Kejelcha’s 2025 season has been remarkable, featuring the world’s fastest 5 km and 10 km times, with the 10 km marking the second-fastest performance in history. His consistency and tactical racing have established him as one of the world’s premier long-distance athletes.

Fans can support him by voting online via World Athletics’ social media platforms, including Facebook, Instagram, and X (formerly Twitter), with voting closing on Sunday, November 2, 2025, at 11:59 PM CET.

Ethiopia’s Tigst Assefa is also among the nominees in the women’s Out of Stadium Athlete category. She secured victory at the 2025 London Marathon, setting a women-only world record, and earned silver at the World Marathon Championships, highlighting her dominance in global marathon running.

(Fana Media Corporation)

In a convincing display, Ethiopian athlete Aynalem Desta claimed first place with a time of 2:17:37, not only registering a substantial personal best but also recording the third-fastest time ever in the city. Desta, a former steeplechaser turned marathoner, ran with patience and strength, passing 10 km in about 32:41 and the half marathon mark in 1:09:10.

After picking a 1-1 draw against defending champions Pyramids FC in the first leg second preliminary round, the Egyptian side won the return leg played on Thursday 2-0.

Mostafa Ziko gave Pyramids FC the lead after 11 minutes at the Air Defense Stadium. The Ethiopian Insurance team continued to defend in numbers as the defending champions attacked in search of more goals.

In injury time of the second-half, Ethiopian Insurance substitute Birikit Kikaleb netted an own goal. Pyramids FC qualified for the group stage on a 2-1 goal aggregate.

Tanzanian sides Young Africans SC and Simba SC are the only teams from CECAFA Zone that have qualified for the group stage of the TotalEnergies CAF Champions League.

Simba SC and Young Africans SC, all from Tanzania scored an own goal to seal the win. The draw for the group stage will be conducted on November 3^rd live from the SuperSport studios in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Abegaz was responsible for the fresh musical arrangements behind artists such as Aster Aweke and Ephrem Tamiru—productions that exploded onto the scene with a sound distinct from the live-band tradition of Roha. When the young Jorga arrived at Abegaz’s New York apartment and rang the bell, the person who opened the door was not Abegaz. To his astonishment, it was none other than Muluken Melese.

It is difficult for Jorga to describe what he felt in that moment when the unimaginable became real. Standing before him was Muluken—the legend, the icon—inviting him inside. That simple gesture meant far more than the literal opening of Abegaz’s studio door, where composition and arrangement took place. It symbolized the ushering of the aspiring Jorga into a boundless universe of creativity, innovation, and excellence. Through mentors like Muluken and Abegaz, Jorga unlocked the floodgates of passion, love, and musical prowess that continue to overflow to this day.

An Enduring Spirit

When Jorga performed Muluken’s Yene Alem on the saxophone under the flickering stage lights of the African Jazz Club, his meditative state revealed a deep connection with both the song and the man behind it. The recurring bassline and flowing melody evoked Muluken’s lyrical world—one where a lover calls out to his beloved.

As in many of Muluken’s songs, the lyrics paint an evocative scene: a young woman with a Sadula hairstyle, bracelets jingling around her ankles, and a flowing cape, summoned to her lover across rolling hills and rural church courtyards. The verses lament the pain of separation, as the singer wonders whether his beloved is real or a figment of his imagination. When Jorga played the piece, it was evident that nostalgia and reverence for Muluken were at play, casting the audience into a near-hypnotic trance.

Muluken’s appreciation for nature, beauty, landscape, and rural life finds a mesmerizing resonance in both his lyrics and melodies. Much like Bob Dylan, whose folk roots carried universal truths through melodies, Muluken used Ethiopia’s folk traditions to express profound emotion and social reflection with timeless grace.

Another piece, Yegoferesh Dardaru, is a perfect example: Muluken joyfully captures the sounds of the forest, the green meadow, and the animals of the field—melding them with a tender admiration for his lover’s Afro hair (Gofere) and his yearning for her love.

The gentle bassline and enchanting melody evoke a rare sentimentality that only Muluken’s music seems capable of conjuring. He possessed a unique gift for transforming the mundane and ordinary into something meaningful and endearing—always believable, never exaggerated or overly romanticized.

His fascination with the Afro hairstyle continued in the ballad Kemekem, where it is celebrated through a warm tempo, simple yet beautiful melody, and, of course, his signature bass. The folk-inspired lyrics, infused with humor and love—and even the playful call of the domestic calf, “Bure”—paint a vivid rural tapestry woven into the fabric of modern Ethio-jazz.

“Kemekem,

the damsel of Ambassel with a tattooed crook,

the damsel of Yeju with a tattooed crook,

Her love made me miss my trail,

she sent me astray into the woods…

Come, Bure…”

Muluken in Atlanta

In 2002, Jorga had yet another privilege of meeting Muluken—this time in Atlanta, Georgia, where an evangelical church congregation had gathered for a spiritual service. Muluken had travelled there to minister to about a hundred worshippers. However, the turnout swelled to more than 400, as fans of his secular music—eager simply to see him and be in his presence—flooded the chapel beyond its capacity.

This came as no surprise. Muluken’s larger-than-life persona had left an indelible mark on the hearts of his fans and the nation as a whole. Even after four decades since he abandoned secular music—and even after his passing—his aura and influence never faded, nor will they ever.

A Second Pilgrimage

Jorga’s fascination with Muluken remained unquenched. He longed to spend more time with the legend and to receive his mentorship. His colleague, the renowned bassist Fasil, became aware of this yearning and gave him Muluken’s phone number.

Once again, Jorga was on the road—this time seeking Muluken not by accident, as before, but by design. His wish was granted when he met him in Washington, D.C., in 2006. Muluken was gracious enough to host him in his home for nearly a month. During this time, Jorga had the opportunity to observe, learn, and understand what fueled Muluken’s artistic and spiritual life. They shopped together, dined together, and even worshipped in the same chapel.

During these moments, Muluken imparted wisdom, musical insight, and a deep philosophy of life. One day, he asked Jorga a question that would shape his future:

“Would you rather be famous, or build a reputation by searching for what lies within your soul?”

Jorga chose the latter—an answer that delighted Muluken. To this day, Jorga continues to honor that creed, navigating a musical journey that carries both him and his audiences to places that speak to the innermost depths of the soul. He had found in Muluken not just a mentor, but a guru and a master. The result was inevitable—and the rest, as they say, is history.

Muluken: A Visionary and a Legend

Muluken was not only a gifted drummer but also a remarkable jazz composer and a master lyricist, as Jorga witnessed during their time together. Muluken saw in Jorga the future of Ethio-jazz and often lamented not having colleagues like him during his own musical career in Addis Ababa.

He was far ahead of his time in musical vision—a forward thinker who grew frustrated at not finding avant-garde musicians unafraid to experiment with modern and creative styles that blended jazz with authentic Ethiopian sounds. Muluken often confessed that his finest musical works were those created in collaboration with Mulatu Astatke, the father of Ethio-jazz.

Muluken often spoke candidly about the excesses of nightlife in the music industry—the endless parties, the intoxicating fame, and the complicated encounters with adoring fans and persistent admirers. These experiences, he admitted, took a heavy toll on his personal life. His conversion to evangelical Christianity, he said, brought balance to his world and saved him from spiraling into the abyss that many talented and successful artists have fallen into—and never escaped.

The entertainment world is littered with stories of brilliance undone by fame: Whitney Houston, Justin Bieber, Kurt Cobain, Marilyn Monroe, Amy Winehouse, and Britney Spears are but a few among the many who tasted the bitter consequences of glory gone sour—overwhelmed, derailed, and often destroyed by their own success.

Muluken, however, made a vital U-turn in time. He found redemption and lived on saving himself from the consuming complexities of stardom.

A Night at the Africa Jazz Club

It was yet another Thursday night at the Africa Jazz Club, and, as often happens there, another pleasant surprise. A young woman—elegant, confident, and fashionable—joined a jam session, as both seasoned performers and newcomers often do. The club’s tradition allows the novice and the legend to share the stage, united only by skill and musical courage.

The young woman was no ordinary talent. She took over from Dawit Adera—the renowned contemporary drummer celebrated for his powerful beats, creativity, and expressive style—and delivered an astonishing performance. Her steady, ebbing rhythm built into a pulsing tempo that carried the audience into a trance-like state.

Soon, keyboardist Abiy GebreMariam introduced Nanu Nanu Ney, one of Muluken’s signature songs. The music swelled, the tempo rising to a feverish pitch, almost veering into a rock-and-roll crescendo. Then, as if by divine orchestration, Tasew Wendim and Dimitros began to soften the energy with the soothing tones of the Washint and Kirar.

What followed was a stunning Ethio-jazz rendition of Muluken’s timeless ballad—a moment that captured the very essence of his legacy. It was a night of remembrance and renewal, a tribute to the eternal, unifying, and soulful spirit of Muluken Melese: eternal, unifying, soulful, and beautifully emancipating.

(Bereket Balcha holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and Social Anthropology from Addis Ababa University (AAU) and a Diploma in Purchasing and Supply Chain Management from Addis Ababa Commercial College/AAU. His extensive professional background encompasses decades of experience in the aviation industry in diverse roles, complemented by a two-year engagement at the Ethiopia Insurance Corporation. He can be reached at Bbalcha5@yahoo.com)

Contributed by Bereket Balcha

We were re-upping that mood, filtering the relentless state of lateness, deep, existential dread, and the crushing linguistic panic that went from English terror to the silent, suffocating archives of French, Latin, and Greek. The whole atmosphere was a chaotic, utterly unbothered existence, a pure mess. The raison d’être of the numbers—the undeniable, clean, analytical logic of math, economics, and accounting—was the locus standi, the thing that had the right to exist and hold court. Meanwhile, the words? They were just background noise, a collective t’s Greek to me murmur, an overwhelming, dissonant drone that felt like a solecism against my very attendance, a profound grammatical error committed just by showing up to a place where language was a hostile foreign entity.

My English class was the epicenter of the absurd, a pure taunt. It became a dramatic absence, a helpful void that, with the kind of high-irony only the universe can pull off, was the closest thing I got to a helping hand. I’d slip in, always late to the party, navigating the relentless déjà vu of finding the key under a mat that wasn’t there, a pure, distilled, and almost comforting absurdity.

The teacher, a chalk-dusted, beautiful genius whose diction could bench-press syllables and whose gaze carried the silent scars not of the intellectual revolution, but the 1970s Ethiopian one, simply never came to class anymore. The whole semester, the entire structure of the learning objective, dissolved into an ex post facto (retroactive) fantasy: we’d get the grades after our M.A., or maybe after the actual heat death of the universe—a completely willy-nilly promise hinged on a generous, mythical grade. This system’s credibility? It was as solid as a Johnsonese sermon being pithy, which is to say, absolutely nonexistent. Our afternoon sessions dissolved into what we affectionately termed Chat hour—a blessed, coffee-fueled sabbath of unearned confidence, where we were the masters of our own syllabus-free domain. This whole setup was ultra vires (beyond powers), wildly outside the bounds of academic contract, but we accepted it, no further questions, as the department’s stare decisis (the law’s memory habit, the way things were always done).

The truth is, the silence of that room was more oppressive than any lecture. It wasn’t an empty room; it was a vast, psychological testing chamber. Every time I walked in, I felt the unsettling chill of being observed—a camera hidden in the marvels of the marbles cladding OCR, ILS, its tiny red light blinking, filming my confusion and late arrival, a silent witness documenting the pathetic lack of education. It was a classic Hitchcockian setup: the tension lies not in what happens, but in what doesn’t happen, and the certainty that we were, somehow, being judged for our collective intellectual failure.

The true linguistic panic, the paramnesia (false memory) of ever having been intellectually capable, truly began when the French and Latin anxieties started creeping into my English failure, like a ghost in a language machine. It all started with the Dictionary Fiasco. I got the initial, exhilarating vu jamais moment—the unsettling feeling of utter novelty and clarity—when a friend handed over a “very simplified,” “very current” Merriam Webster-type dictionary. It was the absolute antithesis of the heavy, archaic tomes I usually faced, a slim, modern promise of instant linguistic competence, designed, I swear, for someone who scrolls through life in 30-second bursts and requires only the most surface-level understanding of existence. It was the promise of a final boss move against my linguistic inadequacies, a silver bullet against my acute, paralyzing sense of being a Latinless dolt—a linguistic plebeian who couldn’t even parse the prepositions. But friendship politics are a brutal sport, and with the devastating cruelty of a fleeting moment of clarity, he retracted the gift. He handed the slim, modern promise of linguistic competence to a high school student who probably thought “stare decisis” was the latest Instagram filter. Those images, once circulated among Soviet-era students, flashed back in the memory of that moment.

No effort could reverse the decision, not even the most theatrical, woe-begone lament, which left me incredibly short-changed. I could have turned to the old reliables: Amsalu Aklilu and GC Mosbach, an Amharic-English dictionary that ruthlessly could have forced me to be functionally bilingual just to look up and understand one single English word. But I dumbly ignored that, and my search ritual became an agonizing time killer, a pilgrimage to Kennedy Library (the crossroads/center where trivia is exchanged), where finding a simple definition became a descent into ad nauseam repetition and a cosmic side quest. It was a ritual of humiliation, and every search confirmed that trivia comes from the crossroads where people discuss small, insignificant things, and I was perpetually stuck at the smallest, most insignificant of those things—a single word.

The Dictionary Fiasco wasn’t just about a book; it was about the sudden, sharp retraction of agency—the power to know. And the hidden camera from the English class? It seemed to have followed me. I’d catch myself glancing around Kennedy, convinced that someone was watching me fail, watching the sweat on my brow as I flipped between three languages just to understand a fourth. The humiliation was the script, and I was the unwitting star.

Then came the group work, a prima facie (first glance) chance at academic and social redemption, led by a student, a rare young man from Iluababora who was effortlessly good with both numbers and words—the perfect synthesis of the two intellectual worlds. My Second Big L, my most iconic fail, hit when I read his final draft. I was immediately triggered, profoundly upset by a citation, a Latin-sounding “guru” I was tired of seeing everywhere.

The shock, the profound cacoepy (poor pronunciation, poor understanding) of my misreading, was the sudden, awful realization that “Ditto”—the Latin for “the same” or “as before”—was not an individual. That self-inflicted academic eggcorn was truly devastating; the déjà vu loop of my sophomore year clarified instantly: Ditto was the personification of the repetition that haunted me. Every single time I saw it, the material was saying, in the driest, most bureaucratic Latin imaginable: This is the same. Nothing new here. The loop continues.

It was the system’s ultimate, minimalist defense against the vu jamais—the avoidance of all novelty. It was the crushing weight of classical language used not to illuminate, but to insist upon the endless, crushing recurrence of the status quo. It left me with a bleak, almost Johnsonian wisdom: some words are indeed more powerful because they are the quiet, unassuming, two-syllable conductors of the looping vibe.

This paranoia deepened when I realized the chilling implication of the camera imagery: it was like finding the camera hidden in the ceiling only to realize the lens was pointed at another, identical room—and the film was already rolling, capturing an endless sequence of the same mistakes being made by the same students who couldn’t escape the linguistic trap. The whole system was built on the terrifying truth of Ditto.

The true break, the actual, meaningful vu jamais—the moment of unsettling novelty and clarity—came not from English, nor from the Latin shadow that followed it, but from economics, delivered by the man who spoke the language of Greek logic: Dejene Aredo (PhD). He walked into the lecture hall radiating gusto, the sheer, visible force of his intellectual confidence. This was the man we’d seen grilling MA students, his certainty so complete he could casually distance himself from his lecture notes, treating them as mere suggestions. Then he dropped the bomb, the res judicata (the final word, the matter decided) of his class that instantly elevated the stakes from a passing grade to the currency of intellectual survival: the answer is not only the answers right, it is all about the good argument. 

We were shaken in our boots, experiencing a promnesia (memory of the future) where sound argument, derived from rigorous, persuasive thought, was the only currency. This was the ultimate, necessary break from the déjà vu of rote learning. The terror was replaced by the exhilarating, terrifying demand for clarity. This was the intellectual Columbus’s egg moment. The explorer, after being challenged by a shallow courtier who insisted his discovery was simple and inevitable, didn’t reply with words. He took an egg, invited everyone present to make it stand on end, and when they all failed, he simply cracked the shell on the table, leaving it standing firmly on the broken base.

The sound of that squelch was the sound of a paradigm breaking. The courtier’s sneer, “Nothing is easier than to follow it,” was the epitome of déjà vu—the realization is only simple after the initial act of violation. Dejene was telling us to stop seeking the false comfort and certainty of the de jure (the law on the page, the rulebook) and master the de facto (the real-life energy of persuasive thought, the ability to make the argument stand), to be the one who cracks the egg.

His lesson was a furious, elegant demand for precision of argument—the ultimate skill of Greek rhetoric (logos), the ability to move beyond mere definition (Latin) into persuasive, actionable truth (French Cartesian clarity). It was the only thing that could break the historical, linguistic loop of misunderstanding that led to the devastating Mokusatsu disaster.

I realized then the horror was not simply in misreading Ditto; the terror was global. The Mokusatsu tragedy—where a single word, intended by the Japanese government to mean “to refrain from comment” or “wait and see,” was tragically interpreted by the Allies as “to ignore” or “treat with contempt”—had catastrophically altered the end of WWII, potentially culminating in the atomic destruction it was trying to avoid. A single, linguistic solecism at the highest level—an error of ambiguity—became the catalyst for ultimate violence. This was the Hitchcockian climax. The lesson was not about economics, but about the lethal precision of language.

Dejene’s class wasn’t a vibe check; it was an ultimatum. We had to be the ones to crack the egg, successfully and precisely, every single time, or risk historical, global catastrophe. The looping vibe was history itself, and the Ditto that had haunted me was revealed as the system’s terrifying tendency to repeat destruction due to a lack of argumentative clarity. The pressure was now cold, absolute, and terrifyingly clear. We were no longer late; we were standing at the precipice of language failure, where silence or ambiguity was simply not an option.

This final realization, this vu jamais moment of unsettling novelty, became the amicus curiae—the friend of the court with receipts—for my battered soul, proving that the chaos was not a personal flaw but a systemic trap. The relentless déjà vu of my youth—the Sisyphean scramble of chasing elusive TV cameras at Meskel, then called Abyot Square, only to be told by some stone-faced newsreader that the film wasn’t “washed” or the footage was lost, felt like a deliberate ritual of looking backward. This was the same energy as our window shopping around Addis Ababa Stadium, where the pecking order would be music shops, then sports goods, with personal computers from IBM (Afcor) at the bottom.

We were never tired of seeing the photos of Bob Marley and Prince, or the posters of Brazil’s 1970 World Cup heroes, with that song naming the Portuguese legends. As we approached the stadium, we’d stop for a long break at Pele Music shop to give our ears to the melody spilling from the loudspeaker. I remember one moment most: the image of Bob Marley from his last concert, cut from a foreign newspaper, accompanying the news of his death. Little did we know he’d once passed right where we sat. Tewdros Mekonen said that when they were playing at the Ghion Hotel, Bob, just a passerby, jammed with them, giving David Kassa strange, unheard-of key combinations to follow. This was a vu jamais moment of musical invention, a total reset.

The thought of Kiftet (alias Gap), an Amharic adopted stage drama by Debebe Seifu, now filled my mind. Debebe, a vu jamais Alexander Pope-laced epitome to whom the word genius can be applied with ease, left a huge gap in writing and its rigorous studies in Ethiopia. He was rescued in his sophomore year from the uncharted sea of Debit and Credit in accounting by the renowned editor Amare Mammo, following an unthoughtful academic blunder in discharging him from AAU.

Distress leading to depression distanced him from the literary scene, the poet who was touted as having all that it takes for a Nobel prize in literature by his Amharic essay pioneer friend Mesfin Habtemariam. Among many others, his contribution of easy-to-use and never-to-forget, exact unique coining of Amharic equivalents for English words are household words in the Ethiopian literary scene. He passed away at the age of fifty, eighteen years ago. His brother Abebe, while bitterly lamenting his loss, underscores Debebe’s unparalleled craving never to settle for routines that Ethiopia’s literary scene failed to tap.

If my memory is not failing me, the story on Kiftet spins over a professor, so snobbish he was, his attitude left him with no friend in the University, where he had a teaching post. While digging through his academic records, his foes came up with a course in which he had earned an “F” while being an undergraduate ages ago. The “F” was not removed from the record. Therefore, it was decided by the University senate to hinge his stay with them on the result after seating an exam to remove the “F”. He scored “F” again. The ultimate academic loop.

This corporate déjà vu of management manuals being delivered like periodicals to be taken home and never to be heard of was a ritual of insisting on process, regardless of outcome, a pure Johnsonese defense against action. The poor, genius technician named Girma of ETV, if memory hasn’t failed me, who invented the “application” to shorten the washing time, had his gadget tossed in an ultra vires move by a boss steeped in the gospel of the old ways. Girma was a martyr to the loop. His vu jamais—his blinding moment of invention—was violently rejected by a system whose only raison d’être was yesterday. The déjà vu was the department’s cash register mentality, a stubborn mechanism designed to remain “Incorruptible” by actively rejecting novelty, ensuring that Ditto remained the reigning philosophy.

The real vu jamais truth, the one that rips the script in half and breaks the loop, comes from outside the suffocating, Latinate archive of the past. The vindication was global, a stare decisis overturned by universal absurdity: the Ig Nobel Prize validating the struggle of jamais vu—that bizarre neurological glitch of staring at a simple word like ‘appetite’ until it feels profoundly alien and wrong. The prize was given for the experimental, successful induction of this feeling by simply having participants write the same word over and over until its meaning dissolved. This is the Greek truth of semantic satiation—when the word’s very sound becomes meaningless, the logic fails, and the oppressive order of the language collapses. This is the absolute opposite of the Latinate compulsion to name and categorize; it is the absurdist-flavored coffee break moment of finally saying, Nah, this word is cooked. This silent, internal declaration of, “I am bringing a Napkin,” became the somatic trigger for seizing the unscripted present.

I remembered a couple of friends when and where PG labeling was a future tense, ages ago, while watching a video at home with their little kid. A routine had formed—the little soul would be ordered to fetch a napkin, and soon after the kid began walking, I found myself muttering, I am bringing a Napkin. This internal phrase became the ultimate mental reset, proving the loop is internal and manageable. This mental reset is as powerful as the Circadian Clock Nobel proving that the body’s time-loop is a program, not an unchangeable destiny. The déjà vu is the trap of the constantly ticking biological clock, forcing you into predictable cycles; the vu jamais is the urgent, unscripted reality of the present, the active refusal to follow the tick-tock.

The sophisticated move isn’t to be a Latinless dolt who cowers before Ditto, or a master of obscure, verbose Johnsonese; it’s to be a master of the reset—a champion of the de facto argument over the de jure rule. The proverb, time heals all wounds, is deeply sus; the clever, cynical twist, time wounds all heels, is the vibe that truly sticks. Because the only way out of the historical, linguistic déjà vu is to actively seek the vu jamais—the clear, unscripted, terrifyingly novel reality of now, forcing the world to acknowledge your locus standi to exist outside the loop. This is the ultimate raison d’être. The final shot of the film is me walking into the sunrise, the past firmly behind, a sense of promnesia—a clear memory of the future I am building—guiding my steps. The camera pulls back, revealing the road ahead is an exact, freshly paved replica of the road I just left. It’s the same road, the same environment, the same socio-economic loop. But this time, I’m smiling. Why? Because I have cracked the egg. The shell is broken. I know the rule now. The loop is external, but the Columbus’s Egg squelch is internal. My intellectual freedom is res judicata. Bet.

The Columbus’s Egg moment, the squelch that shattered the table, was Dejene’s gift, the French clarity of Cartesian doubt applied to an argument: I think, therefore I argue. 

The shallow courtier, the one who saw the egg standing on its broken base and sneered, “Nothing is easier than to follow it,” was the very embodiment of déjà vu. He could follow the path, but he could never conceive of it. He lacked the vu jamais to violate the premise of the challenge—that a whole egg must be balanced—and introduce the necessary, de facto destruction that leads to the de jure solution. It was a victory of persuasion through action over passive knowledge, an aggressive assertion that the argument, the breaking of the shell, is the answer.

This is the ultimate Hitchcockian finish, the full circle of the loop. I am on the same road, the same scene, but the tension is gone. The camera pulls back, confirming the environment is unchanged, yet I am calm. I know the trick now. I am smiling because the fear of the endless repeat, the fear of Ditto and Mokusatsu, has been replaced by the power of the vu jamais to break the egg at will. I am the reset button. The film is still rolling, but I control the editing.

Contributed by Tadesse Tsegaye

Among them, sesame holds a particularly special place. It is valued not only as a nutrient-rich food but also as a key ingredient in traditional dishes across Asia, the Middle East, and beyond. Ethiopian sesame, in particular, is prized for its distinctive aroma, flavor, and purity—qualities that make it a preferred choice in global markets.

The timing of Ethiopia’s harvests offers another advantage. The country’s pulses and oilseeds often reach international markets in their freshest form during major global New Year festivals, adding not just nutritional but also cultural significance to their consumption.

Equally important is Ethiopia’s production method. Much of the country’s pulse and oilseed cultivation still relies on natural, low-input farming systems that preserve ecological balance. These traditional practices, based on the natural cycles of soil fertility and energy transformation, align with modern principles of sustainable agriculture. They reduce the need for chemical inputs, support biodiversity, and help mitigate environmental degradation.

Ethiopia’s diverse agro-ecology allows millions of smallholder farmers to participate in cultivation, creating significant employment and supporting rural livelihoods. This diversity also enables the development of a wide range of value-added food products—driving entrepreneurship, innovation, and inclusive economic growth.

As the global conversation on food systems increasingly centers on health and sustainability, Ethiopia’s crops are gaining new attention. Pulses are rich in plant-based proteins, while oilseeds like sesame contain natural antioxidants—both of which align with the growing consumer demand for nutritious, eco-friendly food options.

The world’s emerging consensus on transforming food systems offers Ethiopia a unique opportunity. As nations move away from monocultures of maize and wheat toward more diverse, climate-resilient grains and legumes, Ethiopian exporters stand to benefit. Encouraging this diversity can strengthen local economies, create jobs, and enhance global food security—all while reducing dependence on a narrow band of commercial crops.

Ethiopia’s ancient grains and oilseeds, cultivated for millennia, may well hold lessons for the future of sustainable agriculture, if supported with the right infrastructure, market access, and policy frameworks.

As the world embraces the global initiative for food system transformation, the pulse and oilseed sector stands out as a model for sustainable production and responsible business. Rooted in traditional, eco-friendly farming methods, the country’s production systems demonstrate how agriculture can simultaneously nourish people, sustain the environment, and address pressing public health concerns—particularly those linked to diet-related diseases such as high cholesterol.

Ethiopia’s pulses and oilseeds are thus positioned for exceptional growth. Supportive government policies, combined with a global shift toward healthier and more sustainable diets, have created strong demand and new opportunities for farmers, exporters, entrepreneurs, and investors across the value chain.

This transformative shift—anchored in the integration of business with sustainability—is being advanced through collaborative efforts. The government continues to craft forward-looking policy frameworks, while private-sector actors such as the Ethiopian Pulses and Oilseeds Exporters Association (EPOSEA) play a leading role in market coordination and advocacy. Development partners, including the Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa (AGRA) and Germany’s GIZ, are working to strengthen sector capacity, promote market diversification, and align Ethiopia’s production systems with global food system transformation goals.

Among the key areas of progress are improved market intelligence, the diversification of export products, and greater knowledge exchange through international partnerships. These collective efforts are paving the way for a more resilient, competitive, and sustainable industry.

A major milestone in this ongoing journey is the upcoming 14th International Conference on Pulses and Oilseeds (ICOPOS 2025)—to be hosted in Ethiopia. The annual conference serves as a vital platform for global stakeholders to exchange insights, assess market trends, and benchmark Ethiopia’s harvest season within the wider international trade cycle. This year’s theme, “Strengthening Value Chains: Expanding Global Markets,” reflects both the opportunities emerging from global food system transformation and the intrinsic strengths of Ethiopia’s pulse and oilseed sector.

ICOPOS 2025 is not just a meeting of experts—it is a statement of intent. It signals Ethiopia’s commitment to leading by example, integrating sustainability with commerce, and contributing meaningfully to a healthier, more equitable global food future.

Zelalem Zemede is the general manager of the Ethiopian Pulses and Oilseeds Exporters Association (EPOSEA).

Contributed by Zelalem Zemede

The Scale of the Boom: From Ritual to Routine

Addis Ababa is in the grip of a raw-meat revolution. A decade ago, the siga bet was a notable but limited feature of the city’s dining scene. Today, it is an industry. Addis Ababa’s two main abattoirs—the municipal Kera Abattoir (Addis Ababa Abattoir Enterprise) and ELFORA Agro- Industries—together supply more than 4000 registered butcher shops across the city. Available assessments suggest daily slaughter capacities on the order of a thousand head of cattle, with Kera averaging around 1300 per day and ELFORA’s Addis-area facility several hundred more. A significant share of this meat is served as kitfo, tire siga, gored gored, and zelzel tibs.

This is not merely a change in diet but the creation of a massive new urban supply chain. The act of eating raw meat—once tied to holidays and weddings—has become an everyday performance of status. The sheer appetite for meat now sustains a vast economy of abattoirs, delivery trucks, and open-fire kitchens—a transformation that fundamentally redefines Addis Ababa’s modern urban metabolism. These figures hint at more than culinary enthusiasm; they mark a structural shift in how the city eats and what that appetite demands.

The Stage and Its Players

Inside one of these establishments, the scene is unmistakably urban. The atmosphere is loud, driven by music, conversation, and the constant roar of a huge television permanently tuned to British soccer. Patrons—on average about thirty, mostly male though women appear in pairs or with companions—sit at tables overflowing with bottles of beer or jugs of Tekesheno (a pinkish punch of Bedele beer, Awash wine, and Sprite), decorated with slices of orange and watermelon. The air carries the combined scent of meat smoke, perfume, and alcohol. Nine waitresses in tight uniforms move continuously between tables, joined by about five atachi—“drink companions” paid to encourage patrons to drink more.

The siga bet is less a dining room than a theatre of appetite, where visibility, sound, and excess fuse into the social language of Addis Ababa’s new class. Noise levels reach 85 dBA inside and about 75 dBA outside, while the visual and sonic spectacle—soccer cheers, pounding bass, smoke haze—anchors the experience as one of display.

This performance has a specific audience. The siga bet boom rests on a deeper social shift: the rise of a non-salaried wealth class. This group, often comprised of brokers, speculative traders, and those engaged in high-turnover arbitrage, has emerged with quick, disposable income. While poverty remains widespread, this emergent stratum drives a culture where public consumption is used to quickly legitimize fast-acquired, non-productive wealth. For this group, the siga bet is not simply a place to eat; it is a stage on which belonging and prosperity are performed.

A single meal for two, with beer, can easily cost over 1,500 birr—more than a week’s wage for most residents. Public eating has become the language of social mobility. The act of consuming raw meat, while grounded in cultural continuity, now signals monetary identity—a declaration of having arrived.

The geography of this performance is visible. The corridors of Bole, CMC, Sar Bet, and Fiyel Bet are not random clusters; they are arteries of the new economy. At Fiyel Bet, a 300-meter stretch hosts nearly twenty competing establishments, lit by neon and scented by wood smoke. The expansion is propelled by the corridor project and brewery promotions that supply refrigerators, umbrellas, and financial incentives, binding beer and meat in one commercial ecosystem.

The story, then, is not simply about rising meat consumption, but about how appetite has become architecture—and economy—in the city.

Cultural Continuity Meets Industrial Demand

Ethiopia’s attachment to raw meat runs deep. Long before refrigeration, households slaughtered an ox for holidays and weddings. Eating it raw was both practical and symbolic—celebrating freshness, bravery, and trust. The act of sharing tere siga anchored social life much as bread does elsewhere.

What has changed is not the tradition but its rhythm. Ritual has become routine. Refrigerated trucks now ferry carcasses daily from slaughterhouses; beer companies provide equipment; and investors find the service industry, specifically restaurants, far safer than productive work. Unlike manufacturing, which requires high upfront capital, faces challenges securing space, and struggles with foreign-exchange bottlenecks and import hurdles, a siga bet offers quicker returns on modest capital with fewer regulatory barriers. Cultural legitimacy meets commercial logic—and scale changes everything.

The ox slaughtered for a village wedding has become the daily supply for a busy restaurant. What was once communal celebration has turned into private gratification. Every plate of kitfo now represents not only the animal that provided it but also the wood, charcoal, and energy burned to prepare it—and the methane and carbon that rise invisibly from both stove and cattle.

Behind this cultural continuity lies an expanding material footprint—a new urban metabolism of firewood, smoke, and carbon whose scale remains uncounted, and whose costs are therefore borne invisibly by the city itself

The Urban Energy Paradox: Counting the Toll

The appetite that animates Addis Ababa’s siga bets defines an uncounted part of its energy economy. Every plate of kitfo or gored gored carries an invisible chain of wood, carbon, and pasture stretching from the city’s kitchens to the countryside.

Drawing on field observations, market data, and modeled estimates, we mapped both sides of this hidden ledger—the fuel toll and the livestock toll. The figures are indicative, not official, but they provide the first integrated picture of the scale and environmental footprint of Addis Ababa’s raw- meat economy.

Each siga bet typically spends 40,000–60,000 birr per month on firewood. At 18–22 birr per kg, that translates to roughly 27–33 tons per year, or about 160 kg on active days. Scaled to the city’s estimated 600–1,200 establishments, Addis Ababa’s grills collectively burn 22,000–32,000 tons of firewood annually, releasing 38,000–54,000 tons CO₂ and drawing on the equivalent sustainable growth of 2,400–3,600 hectares of forest. These numbers are necessarily approximations, but even at the lower bound they reveal a scale far greater than any household or institutional cooking sector in the city.

The livestock footprint is far larger still. Using updated consumption baselines and city-level slaughter data, Addis Ababa likely consumes 50,000–60,000 tons of beef annually, equivalent to roughly 340,000–375,000 head of cattle. Applying Ethiopia-specific Tier 2 emission factors (8– 30 kg CO₂e per kg beef) yields 400,000–1.8 million tons CO₂e per year. Combined, the raw-meat and grill economy contributes between 0.5 and 1.9 million tons CO₂e annually, large enough to merit inclusion in the city’s carbon accounts and climate-action planning.

Yet these city-wide figures obscure a more immediate human cost. Behind each dining room lies a closed kitchen where a small exhaust fan struggles against the haze. Measurements show PM₂.₅ concentrations near 600 µg/m³ in the kitchen, falling to 300 µg/m³ outside the door and 150–250 µg/m³ in the main hall—up to twenty-four times the WHO’s safe-air guideline. Cooks and servers inhale this air for hours each day, and the patrons who fill the hall breathe it as they eat, talk, and watch the televised matches. The restaurant’s sound and spectacle mask what is, in effect, an indoor pollution chamber.

In the afternoon alone, more than a dozen women—waitresses and atachi—work within this cloud, but exposure extends to everyone present. The smoke that escapes through the kitchen door or out to the street drifts into neighboring shops and sidewalks, carrying fine particulates that settle on lungs long after the last plate of kitfo is cleared.

If even a fraction of these emissions and health costs were monetized, Addis Ababa’s hidden burden would rise by hundreds of millions of birr each year. These calculations are not a census but a map—a first attempt to make visible what remains invisible. Firewood purchases are unrecorded, emissions uncounted, and health impacts unpriced. Still, the direction is unmistakable: the most visible smoke in Addis Ababa is the least accounted for in its policies. The cost of this invisibility is not only ecological but economic — a hidden subsidy that the public pays each day in health, carbon, and forest loss.

Ending the Free Lunch

Addis Ababa’s restaurants have dined too long on a public subsidy disguised as smoke. They pay for wood but not for the forests, for chefs but not for the lungs that breathe their haze. The siga bet economy thrives on this unspoken bargain: profit for a few, pollution for all.

But the siga bet is only the most visible part of a much larger problem. Nearly every café, small eatery, and hotel kitchen in the city still relies on firewood or charcoal. The same fires that power the raw-meat boom also heat stews, boil coffee, and bake bread citywide. The siga bet merely exposes, in concentrated form, Addis Ababa’s broader dependence on biomass energy.

Even under conservative assumptions, the city’s siga bets and related restaurants emit between half a million and nearly two million tons of CO₂e each year. At a modest carbon price of USD 15 per ton, this represents a hidden public cost of roughly 1–4 billion birr—money the city forfeits by allowing polluters to externalize the cost of their smoke. Redirected, it would be enough to finance the full transition of every siga bet to clean-cooking technologies while also supporting thousands of smaller cafés and eateries that still depend on firewood or charcoal. In short, what Addis Ababa now loses in untreated emissions each year could, if properly priced, fund its own clean-kitchen revolution.

The first step to recovering that loss is knowing where it comes from. Yet no authority currently tracks how much biomass the city’s restaurants consume or what it costs in fuel, emissions, or health. This absence of data makes both accountability and reform impossible. Without a system to measure and disclose biomass use, Addis Ababa cannot manage the economic or environmental toll of its kitchens. This blindness reflects a failure of political imagination and inter-agency coordination—a reluctance to regulate a culturally popular industry that serves an influential class. Even as the city advances its Green Legacy campaign, it has no mechanism to ensure its kitchens join that vision. Addis Ababa plants trees with one hand and burns them with the other.

That contradiction can be resolved within a year. The city should require restaurants, cafés, and hotels to report quarterly fuel purchases. Medium- and high-margin venues—those serving more than fifty customers a day or spending over twenty thousand birr monthly on fuel—should adopt certified clean-burning systems within twelve months. After that grace period, any establishment still burning firewood or charcoal would pay a levy proportional to fuel use. The revenue would fund inspection, air-quality monitoring, and small-business incentives through a Clean Urban Energy Fund.

Such a measure would also give concrete form to the Prime Minister’s call for a “Clean Ethiopia.” The national initiative, originally framed around reforestation and urban greening, remains incomplete without clean kitchens. Extending its vision from the planting of trees to the prevention of their combustion would transform a symbolic effort into a structural one—linking Addis Ababa’s urban energy reform directly to Ethiopia’s broader environmental agenda.

This is not punishment but correction—the end of an unfair subsidy. Larger venues can finance the transition; smaller eateries will follow as technology diffuses. The same framework can serve other cities—Adama, Hawassa, Bahir Dar—as they urbanize.

Critics may warn that such a policy risks harming an industry that provides thousands of jobs for waiters, cooks, butchers, and suppliers. But this argument mistakes a temporary subsidy for sustainable growth. The sector’s current profitability and employment depend on externalizing its environmental costs to the public. Transitioning to clean cooking would not eliminate these jobs— it would move them onto a sustainable footing, while generating new work in clean-energy installation, maintenance, and fuel supply.

The siga bet is also the logical starting point for reform. It concentrates the city’s most acute exposures—kitchens where PM₂.₅ levels reach six to thirty times the WHO limit—making action here a matter of both public health and environmental justice, particularly for the young women who staff them. It is also the segment most capable of absorbing the cost of transition. By beginning where capacity and urgency coincide, the city can establish the technical and regulatory foundation for cleaner kitchens across the entire hospitality sector.

Addis Ababa’s problem is not scarcity; it is blindness. The city cannot claim a sustainable future while ignoring the fires that already burn within it. Bringing its kitchens into the clean-energy transition is an act of justice, not charity. Businesses that profit by taxing the public through smoke and deforestation have enjoyed a free lunch long enough. One year is time enough to pay the bill.

Tsegaye Nega is a Professor Emeritus at Carleton College in the United States and the Founder and CEO of Anega Energies Manufacturing.

Contributed by Tsegaye Nega

This period of intense global interaction demands a proactive approach to branding and strategic positioning. Nations are challenged to define their unique identities and value propositions, implementing innovative strategies to differentiate themselves and accomplish their strategic goals.

In this competitive landscape, where success depends on innovation, adaptation, and the capacity to attract worldwide attention, Artificial Intelligence (AI) has emerged as a particularly impactful and transformative force.

AI is no longer a futuristic concept limited to science fiction; it is a concrete reality that is reshaping different aspects of our lives and revolutionizing the very structure of technology. From boosting productivity and streamlining intricate processes to enabling breakthroughs in complex reasoning and sophisticated decision-making, AI holds the potential to significantly change both the current state and the future of technology. This technology is now driving innovation across various sectors, creating avenues for advancement and growth.

Among the sectors most profoundly affected by AI, the digital economy stands out as a key example. AI is rapidly altering economic landscapes worldwide, urging nations to actively pursue competitive advantages to stay ahead.

Ethiopia, as a prominent player in Africa and home to the African Union, is also proactively working to capitalize on the transformative potential of AI. The country has launched a series of strategic initiatives, including the establishment of the Artificial Intelligence Research Institute and a variety of programs aimed at encouraging innovation and the practical application of AI across different sectors.

The primary reason behind this surge in AI adoption is the undeniable reality that AI is fundamentally reshaping the world. The global trajectory is escalating at an unprecedented pace, and it is increasingly challenging, if not impossible, to ignore the transformative capabilities of this technology. AI is already reshaping economies globally, permeating nearly all facets of human existence at every possible level.

This leads us to consider how artificial intelligence is positioned to transform different sectors in Ethiopia, such as agriculture, healthcare, or any other vital sector. To gain a comprehensive understanding of the potential implications, it’s essential to first consider the prevailing global trends. While it’s undeniable that the financial sector is currently experiencing the most significant effects of AI, particularly in developed nations, the situation differs in the Global South, especially within the context of the African continent. Here, AI is demonstrating a notable impact on the agriculture sector. It’s also driving revolutionary changes in healthcare and education.

Although AI is significantly impacting financial institutions by altering how businesses are conducted and changing operational models, other sectors are still being influenced by AI. However, at this juncture, it might not be entirely accurate to say that these sectors are fully capitalizing on AI’s capabilities.

Ethiopia is still in the early phases of AI integration, in many respects still in the early stages of leveraging its full potential. Nevertheless, we’re witnessing an increased adoption of AI across several African countries, particularly in the agriculture and healthcare sectors.

Various institutions are actively engaged in advancing AI applications. A specific focus is being given to AI applications in healthcare, particularly in the areas of cancer detection and diagnostics. These institutions are expanding their operations across virtually all sectors and industries, demonstrating a comprehensive approach to AI adoption. Furthermore, esteemed educational institutions such as Addis Ababa University, Addis Ababa Science and Technology University, and Adama Science and Technology University are playing a crucial role by conducting significant research and development projects in the field of artificial intelligence.

For example, consider the Ethiopian Institute of Agricultural Research. They’ve implemented advanced technologies in conjunction with AI for intelligent spraying, precision fertilizer application, and other agricultural activities. This demonstrates how AI can be used to increase operational efficiency and output.

Despite these advances, the effective deployment of these initiatives requires sufficient support and also depends heavily on modern education, the development of specialized skills, and the adoption of advanced techniques.

Competing with Cutting-Edge Approaches

The competition for innovation, technological advancement, and economic expansion is intense. Within this dynamic landscape, it is essential to cultivate unique strategies. To succeed in this era of AI-driven transformation, a well-prepared workforce is crucial. Education plays a vital role in preparing this workforce for the challenges and opportunities of the future. The development of a robust educational system is critical to equip individuals from diverse backgrounds and disciplines with the skills and knowledge necessary to thrive in an AI-powered economy.

Considering the prominent role of AI in shaping the future, the development of expertise in specific areas becomes paramount. Computer science graduates, individuals with extensive knowledge of mathematics, coding expertise, analytical reasoning skills, and a strong comprehension of social dynamics will be critical.

The information used to train AI models relies significantly on algorithms that are heavily dependent on advanced mathematics. Therefore, a firm understanding of mathematical concepts and principles is crucial. At the same time, the practical application of AI often involves computer science and computer programming languages. Profound understanding of these domains will be crucial.

Besides technical skills, it is vital to develop coding abilities. The capability to write and interpret code is essential for creating and implementing AI solutions.

Moreover, individuals must possess well-honed analytical reasoning skills. The capability to critically analyze information, identify patterns, and draw insightful conclusions is essential for effective decision-making in the age of AI.

Finally, a deep understanding of social dynamics is also vital. Given the ever-increasing importance of AI in our daily lives, it’s crucial that we can recognize its implications in society. This also calls for having a robust grasp of ethics and the ability to work collaboratively to ensure that AI is leveraged for the betterment of society.

In essence, preparing for the AI revolution necessitates a comprehensive strategy. It requires a combined effort to cultivate a skilled workforce equipped with technical proficiency, analytical abilities, and a profound grasp of social and ethical considerations. By adopting this multi-faceted strategy, Ethiopia can navigate the complexities of the AI revolution and harness its transformative capabilities to promote economic growth and societal progress. The horizon is vast, and the possibilities are limitless.

Abiy Habtamu has an extensive experience in the field of journalism with MA in Multimedia Journalism

Contributed by Abiy Habtamu

The traditional government approach – viewing critical media primarily through a security lens – has proven to be a strategic failure. As one seasoned editor in our discussions starkly put it, “You cannot jail your way to a harmonious information space.” This strategy does not eliminate toxic narratives; it merely decentralises and radicalises them. The proliferation of partisan, often virulent, YouTube channels run by exiled journalists is a direct symptom of a stifled domestic ecosystem. Meanwhile, within the country, a permissive environment for misinformation that aligns with certain viewpoints, coupled with a punitive one for dissent, has created a crisis of credibility that erodes the very notion of shared truth.

Concurrently, the media market itself is failing. The commercial and algorithmic incentives of the digital age disproportionately reward sensationalism, conflict, and polarising content. As one talk show host noted with frustration, “A nuanced discussion on constitutional law gets a fraction of the views of a heated debate filled with personal insults and ethnic baiting.” This is a market failure that actively undermines social cohesion and national unity.

The question before us is not whether to reform, but how. The insights from media professionals point to a blueprint built on three core, interconnected pillars: institutionalising truth, empowering the public through the media itself, and strategically correcting the market to support peace-building journalism. The recent announcement of a government-led Media Centre of Excellence could be the catalyst that brings this blueprint to life, but only if it embraces a truly collaborative and inclusive model.

Pillar One: Institutionalising Truth Through Independent Fact-Checking

At the heart of the current information crisis is a deficit of trust. The public is adrift in a sea of claims and counterclaims with no universally accepted arbiter of truth. Government statements are often viewed with suspicion by large segments of the population, while partisan media outlets preach to their own choirs. The solution, widely advocated in our discussions, is the establishment of robust, autonomous fact-checking organisations.

These cannot be government departments or state-affiliated bodies. Their power derives entirely from their perceived impartiality and independence. Their mandate would be to serve the public, not any political master. Imagine a nationally recognised entity, governed by a board comprising retired judges, respected civil society leaders, academic experts, and veteran journalists from diverse backgrounds. This structure would be designed to insulate it from the political pressures of the day.

The work of such a body would extend far beyond simply debunking viral social media posts. It would need to be technologically sophisticated, employing digital verification tools to detect deepfakes, analyse manipulated imagery, and trace the origins of coordinated disinformation campaigns. Furthermore, it could maintain a public, searchable database of verified claims and promises made by public figures, institutions, and media outlets themselves, fostering a culture of long-term accountability.

The benefits for the media industry would be immense. Instead of every newsroom struggling to verify every piece of information independently—a resource-intensive process—they could partner with and cite this independent body. This would raise the professional standard across the board, create a shared basis for factual reporting, and free up resources for deeper investigative work. For the public, it would provide a desperately needed neutral resource, a compass to navigate the chaotic information landscape. This is not about creating a “Ministry of Truth,” but about fostering an independent institution dedicated to evidence and verification, a foundation upon which rational public discourse can be built.

Pillar Two: Empowering the Public Through Media-Led Education

A common reflexive response to the problem of misinformation is to call on the Ministry of Education to integrate media literacy into the national curriculum. While this is a valuable long-term goal, it is insufficient to address the immediate crisis. We cannot wait for a new generation to graduate; we must equip the current population of media consumers now.

The more direct and powerful solution is to leverage the media itself as the primary vehicle for public education. The core suggestion is not that the government should teach the public about the media, but that it should actively support and encourage media organisations to produce and broadcast programming that educates its audience on how to consume media critically.

This is a mission that aligns perfectly with the media’s role as a public trustee. Imagine prime-time programming dedicated to deconstructing how misinformation spreads. This could include weekly television or radio segments where journalists break down the week’s most viral rumours, showing the public their “forensic” process of verification; public service announcements that offer simple, memorable tips: “Check the source,” “Look for corroboration,” “Be wary of emotional manipulation,” talk shows and documentaries that explore the business models of attention-based media, explaining why sensationalism is so prevalent; and collaborations with tech companies and civil society to amplify these messages on the very platforms where misinformation thrives.

The government’s role here is not to dictate content, but to create an enabling environment. This could involve tax incentives for broadcasters who dedicate a certain percentage of their programming to such public education initiatives, or granting such content fulfilment of public service broadcasting requirements. By supporting the media to do this job itself, we achieve a double objective: we educate the public directly through the most powerful channels available, and we foster a culture of self-regulation and professional responsibility within the industry. An informed citizenry is the ultimate bulwark against manipulation, and the media must be at the forefront of creating it.

Pillar Three: Strategic Support to Correct Market Failure

This is perhaps the most delicate and nuanced pillar of the reform blueprint. There is a fundamental and non-negotiable principle: the media must remain independent from direct government control and editorial interference. The state cannot be an editor.

However, to ignore the market’s structural incentives for conflict is to be wilfully blind. As one media owner in our focus groups confessed, “Covering a peace-building ceremony doesn’t sell. Covering a violent clash does. Our advertisers, our algorithms, our audience metrics—they all push us toward conflict.” This is a classic market failure, where the pursuit of private profit creates a significant public cost in the form of social discord.

Therefore, the government has a legitimate role in correcting this failure. The key is to provide support without demanding subservience. The model should be similar to public broadcasting support in other democracies, but with a focus on nurturing a diverse private media sector.

The mechanism could involve the establishment of an independent, transparently managed Public Interest Media Fund. Governed by a non-partisan board similar to the proposed fact-checking body, this fund would provide grants to private media outlets for specific projects that serve the public good. Funding would prioritize in-depth investigative reporting on issues of national development, the production of high-quality content that promotes inter-ethnic understanding, tolerance, and national unity, and solutions-oriented journalism that highlights successful community reconciliation and development efforts. It would also support media outlets that demonstrate a strong commitment to ethical standards and maintain diversity within their newsrooms.

This is not a handout; it is a strategic investment in social cohesion. It creates a parallel incentive structure that makes peace-building journalism financially viable. A newspaper could apply for a grant to run a series on successful cross-cultural trade partnerships, or a television station could get support to produce a documentary on the shared historical roots of different Ethiopian communities. This approach empowers media outlets to make ethical choices without facing commercial suicide. It allows the government to champion peace and fraternity not through coercion, but through smart, principled partnership with a fiercely independent press.

The Centre of Excellence: A Test of Commitment and Collaboration

The recent launch of the Media Centre of Excellence is a welcome and potentially transformative development. It signals a recognition from the highest levels that the status quo is untenable. However, its impact will be determined by its design and implementation.

For the Centre to be a true engine of reform, it must be more than a government think-tank or a training school for state-media journalists. Its credibility and effectiveness hinge on its ability to become a neutral, collaborative platform that involves private media outlets and seasoned professionals in its very fabric.

I earnestly hope that the Centre’s governance structure includes significant representation from the Ethiopian Media Council, the Association of Broadcasters, and other independent professional bodies. Its advisory boards should be filled with the most respected editors and reporters from across the media spectrum, including those who have been critical of the government.

The Centre’s work programme should directly operationalise the three pillars. It can be the host for developing the technical standards and governance models for the independent fact-checking coalition. It can be the hub that develops the curricula and training materials for the public-facing media literacy programmes, offering its resources to all media houses. Crucially, it can serve as the independent secretariat for the proposed Public Interest Media Fund, managing the grant application and review process with transparency and professional rigour.

If it becomes a closed, state-dominated institution, it will be stillborn, viewed with suspicion and dismissed as a propaganda arm. But if it embraces a bold, inclusive, and collaborative mission, it can become the linchpin of a new Ethiopian media consensus.

Conclusion: A Shared Responsibility

The blueprint outlined here—built on independent fact-checking, media-led public education, and market-correcting support for peace-building content—is not a quick fix. It is a fundamental re-imagining of the relationship between the state, the media, and the public. It replaces a paradigm of control with one of strategic empowerment.

The government’s role shifts from primary censor to primary guarantor of a healthy information ecosystem, through enabling policy and independent institutions. The media’s responsibility deepens, requiring a renewed commitment to professionalism and its role as an educator of the public. And the public becomes an active, critical participant, rather than a passive recipient of information.

The establishment of the Media Centre of Excellence is a promising step. It is now the responsibility of all stakeholders – policymakers, media owners, journalists, and civil society – to engage with this process vigorously and ensure it lives up to its transformative potential. The cost of inaction is continued polarisation and strife. The reward for getting this right is a media that truly serves the people of Ethiopia, fostering a national dialogue that is not only free but also responsible, constructive, and worthy of our nation’s immense potential.

Tadesse Biru is an experienced researcher at the London Metropolitan University in the UK. He holds an interdisciplinary doctoral degree in Social Sciences from the Graduate School for Social Research and a Master of Arts (MA) in Peace Studies and Conflict Resolution from London Metropolitan University.

Contributed by Tadesse Biru Kersmo (PhD)

When he died, some cried for him; I cried for myself. My tears, I knew, could not bring him back. Others wept for fathers, brothers, and teachers—for all that he symbolized in their lives. When a man of such gentleness and moral clarity departs, tears become inevitable, for kindness once lived among us and has now withdrawn. Yet beyond emotion, his death unfolded as a great act of communication—a conversation between souls, between generations, between the living and the departed.

It was interpersonal in the comforting embrace between friends; intrapersonal in the quiet grief within each heart; public in the countless messages and tributes shared; and nonverbal in the bowed heads, the tearful eyes, the solemn walk of thousands. From his home to the Nur Mosque, to Millennium Hall, and finally to Sefera, the city became a moving current of faith. Roads closed, but hearts opened. People walked—some for hours, some for miles—to witness his final journey. News of his passing spread like dawn light, reaching even those far from the capital.

Across social platforms, the nation wrote its collective elegy. Words, verses, and memories filled Facebook, TikTok, and YouTube. Some recounted his sermons; others his humility and humor. Their expressions, each in its own tone, became a living monument more lasting than marble. He was called “the father of peace,” “the teacher of truth,” and “the compassionate one.” These were not mere titles—they were reflections of a man who lived what he preached.

Mufti Omar Idris had long been a pillar of religious guidance in Ethiopia. As the Mufti of the Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs, he carried the responsibility of interpreting divine law and offering moral direction to millions. He spoke not only to scholars but to the ordinary believer in the marketplace, the farmer in the field, and the student in the classroom. His voice, steady and reasoned, invited unity when division threatened, and reminded the nation that piety and peace are inseparable.

He believed Islam was not a boundary but a bridge—that the faithful should serve as a moral compass for society at large. His Friday sermons were simple yet profound, laced with stories from the Qur’an and life lessons drawn from Ethiopian reality. He defended justice without hostility, spoke truth without arrogance, and lived modestly even as his influence grew.

It was said that when Mufti Omar walked into a room, debate softened; when he spoke, confusion dissolved into clarity. He treated questions with patience and answered them with reason rather than rhetoric. Many remember how he would pause before replying, as though measuring not the words, but the impact they would have on hearts.

Despite these qualities, as millions mourned, a few questioned his chosen resting place. They feared, they said, that his grave might be worshipped. But what is there to fear? The true believer knows that when life departs, the body returns to dust, and only the soul journeys on. If one seeks idols, they can make them anywhere—even from the moonlight. It is not graves that create worship; it is ignorance that does.

Should a Muslim be buried outside a Muslim cemetery, or should he not?

Allah has commanded our scholars and sheikhs to teach us the truth. It is our duty to listen to them, respect them, and refrain from insulting or humiliating them. Speaking of them in an unbecoming manner brings its own consequences—it is a deviation from the path of Allah. At the same time, our scholars carry a great responsibility: they must provide complete and honest guidance to the Muslim community.

After the passing of the great scholar, Mufti Omar Idris, two opposing views emerged regarding the matter of burial. One group said, “The place where he was buried is sufficient,” while the other insisted that “Muslims should only be buried in Muslim cemeteries.” Social media amplified this debate, with powerful voices declaring that Muslims should never be buried outside designated Muslim graveyards. Others, however, argued that such a view is too rigid and that history itself provides examples of exceptions—especially for great scholars and saints whose entire lives were spent in service to Allah and the Muslim community.

To understand this issue more clearly, we must look beyond our borders and into Islamic history, where we find both traditions: those buried within graveyards and those buried in or near mosques, schools, and centers of learning.

Great Scholars and Saints Buried Outside Regular Cemeteries

Those who oppose burial outside traditional Muslim cemeteries often argue as though no such precedent exists in Islamic history. Yet the record of the past tells a different story. Across centuries and regions, many great scholars, saints, and reformers—men and women who dedicated their lives to knowledge, worship, and service—were laid to rest near the very places where they taught and prayed. In Saudi Arabia, for instance, Imam Malik ibn Anas, founder of the Maliki school, rests in Jannat al-Baqi‘ in Medina, close to the Prophet’s Mosque, while early scholars and jurists in Mecca were buried near the Ka‘ba itself. In Egypt, the tomb of Imam al-Shafi‘I in Cairo stands as one of the Muslim world’s most revered sites of learning, surrounded by mosques and madrasas, while the nearby resting place of Sayyida Nafisah—descendant of the Prophet—continues to inspire Qur’anic study and devotion.

In Iraq, Imam Abu Hanifa and Sheikh Abdul Qadir al-Jilani, founder of the Qadiri Sufi order, were buried close to their centers of teaching, their tombs still serving as hubs of scholarship and spiritual renewal. In Syria, figures such as Imam Nawawi and Ibn Asakir were interred near mosques and schools in Damascus, symbolizing the enduring link between knowledge and piety. Turkey, too, holds the resting places of Jalal al-Din Rumi (Mawlana Rumi) within his Sufi lodge in Konya, and of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari—companion of the Prophet—within the city walls of Istanbul, where he fell during the first Muslim siege of Constantinople.

The Indian subcontinent bears similar marks of reverence: Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer, Nizamuddin Awliya of Delhi, and Shah Jalal of Sylhet all lie near their khanqas or madrasas, sites that remain alive with learning and devotion. In Southeast Asia, two of the Wali Songo—the nine saints who spread Islam in Indonesia—Sunan Ampel and Sunan Gunung Jati—are buried in the mosques they founded, while in Malaysia, early da‘wah leaders such as Sheikh Abdul Samad al-Palembani were laid to rest near their schools, their legacy preserved among students of Qur’an and Shariah.

Even farther east, in China, Sayyid Ajal Shams al-Din Umar, a scholar and governor under the Yuan Dynasty, was buried near the mosque he built in Yunnan, a lasting testament to the deep roots of Islam in East Asia. In Africa, similar traditions endure: Sheikh Abadir, founder of the Islamic school of Harar, rests in Jigollo, surrounded by mosques and schools; Sheikh Nur Hussein lies beside his mosque, a place of remembrance and unity. In Sudan, Sheikh Hamad al-Nil rests in Omdurman; in Somalia, Sheikh Awes al-Barawi; and in Morocco and Senegal, Moulay Idris, Sidi Ahmed Tijani, and Sheikh Amadou Bamba are buried within their zawiyas—centers that continue to nurture faith, work, and learning.

These examples show that the burial of great scholars near mosques or madrasas was never a form of idolatry, but a way of honoring their lifelong devotion to Allah and the Muslim community. Their tombs were meant not for worship but for remembrance, education, and spiritual renewal.

Broader Context

Mufti’s death invites us to consider not only the question of burial but the deeper purpose of human remembrance. Across nations, tombs and memorials preserve the memory of those who served their people. They are not idols but reminders of virtue, discipline, and moral courage.

Mufti Omar, through decades of scholarship and leadership, became such a figure in Ethiopia. From his early education in traditional Islamic studies to his role as a national religious leader, he cultivated knowledge, wisdom, and spiritual insight. His work bridged generations, urban centers, and rural communities. Under his guidance, mosques became centers of learning, social welfare, and interfaith understanding.

Those who interacted with him speak of a man who never sought recognition for himself. He mediated disputes quietly, advised the young earnestly, and reminded the powerful of justice. Yet his influence was profound. He embodied the principle that leadership is service, not authority; knowledge is duty, not privilege.

Even in death, the Mufti continues to teach. The debates over his resting place reflect more than legal interpretations—they reveal society’s ongoing struggle to balance tradition, knowledge, and modernity. His burial outside a formal cemetery does not diminish his legacy; it illuminates the question of why we honor and remember.

Across the Muslim world, scholars’ resting places have been preserved not for worship but as living testaments to faith, learning, and moral integrity. Ethiopia, with its centuries-old Islamic tradition, continues this practice through figures such as Sheikh Abadir and Sheikh Nur Hussein. Mufti Omar Idris’s resting place now joins this lineage of scholars who remain a source of inspiration long after they leave this world.

Personal Reflection and View

A million arguments can be presented to show who is right and who is wrong in a single debate. Supporters can always be gathered with passion and persuasion. Yet, beneath the surface, this debate—like many others—is not only about faith but also about power. Those who possess authority strive to keep it; those who lack it struggle to gain it.

In that struggle, truth is often refined, reshaped, sweetened—or, at times, deliberately made bitter. Much of what is presented as theological conviction may, in fact, conceal a deeper human desire: the pursuit of influence and control over hearts, minds, and history itself.

As long as the thirst for authority remains, debate will continue. Some will find sweetness in their cause; others will taste bitterness. Yet history reminds us that true faith endures not through the destruction of stones, but through the sincerity that lives within hearts.

Would it not be wiser to teach than to fear? To guide rather than to condemn? Allah has endowed humankind with understanding—the power to discern truth from illusion.

Mufti Omar’s tomb, like those of great scholars before him, should not be feared. It is a place of remembrance, reflection, and inspiration—not an altar of worship. Across continents, Muslim scholars and saints have been honored in ways that encourage learning and piety, not idolatry. The same principle applies here.

And so, the Mufti rests—his soul in the mercy of Allah, his body in the earth, his legacy in the hearts of millions.

Contributed by Teshome B. Kemal