Recently, I visited a diagnostic center in Addis Ababa. After undergoing an MRI scan, I was told the CD with the images would be ready in a minute, but the radiologist’s reading would take 24 hours. As impatient as ever, I couldn’t wait. I approached the technician and asked if she could at least tell me whether the result showed anything serious.
Her answer was disarmingly honest: “I don’t know.”
That reply made my anxiety worse. She was, after all, closer to the images than anyone. I asked again, pleading. But she stood firm: “I’m not a specialist. Only the radiologist is.” Her professional restraint left an impression on me—an unshakable blend of discipline and dignity.
I remembered a similar experience at an eye care center. After an initial screening, the attendant referred us to a specialist. The doctor ran a set of tests and quickly decided we needed to see a sub-specialist. When we pressed him with questions, he replied without hesitation: “I don’t know.” He didn’t attempt to speculate or play expert beyond his scope. It was clear, he believed, that knowing where one’s expertise ends is itself a form of wisdom.
These moments reminded me of a story I read as a child in an East African English textbook. A stranger wanders through a wealthy suburb, marveling at its homes, cars, and lavish surroundings. Every time he asks a passerby about the people or possessions, he hears the same word: “Angazi.” Unfamiliar with the local language, he assumes “Angazi” is the name of a powerful tycoon who owns everything.
But the truth is far simpler.
In the story’s climax, the stranger stumbles upon a funeral procession with a gleaming, expensive coffin. Again, he asks who the deceased is. Again, the answer: “Angazi.” To the stranger, it seems the mysterious “Angazi” has even died with a grand send-off. “Angazi” means “I don’t know.”
Miscommunication. Misperception. But also, perhaps, a deeper truth: we often fill gaps in our knowledge with assumptions.
Ethiopian culture is deeply communal. Whether in mourning or celebration, we gather together. I cherish this. But in these spaces—wedding halls, mourning houses—one often hears unsolicited “expert” opinions on everything from theology to macroeconomics. No topic is off-limits to self-appointed pundits. Complex matters that require years of training are discussed with absolute certainty, often by those with no relevant background.
Yet even what we think we know can deceive us. In an age dominated by artificial intelligence, misinformation, and deepfake technology, the value of truth—once journalism’s bedrock—is increasingly under siege. On this year’s World Press Freedom Day, the risks posed by AI-generated falsehoods and surveillance were made plain. The ability to distinguish fact from confident fiction has never been more vital.
Celeste Headlee, a veteran radio host, said in a TEDx talk: “If you don’t know, say that you don’t know.” In her experience on NPR, professionals have learned to be more careful with their claims, understanding the responsibility that comes with going on the record.
That phrase—“I don’t know”—has become, in my view, a mark of intellectual integrity. The MRI technician and the ophthalmologist didn’t pretend to know more than they did. Their humility was not weakness, but wisdom.
There’s an ancient tale of a spiritual teacher who once asked his followers to share their thoughts. After listening patiently, he praised one disciple above all others: “You are truly blessed, for you dared to say, ‘I don’t know.’”
Maybe it’s time we embraced that spirit. Perhaps we need an “Angazi Campaign” in Ethiopia—a cultural shift that encourages us to appreciate the strength in admitting uncertainty. I, for one, am trying to train myself to say “I don’t know” more often. When will I master it?
Angazi.
I don’t know.
Ene alawqem.
Contributed by Selamawit Kidane
