berelé slowly receded from everyday life. Today it is more often prized as a cultural symbol than as a household necessity. Still, it endures—as a fixture at weddings and festivals, a sought-after souvenir, and increasingly, an object of scholarly and artistic attention.

That shift is the focus of a new exhibition, Neger Bemessale, Taj be Berelé: The Story of the Birillé in Ethiopia as told by Ian Campbell, now on view at the Centre in Addis Ababa’s Friendship Park. Running from Sept. 30 through Jan. 18, 2025, the exhibition presents a sweeping view of the vessel’s relatively recent history through the lens of Campbell, a historian and consultant in cultural heritage management.

The show brings together more than 150 Berelé, 100 of them distinct in shape, texture, and design, each with its own historical associations. Nearly 20 paintings by four contemporary Ethiopian artists accompany the glassware, visualizing the vessel’s place in everyday life and memory.

For Abel, these artworks underscore how deeply woven the Berelé once was in Ethiopian life.

The exhibition is also a story of collection. Campbell’s assemblage, amassed over more than 35 years, began as an act of curiosity. That spark grew into a lifelong pursuit fueled by travel across Ethiopia, visits to Addis Ababa’s sprawling Merkato, and the historic city of Harar, gifts from friends, and trades with local merchants.

Now, for the museum’s eleventh major exhibition, that archive is on public view. Organizers say the show has drawn both local and international visitors: casual enthusiasts eager to understand Ethiopia’s traditions, and scholars seeking primary material for cultural and historical study. For the public, it is a reminder that the Berelé—once a vessel for honey wine—remains, in form and spirit, a vessel for memory.

For Abel, the Berelé is a witness to history. Imported over centuries from glassmaking centers across the world, the vessels carried with them layers of symbolism. Some were decorated with political emblems, others with royal insignia, only to be repurposed as power shifted in Ethiopia.

“During the reign of Haile Selassie I, several Berelés now in the museum featured the image of the Italian royal family,” Abel said. “These were later altered by etching a cross over the glass.” The same pattern of revision followed the tides of politics: vessels adorned with the Imperial Crown were subsequently reworked by the Derg regime to display its ruling committee.

Though the Berelé’s presence in Ethiopia dates back to the 14th century, Campbell’s collection reflects a more global journey. Many of his rarest pieces came from Bohemia, a region once part of Czechoslovakia and now in the Czech Republic. One Bohemian flask, in particular, holds deep personal significance for Campbell, who has spent decades building his collection.

Campbell, a historian best known as the author of The Plot to Kill Graziani, traces his fascination with the Berelé to a chance encounter in the late 1980s. Browsing a shop in the capital, he noticed several flasks on display and asked why the dealer was selling them at all.

“I thought to myself, ‘They’re not Ethiopian,’” he recalled. “Glass isn’t made here, so why are they in the market? Why would anyone buy them?” That moment of skepticism turned into curiosity. If there was a market for these “funny-looking” flasks, Campbell reasoned, there had to be a reason.

What began as a casual purchase soon became a lifelong pursuit. “At first, I didn’t know the history,” Campbell said. “But the more I collected, the more I realized there’s a story behind the Berelé.” Unlike manuscripts, crosses, or paintings—objects that already drew collectors—he found himself charting unexplored territory.

Abel, the museum director, stressed that Campbell’s work went beyond acquisition. “It wasn’t only about gathering pieces,” he said. “It was about understanding the full story of the Berelé up to the present day.”

That story, told through glass, is one of continuity and transformation. From its beginnings as an Aksumite royal chalice, to a politicized canvas marked by crowns and crosses, and now a museum centerpiece, the Berelé is more than an artifact. It is a fragile but enduring archive of Ethiopia’s shifting empires, its contested identities, and its communal rituals—silent yet eloquent in the weight of its history.

Ethiopia, with its deep artistic traditions, offers a rich collection of such stories. Musicians, writers and performers with disabilities have not merely participated in the country’s cultural life—they have helped shape it.

During the “Golden Age” of Ethiopian music in the 1960s, a student band from the Sebeta School for the Blind left an indelible imprint. Known as the Rainbow Band, its soulful sound reflected both virtuosity and resilience. Among its most celebrated members was vocalist Teshome Asseged, whose powerful delivery helped propel the group.

Literature, too, bears witness to artists whose disabilities sharpened their creative vision. Abera Tura, a visually impaired author, has written several acclaimed works and remains a revered figure in Ethiopia’s literary scene, proof that artistic brilliance transcends sight. Yetnebersh Nigussie, a lawyer and globally recognized disability-rights advocate, is a prolific writer of nonfiction, publishing works on legal reform and the rights of people with disabilities. Their achievements show how artistic expression can transform personal challenges into cultural landmarks, and what artistry can be—not limited by sight but enriched by imagination and sound.

Today, that legacy is being carried forward at the Felege Kine Art Center, a venue dedicated to showcasing the creative talents of people with disabilities. Through performances, exhibitions and public dialogues, the center demonstrates how art can transcend physical limitations and empower individuals.

Launched just over a year ago, Felege Kine is a partnership between the renowned Wegagen Band and volunteer artists, hosted at the Ethiopian National Association of the Blind. Its mission is to foster collaboration between visually impaired and sighted performers, creating a platform where young artists can engage with the public and build inclusive cultural spaces.

At its most recent showcase on Sept. 13, 2025, the center staged a dozen performances featuring 17 musicians and writers. Since its inception, it has mounted monthly programs with growing public interest, drawing hundreds of attendees.

To be considered for the stage, participants agree to two key guidelines: they must avoid insulting individuals or organizations, and they take full responsibility for their work before an audience. Beyond that, the artists are free to experiment with styles, themes and formats.

The Felege Kine stage blends music and literature in equal measure. Performances range from romanticized narratives and personal reflections to humorous anecdotes carrying moral lessons. In doing so, the initiative echoes Ethiopia’s long tradition of using art as a tool for storytelling, teaching and connection—while opening that tradition to new voices.

Inside the Felege Kine Art Center, committee members Getachew Moges and Esayas Bancha speak of the venue’s purpose with equal parts pride and urgency. For them, the stage is more than a platform; it is a catalyst.

“The center creates a dramatic atmosphere that empowers young people and art enthusiasts,” Getachew said. Writers and musicians, he added, perform without rigid limits, bringing “the wonders of art” to their audience.

Esayas, echoing his colleague’s sentiment, described the stage as a place where artists and writers “can discover themselves through creative dialogue.” A novelist and poet himself—he has written one novel and two poems—Esayas said the center also serves to honor the country’s artistic heritage. “Each year represents the remembrance of prominent figures like Gebrekirstos Desta, Tsegaye Gebremedhin, Sebehat Nega and others,” he said, noting that participants from a range of sectors join the events to “be the voice for the disabled.”

Yet this ambitious mission has been hampered by practical constraints. The center’s performance hall can seat only 120 to 150 people, limiting audience size and the scope of programming. Scarcity of materials and persistent financial strain, the organizers said, hinder their ability to fully support artists or expand their reach.

For Getachew, the cramped space is the most pressing obstacle. “If the center is financially strong, such cases can be solved easily,” he said. “But, as we formed the center for the sake of empowering youth with physical disabilities, our hands are tied.”

Esayas underscored the same point. “Financial support is very important for this initiative,” he said, explaining that the center receives no steady funding from government or other stakeholders. Most of the committee members, he added, participate voluntarily and cover expenses from their own pockets. “With the support that we would get, we can transform the center to generate income.”

Despite the challenges, the committee remains determined to push forward. Esayas wants to increase media coverage and elevate the quality of programming, including publishing the artists’ work to give them a wider platform. Getachew envisions a larger hall, more frequent performances and the recording and publication of music and books produced at the center—steps he believes could draw bigger audiences and prominent figures.

Artistic genius is not defined by physical ability but by imagination and resilience. Yet, the center’s core mission—to be a beacon for talented artists with disabilities—is critically hampered by a lack of space, funding and materials. In a society where the artists themselves can transcend any boundary, their platform for expression, the organizers argue, should not have to.

“To me, the digital world is not just about tools, software or Algorithms,” Toleha says. “It’s about survival and empowerment. If our young people don’t have these skills, they will be left out—not just from jobs, but from participating in the global future itself.”

The seeds of Dinar Technology, the online learning platform he founded, grew out of frustration. As a university student, Toleha says he watched classmates struggle to find internships or jobs because they lacked practical, hands-on skills.

“Formal education gives you theory,” he explains, “but when you go to an interview, the first question is: can you design this, can you edit that? Employers don’t only ask for grades—they also ask for proof. That gap is where so many lose opportunities.”

Instead of accepting the system’s limits, he sought to work around them. With no expensive computer labs, he turned to something most young Ethiopians already use daily: Telegram.

“People already spend hours on their phones,” Toleha says with a smile. “Why not turn that scrolling into a classroom?”

Through Dinar, students receive video lessons via Telegram channels, practice through assignments, and submit projects within 24 hours. Instructors provide feedback, and a peer community offers encouragement.

So far, within less than a year, we have completed eight rounds of training. In total, 197 students have graduated in graphic design, and at the moment additional ones are preparing to graduate. In the eighth round alone, there are 39 students enrolled.

Altogether, including these students, there will be 236 students in graphic design alone. Similarly, 161 students have learned only video editing; right now, in the eighth round there are 28 students, bringing the total to 189.

Toleha stated that these students primarily want this training because it’s an option that can create income and job opportunities.

“As I tried to break into the initial market, I found that various offices and companies are looking for experienced graphic designers to create logos, build different brands, and write advertisements — so they are seeking skilled graphic designers,” He said.

Likewise, He also noted that there is demand for skilled TikTok video editors — professionals who can edit trending videos and easily deliver them to viewers.

“That demand motivates most of the people who study with us.”

The teaching model is as simple as it is radical: a practical course compressed into digestible clips, delivered through a platform that requires only a smart phone and an internet connection.

“I wanted it to be flexible,” Toleha explains. “If someone works during the day, they can learn at night. If someone lives outside the city, they can still participate. No excuses, just access.”

For many students, this approach was their first taste of structured online learning.

SumeyaHidaw, a student who completed the graphics and video editing course, recalls her initial hesitation.

 “Before this, I had never taken online classes. Honestly, I was afraid it wouldn’t work, but it turned out to be much better than I expected. We watched lessons on Telegram, completed projects within 24 hours, and sent them in. If we had questions, the instructor was always available. I studied graphics design and video editing, and I gained real knowledge—something I didn’t have before.”

Her words echo Toleha’s insistence that quality doesn’t depend on location or formality. “Education is not about four walls and a blackboard,” he says. “It’s about clarity, structure, and feedback. Once those are there, you can learn anywhere—even on a bus with your headphones in.”

DagimKurabachew, another graduate, works full-time but uses his evenings and weekends to freelance.

“I work during the day, but freelancing requires specific skills, which is why I took the course,” he said. “In my free time, I now design business cards and logos. I’ve already done projects for a coffee shop and other businesses. The training gave me clarity about how design really works, and it’s a very good foundation for anyone who wants to keep advancing.”

For Dagim, the Telegram classroom translated almost immediately into income. “This is the power of digital,” Toleha notes. “One person can learn a skill today and start earning tomorrow. That independence is priceless.”

Of course, the model is not without its challenges. Internet connectivity remains uneven in Ethiopia, and skepticism about online education persists. “Some parents think if their child is learning on a phone, it’s not serious,” Toleha admits. “They say, ‘That’s just social media.’ Convincing them that this is real education is part of the work.”

Students, too, have had to adapt. “Online learning requires discipline,” Toleha stresses. “No one is standing over you. You have to be motivated. We try to support that by setting deadlines, creating group chats for accountability, and reminding students that what they are learning is not abstract—it is directly usable.”

Toleha rejects the idea that Dinar Technology is just about teaching Photoshop or Premiere. “Digital skills are the entry point,” he says, “but what we are really teaching is problem-solving, independence, and confidence. Once a student makes their first logo or edits their first video, they realize: ‘I can do this, I can sell this, I can create something of value.’ That mindset is what changes lives.”

Experts say such initiatives reflect a broader trend. With Ethiopia’s young population and limited formal job creation, digital literacy is becoming both an economic necessity and a cultural shift. Platforms like Dinar are not just closing the skills gap—they are rewriting the script of what education can look like in Africa.

Asked what drives him, Toleha pauses. “I see myself in my students,” he says quietly. “I know what it feels like to have ambition but no tools. I don’t want another generation to be lost because they couldn’t access skills that are available everywhere else in the world.”

As the sun sets over Addis, another wave of students logs into their virtual classroom, headphones on, assignments queued. For them, and for the man who sparked this movement, the message is clear: the future is digital, and it is theirs to claim.

 “We are not waiting for someone to build us a university,” Toleha says. “We are building classrooms in every pocket.”

Raised in Dembia Koladeba, Gondar, she began singing as a child, even as her parents urged her to pursue medicine instead. “They wanted a doctor,” she recalls, “but I only wanted music.” That determination has carried her through more than three decades at the forefront of Ethiopian music. Her albums — including Misikir and YekoloTemari — have cemented her reputation as one of the country’s most celebrated performers.

Her latest project, Dehna Sew, released on August 27, 2025, marks a new chapter. The 14-track album blends tradition with modernity, produced in collaboration with her husband, Abebe Birehane, and acclaimed arranger Abegaz Kibrework. Fikeraddis is quick to credit them — and her childhood idol, Aster Aweke — for shaping her sound.

In a wide-ranging conversation with Abraham Tekle of The Reporter, Fikeraddis discussed the making of Dehna Sew, the creative journey behind it, and what lies ahead as Ethiopia enters the 2018 New Year.Excerpts:

The Reporter: You started performing at a very young age, including your early stint with a military band — in what ways did those experiences shape your vocal style and influence how you interpret songs today?

Fikeraddis Nekatibeb: My involvement in Ethiopian music has significantly contributed to my personal and professional growth. However, as individuals, we all have the freedom to choose what is best for us. Our line of work requires constant attention, unwavering support, and ongoing training, including maintaining physical fitness. These are essential requirements for my stage presence, and I’ve always made sure to meet them throughout my career.

Over the course of your long career, you’ve witnessed the Ethiopian music scene evolve dramatically. Which of those changes have had the greatest impact on you, and how have you adapted to them?

Truthfully, I’ve poured my heart into this profession. From a young age, I cultivated a deep appreciation for music by listening to a wide range of global artists. My belief is that significant change requires a total commitment, similar to how one dedicates themselves to education to acquire knowledge. My journey to where I am today has been shaped by rigorous training, studying various musical styles, and actively observing stage performances. I continue to listen to music from all corners of the world to better prepare and equip myself. My willingness to learn and evolve is unwavering as long as I am a performer, and I’ve gained invaluable knowledge from those around me.

Looking back on your childhood, who had the biggest influence on you musically — the artist or figure who inspired you most?

I’ve often spoken about it: Aster Aweke has been my inspiration since I was a child. She played a key role in shaping me into the artist I am today. Her talent as a singer and her character as a person are both amazing. I’m always in awe of her stage presence, and everything about her serves as a model for me.

Your new album “Dehna Sew” spans styles from blues to modern hip-hop and features a variety of arrangements. Could you walk us through your creative process — how you chose the songs, collaborated with arrangers, and made key recording decisions?

This new album, which follows “Misiker,” took two years to complete, a length of time that still surprises me. The delay was due to juggling family and personal responsibilities with my professional life. As an artist, I have to perform in clubs, on stages, and travel abroad to earn a living, which made it impossible to dedicate all my time to a single recording.

As the album’s creation was a collaborative effort involving various challenges and changes, we worked with many different people, which sometimes required making difficult decisions to either continue or part ways with collaborators. There were also moments that demanded significant corrections and improvements. Despite the obstacles, we persevered through every situation to finish the album.

The album features arrangements by five professional arrangers, including seasoned experts like Abegaz, Maru, and Surafel Yeshitila, as well as other young talents. Abegaz was responsible for coordinating these diverse talents, arranging and mixing eight of the songs. Additionally, Abe [her husband] wrote the lyrics and melodies for two songs, while Anteneh and Tesfabirhan contributed melodies to other tracks. The mastering process took place in the US with a professional mastering studio and sound engineer named Charli, a Grammy Award winner. So, for the recording, Abegaz and I travelled to the US for his studio work, and I can’t praise his work enough.

The final result is a wonderful album that blends different music styles and arrangements, making it a truly “colourful” project that also preserved my authentic sound. Releasing 14 songs in one album is a significant achievement in today’s music industry, and the positive public reaction just 12 days after its release confirms its success. I want to express my deep appreciation for everyone who contributed to this album. Their talent and hard work deserve equal credit. I am especially grateful for the amazing involvement of the younger artists, and I’d like to thank Bisrat Surafel for introducing me to these new talents and for his incredible song writing contributions, particularly the Afro-beat and hip-hop tracks including others.

From your latest album, which track do you feel has resonated most strongly with listeners so far?

I’m truly happy that the album has received so many views just 12 days after its official release. My songs, particularly “Selam Leki” and the one in the Gojjam style, have received the most views, although the others have also been met with a great response. I want to thank everyone for their appreciation; it’s a wonderful reward for our hard work. The positive feedback from the public inspires me to keep working and improving.

You’re married to the renowned musician and producer Abebe Birhane. In what ways has that partnership influenced your growth as an artist — and how have you balanced being collaborators in music with being partners in life?

Working with Abe is a seamless experience because we have an incredible understanding of each other. It’s hard to explain the connection we share, but we are both in tune with each other’s professional needs and intentions. I find it easy to understand his direction, and he knows exactly how I will respond to his instructions. This shared rapport stems from our parallel journeys in life and our experience working in the same field. My skills and training naturally align with what he offers and teaches me. Our successful partnership proves that when interests align, the result is a powerful creative connection.

Artists who’ve collaborated with you often describe you as cheerful, easy to work with, and quick to understand new ideas — yet also very determined when it comes to work. Do you see yourself that way?

To tell you the truth, most artists who’ve collaborated with me can attest to my work ethic. While many people only know me by my voice and stage presence, they might not see the behind-the-scenes reality. It’s a common misconception that performing is easy and free of conflict. In truth, I am extremely disciplined and organized. For instance, even if I’m the last person to perform, I always make sure to be the first one at the venue. This is a reflection of my upbringing and my deep sense of responsibility toward my work.

I pour everything into my craft and take my work very seriously. That said, I am also easy-going and can connect with people easily, even in new environments. Ultimately, I live for my soul and for my deep love of music.

During the recording of your latest album there was a moment, before a rehearsal, when Abebe considered leaving the studio for personal reasons, but you urged him to stay. How did that situation resolve, and do you see that moment as reflecting your natural approach to work and collaboration?

As I’ve said, I take my work very seriously. When Abe and I are in the studio rehearsing, our disagreements can become so intense that an outsider might think our journey is over at that spot. We debate and challenge each other a great deal. However, these disagreements are strictly professional; we leave all disagreements in the studio and resolve them there. Our relationship remains strong outside of it.

Those close to you mention that after performances, you split your earnings with the band members and never accept tips for yourself. Is that accurate, and what philosophy guides this approach to sharing and collaboration?

When our band performs in a major concert alongside other renowned groups, we often receive attractive gifts. We split these gifts among ourselves a week later during a gathering we affectionately call “Hoya Hoye.” This occasion is a beautiful expression of sharing, and I believe it brings an added benefit to each of us. While we [musicians]earn a higher income than most, I typically don’t share any tips we receive during a performance, except for those given to me personally during an international tour.

How do you plan to celebrate the upcoming New Year, and what kind of atmosphere do you usually enjoy for such celebrations?

Following the release of my new album, I’m busy preparing for a major concert to celebrate the New Year and the album’s launch. As a result, I’ve temporarily stopped my regular performances at the Sheraton Hotel. While my international tour is scheduled to begin after the Meskel celebration, I’m happy to be staying home for the upcoming new year.

As Ethiopians welcome the New Year, what personal reflections would you like to share, and what can your fans look forward to from you in the year ahead?

I’m excited about the release of my new album and the upcoming tour, which will kick off here in Addis Ababa. As we welcome the new year, I pray for peace, a return to harmony, and an end to the tears and challenges facing our country. Finally, I wish all my fellow Ethiopians a Happy New Year.

For Ethiopians and their leaders, the project carries weight far beyond symbolism. It represents the fulfillment of a yearning carried for generations—a pledge passed down without pause.

The dream of a massive dam on the Abbay River (Blue Nile), has outlived emperors and generals, survived socialist revolution, and outlasted the political turbulence of successive governments. Ethiopia’s last monarch, the military junta of the Derg, the fragile transitional period of the 1990s, and three prime ministers of the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia—all advanced the same vision, though each ruled under radically different systems. History records them as adversaries on many fronts, but on this one point, they spoke with one voice: Ethiopia must build its dam.

That determination now culminates in a decisive moment. With construction completed and full-scale power generation set to launch, the GERD stands as a rare point of unity in a nation often riven by division.

The aspiration itself is older than modern Ethiopia. In the 1920s, under RasTafari Makonnen—later Emperor Haile Selassie I—British and American experts were invited to survey the Nile Basin. But those plans collapsed after the emperor discovered that Britain and Italy, colonial rulers with vested interests in Egypt and Sudan, had conspired to block Ethiopia from benefiting from a dam on its own soil.

Two decades later, the effort returned. By the 1950s, Emperor Haile Selassie commissioned formal feasibility studies with the US Bureau of Reclamation, the Army Corps of Engineers, and the US Coast and Geodetic Survey. A landmark agreement followed in 1958, bringing Ethiopia into partnership with the International Cooperation Administration (ICA) and the newly created USAgency for International Development (USAID). Together, they launched what was then the most ambitious scientific study of the Nile Basin ever attempted in Ethiopia.

Over six years, American and Ethiopian experts mapped the basin’s hydrology, geology, and land use potential. On August 7, 1964, the Bureau of Reclamation delivered its comprehensive report, Land and Water Resources of the Blue Nile Basin in Ethiopia. Contained in one main volume and six appendices, it became the blueprint for Ethiopia’s water resource planning for decades.

Armed with those findings, Haile Selassie laid out a bold national vision. He announced what came to be known as the “Ten Million Dollar Project,” a program to harness the Nile for irrigation and hydroelectric power, beginning with dam works around Lake Tana.

But almost immediately, Britain intervened. Still eager to control the Nile even after its withdrawal from Egypt, London lobbied West Germany and other financiers to withhold support for Ethiopia’s plans. It was the same old pattern: every attempt to develop the Abbay met foreign resistance.

Yet Ethiopia pressed on. Haile Selassie, cultivating his alliance with Washington, sought to secure the financing and technical support needed to move from vision to reality.

A Century of Planning, Interrupted but Never Abandoned

The US-Ethiopia Cooperative Program for the Study of the Blue Nile Basin, launched in 1958 with a budget of USD 42million, was more than a technical exercise. It was a declaration: Ethiopia intended to develop its resources on its own terms.

Over six years, a team of American scientists and engineers surveyed, mapped, and modeled the basin. The result was a 17-volume master plan identifying 36 potential dam sites—four major hydroelectric projects, several mid-sized dams, and dozens of smaller works for irrigation and drinking water.

Emperor Haile Selassie I treated the study as the foundation of a national future. He created the Ethiopian Electric Power Authority, providing a formal charter to manage generation and distribution as towns and cities multiplied and demand for electricity rose. His government’s approach was pragmatic: even if the money to build the dams was not yet available, the research, legal frameworks, and institutions would be ready when the day came.

In 1957, the Emperor captured this philosophy in a remark preserved in government records: “We may not have the means to build it now, but with the vision and plan we set today, they will build it tomorrow.”

Though his reign ended before the vision materialized, the idea endured—in reports, in archives, and in the imagination of a nation determined to free itself from dependency.

The monarchy’s fall in 1974 brought to power the Derg, a Marxist military junta led first by AmanAndom (Lt. Gen.) and later by Mengistu Haile Mariam (Col.). Ideologically, the regime was the antithesis of imperial Ethiopia, yet it inherited the same ambition: the Abbay must be harnessed.

In 1978, Italian engineers drafted designs for the “Border Dam,” a direct precursor to what would later become the GERD. But the plan was shelved as Ethiopia slid into economic crisis, endured the Red Terror, and a war with Somalia.

Instead, the Derg turned its attention to the Tana Basin. From the late 1970s through the 1980s, the regime launched a massive resettlement program, moving hundreds of thousands of farmers from Wollo, Tigray, Kembata, Hadiya, Alaba, and other regions. The effort was fraught with logistical and humanitarian problems, but in the short term, agricultural output around Lake Tana surged.

Like his predecessors, Mengistu saw the Abbay as a strategic resource. He established Ethiopia’s first water resources research institute in Arba Minch—today Arba Minch University—turning it into a hub for hydro-engineering. He personally pushed the Tana Multi-Sectoral Development Project forward, even as civil war engulfed the country. A comprehensive development scheme, codenamed Project X, sat in the palace, a reminder of plans too ambitious to be realized amid unrelenting conflict.

By the time Mengistu’s 17-year rule collapsed in 1991, the projects remained unfinished. The Tana River hydroelectric plant, first conceived during the imperial era, was still on the drawing board.

The Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), which seized power that year, inherited not just a fractured country but also decades of unfulfilled plans for the Abbay.

Through war, famine, and political upheaval, the dream persisted. Each government—monarch, junta, or revolutionary—had failed to finish it, but none had let it die. The Abbay remained an unbroken thread in Ethiopia’s political imagination, an unfinished promise waiting for its moment.

From Vision to Reality

Under Prime Minister Meles Zenawi, Ethiopia not only began rebuilding infrastructure shattered by years of war but also revived the long-held dream of turning the Abbay River into a pillar of national development. Projects that had languished under previous regimes were revived and expanded, reflecting an unusual blend of political will, technical precision, and mass mobilization.

By his final term, Ethiopia was experiencing some of the fastest economic growth in Africa. Urban skylines and rural towns alike bore signs of transformation, and with them came a renewed sense of pride. At the heart of this resurgence lay Meles’s determination to do what emperors, generals, and revolutionaries before him had only imagined: build a great dam on the Abbay.

The concept itself was not new. As far back as the 1960s, feasibility studies had proposed a “Border Dam” capable of generating 1,400 megawatts. What distinguished Meles’s approach was his resolve. Years of secretive planning culminated in a project that few outside his inner circle believed possible.

Despite Ethiopia’s meager finances and the unwillingness of international lenders—who insisted on consensus from all Nile Basin countries—Meles pressed forward. On April 1, 2011, in a remote corner of Benishangul-Gumuz, he laid the cornerstone for what was then called the “Millennium Dam.” In his speech, he defied skeptics, declaring that Ethiopia would no longer be told it could achieve nothing on the Nile without foreign blessing. The project, he proclaimed, would be built by Ethiopians, for Ethiopians.

When the dam’s name was changed to the Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD), the word “Renaissance” was chosen deliberately. It signaled not just rebirth, but a national awakening—a bridge between Ethiopia’s ancient heritage and its modern ambitions.

Meles understood the GERD’s implications stretched beyond engineering. He sought to anchor Ethiopia within the Nile Basin Initiative, promoting cooperation among riparian states and reframing the river as a shared resource rather than a colonial inheritance.

By the time of his death in August 2012, civil works were already well underway. The GERD had become not just a government project but a people’s project—financed in part by bonds, donations, and grassroots contributions.

His successor, Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn, shepherded the project through its middle years. Between 2012 and 2018, new turbines were ordered, contracts secured, and construction advanced beyond the halfway mark. International negotiations intensified, culminating in the 2015 Declaration of Principles signed in Khartoum, as Egypt and Sudan voiced fears over the dam’s downstream impact. Yet domestically, the GERD only deepened its cultural roots, appearing in paintings, music, films, and rallies—its concrete walls becoming synonymous with Ethiopia’s collective imagination.

When Abiy Ahmed assumed office in 2018, the GERD entered its final phase. His premiership was marked by internal turmoil, war, and economic strain, but the dam pressed ahead. The first reservoir filling came in July 2020, followed by the second a year later and the third in 2022. In February that year, the first turbine came online, producing 375 megawatts; a second followed that August. By 2024, the fourth filling was complete, paving the way for full-scale operation.

For Ethiopians, the GERD has come to embody more than electricity. Farmers who gave up their meager savings, students who donated stipends, and workers who toiled in the heat and dust can now point to its massive silhouette and say: this is ours.

Across a century of rulers, ideologies shifted, regimes rose and fell. Yet one immovable consensus endured: Ethiopia must build its dam.

Muchlike a symphony unfinished for decades, it now reaches its crescendo.

His ancestral village, Yeha, is home to the ruins of the Grat Beal Gebri palace and the Temple of Yeha, a structure dating back to the 7th century B.C. and considered Ethiopia’s oldest surviving architecture. Rock-hewn tombs nearby once made the area one of the country’s most visited historical destinations.

Today, the echoes of that glory are muted. Years of conflict, hunger, and staggering unemployment have left the province hollowed out, its people struggling to rebuild. For Gebrekirstos, 27, the question is no longer how to share his village’s rich history, but whether it has a future at all.

“The tourists that once came in numbers are gone,” he said. “Since the war started almost five years ago, the few who visit only stop long enough to snap photos before rushing back to their cars.”

For longtime guide Kiros Asegedom, the decline is heartbreaking. Once, he says, there were promises: paved roads, guesthouses, a vibrant tourism economy. None of them materialized. “The only activity we see now are German architects working on restorations,” he said, gazing over the village. “But there are no visitors. Yeha looks like a ghost town. Young people have already left to look for opportunities elsewhere.”

The German Archaeological Institute, renowned for its global research and preservation efforts, has been active in Yeha since 2009. Its teams have been restoring ancient structures with modern technology, expertise, and training. In 2018, Germany’s then-ambassador to Ethiopia, Brita Wagener, wrote that the project was meant to “stimulate tourism … and reveal this outstanding cultural heritage to a wider public.”

But war put those ambitions on hold. For more than three years, restoration efforts were suspended during the Tigray conflict. Though the institute has now returned, residents remain skeptical that archaeology alone can bring back life to a village many feel is being left behind.

“We have history, yes,” said Million Gebremedhin, a public transport driver. “But our young people, who proudly guided tourists and worked here, are gone. Yeha was supposed to be revived so we could stand on our own. Instead, it is now a ghost town of old men.”

Forty kilometers from Yeha, the ancient city of Axum, once the seat of the Aksumite Empire, is facing its own crisis of survival.

Its famed obelisks — granite towers recognized by UNESCO as world treasures — still pierce the sky. But the crowds that once gathered at their base have thinned to almost nothing. Hotels are shuttered, young people are leaving, and those who remain are abandoning tourism for whatever livelihood they can find.

One of the most ambitious ventures was Atranos Fantasy, a boutique hotel that opened in 2020 just before the Tigray war. With 83 rooms, a small pool, and a spa, it was meant to be a beacon to Axum’s growing hospitality scene. Now, its lobby sits mostly empty, its Wi-Fi attracting more idle young people than paying guests.

“We are certainly the best hotel in Axum,” said an employee, who spoke on condition of anonymity. “But our rooms are rarely occupied. Our restaurant sees little traffic. Reservations are canceled by guests outside Axum, worried about new outbreaks of conflict. The only people staying here are staff from humanitarian organizations.”

Across the city, the mood is one of exhaustion. The war, locals say, has drained not just the economy but the very spirit of Axum. Conversations turn less to its millennia-old past than to the recent devastation.

The city’s most iconic monument, the Axum Obelisk — returned from Italy in 2005 after being looted by Mussolini’s troops — now attracts few visitors. Trash and tall grass surround the site, a symbol of how far the city has fallen. “Before the war, the obelisk brought in many tourists,” said Biniam Hagos, a resident. “Now we mostly see Ethiopians from other regions or aid workers. The site looks abandoned.”

For people like Dawit Tekle, a local photographer, the collapse of tourism has meant hunger and desperation. “We are desperate, we are hungry,” he said. “We have always lived by serving tourists. Now there are none.”

Photographers, once proud cultural ambassadors for Axum, now linger near the monuments, hoping to earn a few birr by snapping portraits for the rare visitor. “We look more like beggars than professionals,” said Biniam.

Even the palace said to belong to the Queen of Sheba — a central figure in Ethiopia’s religious and cultural history — lies in near-total ruin. Its crumbling remains blend more with the surrounding mud huts than with the grandeur of the queen’s legend.

Axum, once a living testament to Ethiopia’s ancient civilization, now feels like a city stranded between past and present — a world heritage site in danger of being forgotten.