Last week, a day like all days, though perhaps less futile than most. I was out for a walk. Some call it a scholarly pursuit; others, a mere diversion. Here, in this very land of origins, Ethiopia. My mission, if one dares dignify it with such a term, was to pair endemic birds with their endemic trees. A noble endeavor, one might presume; to find some endemic knot, some apotropaic fons et origo for these feathered and arboreal denizens. A bulwark, you understand, against the creeping chaos. One seeks a pattern, or, failing that, a flicker of meaning. I was, in my own quiet way, ratiocinating, perhaps even cerebrating, on the peculiar, symbiotic dance between the Ruspoli’s Turaco and its favored African Pencil Cedar. And the Yellow-fronted Parrot with its leafy companion, the African Yellowwood. I was, in essence, assaying their arboreal preferences, hoping for some profound recension of nature’s grand design.
But then, the inevitable. Life, in its infinite capacity for the absurd, intervened. My attention, previously fixed on the avian ballet and the silent sentinels, was abruptly, violently, bouleversé. The air, thick with the promise of discovery, turned foul. A chorus of piercing cries. Not the plaintive call of a Degodi Lark, nor the cheerful chatter of an Abyssinian Catbird. No, this was a distinctly human lament, a modern semiotics of desperation. Plastered ridiculously on every electric pole were advertisements, shrill and insistent, for sugar mummies and daddies. One might well expostulate against such a spectacle. It was a stark simulacrum of a thriving society, a bizarre chiasmus of progress and decay. Here I was, wrestling with the delicate balance of an ancient ecosystem, and there, before my very eyes, a contemporary cry for something utterly, profoundly base. A peripeteia of the mundane; a sudden volte-face from the profound to the preposterous.
One tries to fend against such intrusions. To keep the mind a redoubt. But these intrusions, like a well-aimed cuirass, pierce the thin armor of contemplative solitude. So, I stood. A solitary figure amidst the din. A silent witness to this jarring aggiornamento. The birds, I presume, continued their quiet lives, oblivious to the human folly unfurling below. They, at least, remain saxicolous, rooted in their natural order.
This peculiar juxtaposition, however, has left me with a thought: a kernel. This land, this Ethiopia, with its deep roots and unique treasures—both avian and arboreal—is more than a place of origin, more than a fons et origo for humanity itself. It is a place yearning for protection, for foresight, for a genuine bulwark against the fleeting and the ephemeral. It is a land ripe for investment, not in the fleeting promise of sugar relationships, but in the very soil that nurtures these endemic wonders. It is a call to those who seek a querencia, a safe haven, a palladium against the Maginot Line of superficiality that often defines our age. Come, then, and consider: is there not a more enduring knot to be found here?
The landscape architect, Seifu Mahtemeselassie, of the Imperial regime’s Addis Ababa Municipality, once lamented their error: flooding the town with rampant, fast-flourishing imported trees. The irony? Their legacy endures. “It must be for a reason I was born in that house,” I said. Goofy, daffy, kooky, wacky, I became, as I continued with the image affixed as my screen saver—a glimpse of my birthplace, impeding a yet-to-come road, all slowly but surely rising from a sea of eucalyptus trees and the corrugated iron roofs of the mud houses. Had I taken the other route, my thoughts would have revolved around an interview a decade ago here on Ethiopian Reporter. An Ethiopian agronomist spoke of the virtues, near patent-deserving, of Ethiopian farmers’ seeds and their prowess; how beer barley, a victim of uniformity, was rescued by an Ethiopian variety. Amazing, with the scientific wonders of generations-old silos for cereals kicking in.
If there were any use in wishing, one might wish oneself into Ethiopia’s increasingly pedestrianized city centers, places where the very air hums with a burgeoning sense of the urban, no longer merely rural but reaching for the vibrancy of a true cosmopolis. Forget the tired anxieties of a nation perpetually marveled at; Ethiopia now stands poised to become the marveler. This isn’t some phatic pleasantry, a mere “have a nice day” of global relations. No, our vision is pragmatic, a calculated move beyond the quaint, localized charms of Albany beef or Cape Cod turkey. These jocular sobriquets, born of former abundance—sturgeon so plentiful in the Hudson that it was humorous, caviar so cheap it adorned free bar lunches, cod in Massachusetts mirroring that bounty—now serve as stark reminders of a different, perhaps simpler, era. Much like the notion that all good Americans go to Paris when they die—a quaint, aspirational conformity to a chic oblivion—we are not succumbing to the rigid, near-cataleptic posture of insularity.
The world, stubbornly flat as it may be, demands an active, engaged presence. The brutal pedagogical wisdom of the Australian, dispatching his sons with one-way tickets to the unforgiving currents of Europe, resonates here: exposure to what is going on elsewhere is the grim, yet necessary, preparation for what is going on here. We eschew the sclerotic thinking of a bygone era, the hidebound fear of the unknown. Our doors are open not to the bien-pensant’s narrow dogma, but to the world’s dextrosinistral flow of capital and innovation, a deliberate untraining of our unconscious to accept that left is not always right. We are not a Maginot Line of defense, strong in theory but weak in practice. Instead, we are building a true bulwark, not against the world, but for a future where Ethiopia’s trademarks, like the enduring legacy of Harrar’s ancient silk trade, become globally recognized symbols of ingenuity. We embrace the vital intercalation of foreign enterprise, a deliberate and strategic insertion into our existing fabric, not a desperate redoubt against an encroaching tide.
This is not about blind adherence to any economic philosophy. Nor is it a return to the follies of tulipomania or the U.S.’s regrettable mulberry mania. It is about a resilient, adaptable economy. One that, with the effortless grace of genuine flexibility, can withstand the inevitable epizootics of global downturns. We are done with merely observing; we are doing. And in this endeavor, we must learn the stark lesson of trademarks and generic terms, like Coca-Cola. Jealously guarded since its 1887 registration, even its nickname, Coke, is protected by a 1930 Supreme Court ruling. We must fiercely protect our own creations. Yet, like “cola” itself, which, through relentless common usage and an indifferent 1938 court ruling, devolved into a generic word, we risk losing our distinctiveness.
Typewriter, shredded wheat, aspirin, zipper, yo-yo—once proud, capitalized entities, their trademark status often lost due to insufficient protection, now mere common nouns, their distinctiveness bled dry. Even the yo-yo, a toy of ancient Oriental provenance, saw its brief, patented American claim undone by the simple, incontrovertible truth of its long-standing, global existence. Its 1929 patent, based on a toymaker’s dubious claim of coining the word from children’s shouts of “You-you!”, was overturned when a competitor proved the toy’s ancient Philippine origins. This brings to mind the Yankee peddler, a breed proverbial for dishonesty, as a British observer noted in 1833, known to lie, cheat, and swindle. Their reputation for trickery, far-reaching even in Europe, gave rise to tales of wooden nutmegs, wooden hams, and wooden pumpkin seeds—a “damn Yankee” sobriquet coined long before the Civil War. Connecticut, to this day, bears the moniker Nutmeg State.
Yet, these purveyors of chicanery, these shrewd, sarcastic, and busy meddlers, paradoxically helped settle America, carrying the materials of civilization to sparsely inhabited regions. They were, in essence, the early, unsanctioned distributors. Ethiopia’s unique contributions must be nurtured, protected, and celebrated. Lest they too become lost in the bland torrent of common usage. Our truffles, the “diamonds of gastronomy” or “pearls of the kitchen,” fetching over USD 2,000 a pound some years, their name possibly from the Osco-Umbrian tufer or perhaps alluding to their elusive nature (truffle meaning mockery or cheating in French slang, symbolizing their hidden habit). Like saffron, costing USD 400 a pound, requiring 4,000 blossoms for a single ounce, “vegetable gold” prized by gourmets and lovers since the 8th century, with its supposed exhilarating effects. Or cinnamon, Kinnamomon to the Greeks, its bark from the tropical cinnamon tree, a spice for thousands of years; its Arab monopolists concocting incredible tales of its harvesting by large birds that built nests on unscalable precipices, only to have the birds’ nests collapse under the weight of oxen carcasses left by the crafty Arabs.
We must ensure our valuable commodities do not become a “drug on the market,” referring to goods not in demand, or from the French drogue meaning rubbish, as Robinson Crusoe famously exclaimed, “O Drug! what art thou good for?” The challenge is to avoid the fate of those trademarks that became generic. To preserve the distinctiveness of our offerings in a world where everything, it seems, is instantly available. And in this endeavor, we look to our own unique contributions. Like the civet. Ethiopia exports, this civet, ultimately from the Arabic zabad, which has been considered an aphrodisiac and a perfume agent for centuries. Shakespeare, in King Lear, requested “an ounce of civet…to sweeten my imagination.” Such is the enduring power of scent. A commodity not easily made generic. This, and other offerings, must be “good to the last drop,” like the slogan for Maxwell House coffee, coined in 1960, meaning thoroughly or completely good or enjoyable. Or Ivory soap’s “99 and 44/100ths % pure,” a 1925 coinage that still persists.
These are the aspirations, the enduring qualities we must strive for. A subtle yet potent fragrance in the flat, often bland, landscape of global commerce. This leads, inexorably, to the local desolation. Why, in our supermarkets, is there such a suffocating monotony of goods? A bland, uninspired sameness utterly devoid of variety? And the eateries! The only other option, it seems, is the visually repugnant spectacle of raw goat. Its screamers, for business names, assault the very notion of culinary decency. It conjures images of old New York, when, due to an epizootic claiming a quarter of America’s horses—a catastrophic event of 1872 that plunged the nation into a three-month paralysis, causing financial losses that precipitated the Panic of 1873—men were harnessed to carts and trolleys, a stark, humiliating replacement for horsepower. This was no “easy as silk” transition.
Harrar. A name, one might argue, that whispers of silk. Not just the silken thread itself, but the very warp and woof of its ancient trade. A name redolent with the rustle of commerce, the murmur of distant markets, and the clinking of coins exchanged for finely woven dreams. One might easily forget, in the relentless churn of the present, the echoes of such a name. But Harrar, you see, is not so easily dismissed. It carries within its very syllables the memory of a time when trade routes were as vital as arteries, when the acquisition of precious fabrics was an art form, a testament to global connection. Silk, after all, is not merely a fiber; it is a conduit of culture, a testament to human ingenuity. And Harrar, it seems, was at the very heart of this intricate dance. A small comfort, perhaps, in a world that increasingly favors the crude and the undifferentiated.
The world, I reluctantly concede, is indeed flattening. This demands more than mere observation; it demands action. Ethiopia, too long in the posture of being marveled at, must now become the marveler. This isn’t about some vague, philosophical relevance to the bigger world; it’s about active participation, about offering something of substance to the global marketplace. My South African friend, bless his sedentary soul, rarely left his stoop. “Why bother,” he’d say, “when everything’s a click away?” A chilling thought; our own offerings must possess a unique and compelling quality. The Australian, with his brutal “send-them-off-with-nothing” approach to raising sons—well, there’s a grim wisdom there. To truly thrive here, one must first know what’s going on elsewhere.
Therefore, Ethiopia’s decision to embrace foreign ownership of properties and businesses is not merely a policy shift; it is a strategic imperative. We must move beyond the quaint, localized production of Albany beef and Cape Cod turkey. We must nurture our own trademarks and brands, ensuring they are protected and nurtured, lest they become generic, like the yo-yo, losing their distinctiveness in the bland torrent of common usage.
Our supermarkets, currently a testament to uniformity, must become vibrant showcases of variety, not just visually aching raw goat served by screamers. One longs for new fixations, for fresh takes on the familiar; a ceaseless hankering for the next iteration. Ethiopia, a nation in constant motion, is on a compelling journey to lure foreign investment. It is a dance, intricate and often perplexing, between aspiration and reality. We, as Ethiopians, observe this influx with a discerning eye. What we ask of those who come is not merely capital, but a recognition of our layered existence. They are welcome to build, to innovate, to perhaps even dream of new cathedrals of commerce on our ancient soil.
But let them understand that not all progress is measured in concrete and steel. We are not merely a blank canvas for their blueprints. We seek partners, not just patrons; those who comprehend that our architecture is frozen music, yes, but music played to a different rhythm, one that echoes with millennia of history. The Elizabethan Age may have had its giants, but ours are no less formidable, though often unsung in the global marketplace. We welcome the ambition that erects a Chrysler Building, but we demand respect for the quiet grace of a house with lungs—a testament to a different kind of wisdom. The Haussmannization of our cities must be a collaborative symphony, not a unilateral imposition.
So, for those who come, we say: bring your grand designs, your P.D.Q. efficiency, your “go one better” spirit. But leave behind the impulse to “take a bath” in our resources, or to simply strip us bare. Embrace the Churrigueresque richness of our culture, but understand that some things are not for sale. We are not seeking a mere mausoleum of past glories, but a vibrant future built on mutual understanding. The Taj Mahal of our aspirations is already under construction, a testament to our enduring spirit. We ask you to contribute, yes, but also to listen.
Contributed by Tadesse Tsegaye