Among the many traders is Lidya Seleshi, a 29-year-old entrepreneur who manages her family’s decades-old clothing business. Like generations before her, she sells intricately woven Habesha Kemis and shawls to customers who prize craftsmanship and cultural identity.

But these days, Lidya faces a daunting challenge: a flood of cheap, machine-made imitations imported from China. The knockoffs, sold at a fraction of the price, have transformed the market and left local weavers and traders struggling to compete.

“Many people are choosing the Chinese imports to cut costs instead of spending their hard-earned money on quality products that last longer,” Lidya said. “Even business owners who once valued handwoven fabrics are now importing from China in large quantities.”

Many traders share Lidya’s frustration. They say that weak government oversight and a lack of protection for local industries have left them vulnerable in a market increasingly dominated by foreign goods. Some are considering giving up altogether.

Michael Kebede, another shop owner in Shero Meda, said his once-thriving business has been forced to scale back orders. “Customers used to come back regularly,” he said. “Now, once they realize they can get what looks like the same product elsewhere for much less, they feel I have cheated them and never return.”

“With prices this low and no repeat buyers,” Michael added, “selling only traditional handmade fabrics is no longer sustainable. Unless we adapt — even by selling Chinese products ourselves — we can’t survive.”

In this part of Addis Ababa, the difference between genuine handwoven garments and the Chinese imitations is easy to spot. The imported fabrics often bear printed designs rather than woven patterns and tend to fade after a few washes — a stark contrast to the vibrant, enduring sheen of traditional Ethiopian textiles.

At a recent Enkopa Summit, former international model Anna Getaneh, one of Ethiopia’s most recognized fashion figures from the 1990s, reflected on the challenges faced by local designers. “When I began my Ethiopian chapter 10 years ago, there was no real fashion ecosystem,” she said. “I had to start from scratch — even building my own factory.”

Anna noted that many designers today have learned to collaborate rather than compete, forming small support networks to sustain their craft. Yet, the market realities remain harsh.

Henok Tewedaj, who runs a fabric shop in Shero Meda, said consumers are increasingly drawn to cheaper imports. “The Chinese fabrics are just stamped, not woven,” he said. “They fade quickly when washed, while our handwoven clothes can last for years.”

Henok often sees customers who view traditional attire as disposable, something to wear once for a wedding or holiday before discarding it. “It’s disappointing,” he said. “An entire younger generation now treats cultural clothing as ‘use and throw.’ That’s why the Chinese products are flooding the market.”

Even wealthier buyers, he added, have unwittingly contributed to the trend. “Middle-class customers in areas like Bole are buying Chinese fabrics to use as curtains or upholstery,” Henok said. “They’re indirectly fueling the demand for imports instead of supporting Ethiopian craftsmanship.”

In Bole — one of the city’s most upscale neighborhoods — boutique shops sell luxury Habesha Kemis for prices reaching 500,000 birr or more. Yodit Gebreselassie, who bought her traditional wedding dress there for 300,000 birr, said the price was worth it. “It was beautiful, elegant, and perfectly designed,” she said. “It represented moderation and tradition.”

Despite such devotion among local buyers, Ethiopian traditional wear has yet to find significant success abroad. A rare moment of international attention came in 2019, when Million Samuel, Ethiopia’s newly appointed ambassador to the Netherlands, wore a strikingly designed traditional outfit to an event — drawing widespread admiration and inquiries about its designer.

But the ambassador, out of loyalty, declined to name the creator. That didn’t stop others, like Yared Sisay, from trying to replicate the piece locally. “I took the fabric to a designer to recreate it,” he said, “but it didn’t come close.”

Yared believes the industry’s potential is stifled by limited skills and visibility. “Ethiopian designers have the passion,” he said, “but most focus on women’s clothing, where the market is larger. The few talented ones don’t market their work — they design mainly for close friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Samuel Getachew (Beijing, China) (Special to The Reporter)

Nearly four decades after the original People-to-People musical initiative aimed at celebrating Ethiopia’s cultural diversity, a modern revival of the show has taken shape—this time on the global stage.

Dubbed “Kin Ethiopia”, the two-hour showcase debuted in Beijing with back-to-back sold-out concerts featuring a fusion of traditional and contemporary Ethiopian music and dance. The overwhelming turnout prompted organizers to add a third performance in Hebei Province to meet surging demand.

“We are elated our effort to introduce—and reintroduce—Ethiopia to China has been so warmly received,” said Kamuzu Kassa, artist, curator, and founder of Shakura Productions. “Our music, our art, and our people have found a home in a country that has stood by Ethiopia’s progress for the last 15 years.”

The performances come amid deepening bilateral ties between China and Ethiopia. Over the past two decades, Beijing has invested heavily in Ethiopian infrastructure, including airports, industrial parks, roads, and higher education institutions. Ethiopian Airlines, Africa’s largest carrier, has also emerged as a popular gateway for Chinese tourists across the continent.

This year marks the 55th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the two countries, a milestone celebrated in Addis Ababa earlier this month with a visit from Chinese artists and cultural delegates.

Kamuzu, who headlined the tour, also signed agreements with several Chinese cultural institutions, including the China Arts and Entertainment Group, the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra, and Bridging Culture & Media Company. The partnerships aim to promote Ethiopian music and art to Chinese audiences on a long-term basis.

Mingzhou Zhang, director of Bridging Culture & Media, said the group is also exploring publishing translated Ethiopian literature—including a Chinese edition of a book authored by Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed—as part of an effort to preserve and share Ethiopia’s rich historical legacy with new generations.

“These partnerships will help us elevate Ethiopian music and culture to a global platform,” Kamuzu said. “There is something uniquely powerful about our sound that resonates far beyond our borders.”

Future tour stops are already in motion, with performances slated for Russia, South Africa, and Brazil—fellow BRICS member states. Organizers are also in discussions to expand the tour to India and other nations.

The Beijing concerts, held at the Beijing Library Auditorium and inside the Ethiopian Embassy, were a blend of cultural exchange. Chinese performers joined their Ethiopian counterparts in cross-cultural collaborations.

Zewdu Bekele, a beloved vocalist from the Wolayta region of southern Ethiopia, said he was deeply moved by the crowd’s energy. “To see people dancing to our music, without knowing the language it—it was unforgettable,” he said. “That’s the power of music. It brings people together.”

Other performers included Oromiffa singer Aadam Mohammad, known for his distinctive traditional attire and genre-bending arrangements. “We came here not just to promote Ethiopia, but to share our music with the world,” he said.

One of the evening’s standout moments came from Tigrayan artist Gere Chuchu, whose performance earned a rare standing ovation. “We sing the music of harmony, love, and understanding,” he said. “It’s what the world needs more of.”

Among the crowds that packed the opening night of was Li Peng, a young aspiring artist who admitted she had never heard of Ethiopia before. She couldn’t even place the country on a map—but by the end of the concert, she was on her feet, trying to mimic the energetic dance moves of the performers who frequently invited the audience to join in.

“This is a beautiful tradition,” Peng said afterward. “I hope to get used to it—and maybe, one day, visit their country.”

For Ethiopian officials, that sentiment is exactly the goal. With tourism high on the national agenda, Ethiopia is betting on cultural diplomacy to spark interest and lure travelers to the Horn of Africa. In June, Prime Minister Abiy told lawmakers that Ethiopia had attracted over one million tourists, thanks in large part to the reach of its flagship carrier, Ethiopian Airlines.

The second Beijing concert, held inside the newly inaugurated Ethiopian Embassy, brought another surprise: a haunting rendition of a Mandarin folk song sung by Selam Getachew, a vocalist from Gonder, accompanied by a traditional masinko and visuals of the ancient Fasil Ghebbi castle projected behind her.

The performance moved Zhang Loe, a 61-year-old retiree, to tears. “This is the music of my youth and my many milestones,” she said, wiping her eyes as she swayed to the music. Her husband nodded in agreement, visibly touched by what he called “a rare experience of the world’s culture.”

“It’s remarkable. Unique,” he said. “I hope we’ll have more of this—more chances to hear the music of faraway places.”

The concerts blended Ethiopian sounds and visuals with an array of artistic expressions—musicians, dancers, and even a circus troupe performing styles drawn from Ethiopia’s many regions. The aroma of freshly brewed Ethiopian coffee drifted through the venue, adding yet another sensory layer to the experience. Curious Chinese attendees inquired where they might buy similar beans.

For some, the connection to Ethiopia goes beyond music.

Zun Chao, a merchant from southern China, considers the country his second home. He spent nearly a decade working on a construction project in Addis Ababa, where he met his Ethiopian wife. Today, the couple has three children, the youngest of whom was born in China.

“To me, Ethiopia is where everything started—my job, my family, my understanding of another culture,” he said. “I still speak Amharic and Oromiffa. Hearing this music brings me back to the happiest, most productive years of my life.”

Among the guests was Tewedaj Alemayehu, an Ethiopian national who traveled from Guangzhou, where he runs a modest export business. After arriving in China for graduate studies nearly a decade ago, he now speaks fluent Mandarin and helps Ethiopian clients navigate the Chinese market. He hadn’t been home in five years, but brought a few Chinese friends along to the concert.

“We are like cultural ambassadors,” he said. “We try to tell our friends about Ethiopia’s uniqueness, but sometimes it’s hard to explain. This concert helps—it gives them a window into the Ethiopia we know and love.”

 (Special to The Reporter)

When his horse began to fall ill and age rapidly, Girma Tadele faced an impossible choice. For more than five years, the 27-year-old had relied on the animal to transport vital goods and earn a modest living. But as the horse’s health declined, so too did Girma’s ability to care for it.

“It became difficult to feed and take care of it with my limited income,” Girma said. “I didn’t know what to do—but then someone told me about a method that many others were using.”

That method, he explained, was to blind the horse with a sharp object and abandon it far from his village. The horse never returned. Girma suspects it died alone in agony.

“I didn’t understand animal welfare at the time,” he admitted. “We were taught that you use working animals until they drop dead.”

Now, Girma is seeing veterinarians visit his rural village for the first time, raising awareness about animal welfare and introducing basic veterinary services. His horse, like many others, had never seen a vet in its lifetime.

Girma’s friend, Tesfaye who declined to provide his full name, said his own horse is still healthy. But he confessed he might have made the same decision had it become sick.

“I’m a poor man. I’ve never seen a doctor myself,” Tesfaye said. “When I’m sick, I rest, drink tea, and get back to work. The idea of paying a doctor for a horse? That’s hard to imagine.”

This dilemma is not unique to Girma or Tesfaye. Across Addis Ababa, particularly in suburbs like Ayat and Summit, abandoned horses have become a common and haunting sight. Many suffer from untreated illnesses, hunger, or dehydration. Some collapse in the middle of streets, creating traffic hazards. Others die and are left unattended for days.

Yared Kebrewold, a resident of the capital, has witnessed the growing number of forsaken horses on city roads. “In the past, people would feed these animals or give them water,” he said. “Now, it happens so often that no one seems to notice anymore.”

Ethiopia is home to one of the world’s largest equine populations—estimated at over two million, according to the UK-based animal welfare organization, Brooke. The country’s long-standing equestrian traditions contrast starkly with the current crisis.

“Ethiopia faces significant challenges in ensuring the welfare of its horses,” said Klare Kennett, Head of Brand Marketing and Communications at Brooke. She cited major concerns including poor management, preventable diseases, lack of veterinary care, overworking, and outdated shoeing practices that often involve driving construction nails into the animals’ hooves—causing deformities and pain.

Legislation and Learning

Ethiopia’s parliament appears to be taking notice of the silent suffering of the nation’s working animals. In a rare legislative move this year, lawmakers introduced the Animal Health and Welfare Bill, a sweeping proposal designed to protect domesticated animals, regulate veterinary practices, and establish standards of care for equines and other working animals.

For veterinarians like Medhanit Berihun, who practices in Addis Ababa, the bill marks a long-overdue shift in public policy—though cultural attitudes will take longer to change.

“Most owners still treat their horses like tools, not living beings,” she said. “This leads to early physical breakdown. In rural areas especially, there’s little willingness to spend money on treatment. So when the animals get sick, they’re dumped.”

She believes the issue is rooted not in cruelty, but in lack of awareness—and often, poverty.

Still, attitudes are beginning to shift.

A growing number of owners are opting for euthanasia—a humane and medically supervised end—rather than letting their animals suffer, a decision once unthinkable in many parts of the country. Animal rights organizations working across Ethiopia have helped introduce this option and shift public perception.

For Seleshi Gezachew, a horse and donkey owner, the concept of euthanasia was difficult to accept at first. “I couldn’t bear the thought of killing an animal I considered part of the family.”

But after watching YouTube videos and learning from international animal rights groups, his view changed. “Over time, I realized that euthanasia—when done ethically—is more humane than letting them die in pain and neglect.”

He added, “I wish animals lived forever. But we all die—and if I can give my companions a dignified end, I will. They’ve worked beside me. I owe them that.”

In many parts of Ethiopia, horses remain central to life, especially in areas where paved roads are few and public transport is scarce. They pull carts, carry goods, and provide access to markets, clinics, and schools—often traversing harsh terrain.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, a new model of care quietly emerged. The London-based Society for the Protection of Animals Abroad (SPAA) partnered with the Addis Ababa College of Veterinary Medicine and Agriculture in 2018, launching a USD one million initiative to train local veterinarians, establish mobile clinics, and reach remote communities with animal welfare education.

For Germame Kiflework, a horse owner in Bishoftu on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, the program was life-changing. When the pandemic paralyzed the economy, he could no longer afford to care for his animals. But SPAA’s mobile clinic stepped in—providing vaccinations, treatment, and feed for his horses.

“I used to think animals were meant to be used until they drop. But I learned they need support, just like us,” Germame said.

Today, he owns three horses and continues to participate in animal welfare programs in his area. While he hasn’t yet accepted euthanasia as an option for his older animals, he welcomes the growing support system for equine care in his community.

The fate of working animals—especially aging horses—remains a blind spot as Ethiopia urbanizes and transitions economically. For families like Girma’s, these animals are both lifelines and burdens. Without accessible support systems, owners are left with few humane options.

During his address at the 42nd regular session of Parliament earlier this week, Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed gave lawmakers an optimistic review of Ethiopia’s tourism industry, claiming the country has welcomed more than 1.3 million foreign visitors during the fiscal year.

The figure, almost 50 percent higher than last year’s, contrasts with accounts from people in the industry, who paint a grim picture of unemployment, dying businesses, and crippling uncertainty.

Many of Ethiopia’s most iconic tourist destinations have seen visitor numbers fall as a result of conflict and insecurity. In the Amhara region, where fighting between federal forces and local militia groups is entering its third year, sites like the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela are seeing only a trickle of tourists where there was once a steady and growing flow.

Other destinations in northern Ethiopia, such as the historic city of Axum, face a similar situation, while tourism figures in the south are also experiencing a sharp decline, according to industry sources.

“It has become difficult to travel in many parts of Ethiopia because of security issues and now because we need special permits to visit provinces like Tigray,” a European diplomat residing in Addis Ababa told this journalist, requesting anonymity. “That has made me less willing to travel and enjoy the country.”

Turmi, a locale in the far southern corner of Ethiopia, not far from the popular town of Jinka and the fabled Omo National Park, appeared deserted when the writer visited the area recently. The tourists who once sustained business in the area have all but disappeared, and even Turmi’s most popular attractions, like Paradise Lodge, were nearly empty.

Managers there told this journalist they depend on proceeds from organizing and hosting local administrative conferences to stay afloat.

A tour guide who once earned a dependable income from tourism in Turmi says visitors have grown rare, while unemployment has skyrocketed, worsening poverty.

“It’s not just in Turmi. It’s in every part of the region, forcing many of us to abandon the profession and look for opportunities elsewhere,” said the tour guide.

He told this writer that most foreign tourists visiting Turmi these days are Chinese social media influencers, who travel thousands of miles for a taste of rural village life and share their experience with their followers.

However, according to the tour guide, these “TikTok tourists” prefer to stay in cheap hostels and spend little.

In nearby Jinka, once a hub for tourists heading to the more rural parts of southern Ethiopia, tour guides say they are left with no choice but to find another line of work.

Negus Kiflekirstos, a 37-year-old father of two, was once proud of his role as a cultural ambassador, having accompanied countless numbers of tourists on adventurous expeditions. The work allowed him to support his family, but pay has dried up.

“There are no tourists and those that are still here work for humanitarian organizations, and they seem less inclined to be tourists,” he said, sipping a cold beer in one of the town’s popular eateries. “Tourists always paid us well, tipped us generously, enquired about the area and spent freely. But now we’re unemployed and have abruptly become a burden on our families instead of ambassadors of our community.”

(Special to the Reporter)

Cape Town, South Africa—In the outer neighborhoods of Addis Ababa, the Summit area has emerged as a vibrant enclave of bars, lounges, and restaurants—favored by a new wave of urban dwellers priced out of the capital’s core. But as the city’s social life expands outward, so does a problem that many establishments are struggling to contain: smoking.

“There are so many customers who want to drink, eat—and smoke—all in one place,” said a bartender at one of the popular venues in Summit. “When we ask them to step outside, some get angry. Others sneak into the restrooms to smoke in secret.”

It’s not just a nuisance; it’s illegal. In Ethiopia, as in much of Africa, public smoking is banned under government regulations aimed at reducing the health burden of tobacco use. Businesses caught flouting the law risk stiff penalties. Yet for many restaurateurs, the demand for designated smoking areas remains persistent—and complicated.

While local venues grapple with enforcement on the ground, a broader conversation about tobacco control is gaining momentum across the continent.

Earlier this month, South Africa’s Western Cape hosted a high-level summit bringing together health experts, policymakers, and industry players determined to shift the trajectory of smoking in Africa—the world’s fastest-growing tobacco market.

The summit spotlighted new strategies aimed at creating smoke-free societies, including the use of alternative nicotine products. Experts shared evidence from countries that have adopted harm-reduction approaches, touting innovations like e-cigarettes, heated tobacco, and oral nicotine pouches as tools to curb combustible cigarette use.

Executives from Philip Morris International (PMI), one of the world’s largest tobacco companies, were also in attendance. The company says it has invested more than USD 14 billion in research and development to move smokers towards reduced-risk products. These include e-vapor devices and heat-not-burn tobacco technologies.

“Innovation can address some of the world’s most pressing health challenges—and Africa must not be left behind,” said Tommaso Di Giovanni, a PMI executive, during the discussion. He pointed to South Africa as a case study where such products are widely available and regulated.

In South Africa, heated tobacco devices and oral nicotine products can be purchased legally and are increasingly visible. PMI and its partners hope this model can be replicated elsewhere on the continent.

In Ethiopia—as in many parts of Africa—acceptance of smoke-free alternatives has been slow, stifled by a market flooded with substandard, contraband tobacco products. These cheaper, often unregulated cigarettes have become deeply entrenched, making public health efforts all the more difficult.

Back in 2014, inspired in part by Canada’s aggressive anti-smoking stance and alarmed by the rising healthcare costs linked to tobacco use, the government introduced sweeping tobacco control legislation. Among its many restrictions was a ban on electronic cigarettes.

PMI, which had already begun investing in non-combustible alternatives, publicly criticized the move. In an open letter, the company wrote: “The directive’s ban on electronic cigarettes will be a missed opportunity for Ethiopia to improve public health. It’s equivalent to banning electric cars to maintain gasoline engines.”

Since then, PMI has continued to lobby Ethiopian authorities to reconsider.

The stakes are significant: Ethiopia’s population is nearing 130 million, and the World Health Organization estimates that nearly 9 percent of adults are regular smokers—a number that could grow without meaningful intervention.

For some smokers, the appeal of alternatives is beginning to take hold.

Tedwodros “Teddy” Gebremeskel, a longtime smoker in Addis Ababa, was skeptical when he first encountered e-cigarettes during a visit to Johannesburg. But over time, his skepticism gave way to cautious acceptance.

“These products are still new in Ethiopia,” he said. “But more people are importing them, selling them on social media. It’s not perfect—but it’s a better alternative than what we have.”

As e-cigarette use gains traction, particularly among younger Ethiopians, the government faces growing pressure to reconsider its restrictive policy.

Advocates point to countries like Japan, the United States, and Sweden, where the introduction of next-generation nicotine products has coincided with a sharp drop in cigarette use. Japan, for instance, reported a fivefold decline in smoking after alternative tobacco products became widely available.

A Generation Shift and a Growing E-Cigarette Subculture

Henok Tadesse, a 21-year-old university student at Unity College in Addis Ababa, has witnessed a quiet revolution on campus: the rapid rise of e-cigarette use among his peers. Sensing a market opportunity, he began importing vaping devices from Dubai and selling them online—a side hustle that has quickly grown into a lucrative business.

 “Young people are usually the first to embrace new things. They see vaping as healthier and less intrusive—it doesn’t bother others like cigarette smoke does,” he said.

His friend, a 20-year-old student who asked to remain anonymous because he hasn’t told his family about his smoking habit, agreed. He uses both nicotine patches and e-cigarettes, preferring the discretion they offer.

“With the patch, I don’t even need to step outside to smoke,” he said. “It’s private—and more affordable now that people are bringing them in from abroad.”

The evolving preference for contemporary, less conspicuous options is music to the ears of PMI executives, who anticipate a national shift away from conventional cigarettes.

“Innovation needs to be accessible and impactful,” said Jacek Olczak, CEO of PMI, speaking at the recent health summit in Cape Town. “It is imperative that countries worldwide adopt a policy framework that keeps pace with these innovations to deliver on the promise of progress.”

But not everyone is convinced.

While PMI champions its heated tobacco devices and e-vapor products as tools to transition away from cigarettes, many African public health experts remain skeptical. They argue that the evidence behind these alternatives remains insufficient and that it is not backed by science.

Across Africa, few governments have embraced alternative nicotine products in their public health frameworks. Most continue to lag behind, wary of shifting regulation too quickly in the absence of conclusive data.

Still, on the ground in Ethiopia, some are already noticing the practical benefits.

 Thomas Asseged, a middle-aged taxi driver who frequently picks up international arrivals at Bole International Airport, remembers a time when passengers would ask to smoke cigarettes in his cab.

“I let them smoke back then because I needed the income,” he said. “But I would cough all the time.”

Today, he says most of his customers use nicotine pouches instead of demanding to smoke freely in his taxi. For Thomas, it’s a welcome change.

And for Ethiopia, the question now is whether public health policy can evolve fast enough to respond to both market demand and mounting evidence that not all nicotine delivery systems are created equal.

Ezedin began his journey with STEMpower—a continent-wide initiative geared towards guiding pre-university students towards careers in science, technology, mathematics, and engineering—when he joined one of their centers in Wolkite. He went on to sign up for an entrepreneurship program offered by STEMpower in collaboration with Visa, which helped him develop into a professional entrepreneur. In a recent conversation with The Reporter’s Samuel Getachew, Ezedin spoke about his dreams, his rise in Ethiopia’s local tech community, the impact he is making across the country, and his vision for the sector a decade from now. EXCERPTS:

The Reporter: Tell us about yourself.

Ezedin Kamil: I am an innovator and entrepreneur. I am a cofounder and CEO of both Ibex Technologies and Promotion PLC, and Tina Business Group PLC. Ibex Technologies have achieved many milestones over the years. 

Can you share some of its notable achievements?

Ibex Technologies and Promotion is a tech company focused on software development and software-as-a-service (SaaS) products. To date, we’ve developed over 400 software solutions for clients across seven countries, with a strong focus on Ethiopian clients. Some of our notable clients include Two Brothers Biscuits, Wolkite City Administration, and Bole Sub-City Administration. 

Under our SaaS model, one of our flagship products is iCard—an NFC-based digital business card solution. Launched in May 2024, it has attracted over 5,500 subscribers within just 11 months. Each subscription is sold at 4,600 birr annually. 

What was your first innovation and what impact did it have?

My first innovation was a theft-control system. I developed it after my mother’s café was robbed. It was a device that would automatically make a phone call to my father whenever the door was touched after hours. This project had a deep personal motivation and went on to win an award from the Wolkite City Education Bureau, laying a foundation for what I wanted to do with my life. 

In many ways, it was a pivotal moment that sparked my long-term journey in innovation. 

What role do you see in technology and innovation that can be useful for a country like Ethiopia in solving some of its shortcomings?

I would like to highlight this through one of my recent ventures, Tina Mart. It is an e-commerce platform aimed at solving issues related to market accessibility, affordability, and financial inclusion. 

We’ve secured a pre-seed investment from a US-based VC firm called Penatran Group. Tina Mart is designed to create a modern, trusted, and time-saving digital marketplace for Ethiopians. Through technology, we aim to empower consumers and producers, particularly by offering wide product variety at competitive prices—a solution that can play a big role in addressing some of Ethiopia’s economic challenges. 

What is X-Disturb? 

X-Disturb is a new app built by my team at Ibex Technologies and Promotion PLC, and it’s set to launch around the end of this month. It’s designed to automatically silence your phone when you enter places like mosques, churches, or libraries, and then switch it back to loud mode when you leave. It’s helpful for avoiding those embarrassing moments when your phone rings during a prayer, service, or study session. But what makes X-Disturb really stand out is that it’s more than just a silencing app; it’s part of a bigger vision.

The idea is to foster a more mindful, respectful community. By helping people be more present and less disruptive, X-Disturb is contributing to a culture of awareness and mutual respect. And there’s more to come. My team behind it will soon be sharing a deeper statement on why they believe X-Disturb is not just a tech tool, but a community builder.

Tell us about X-Fire.

X-Fire is an intelligent fire alarm system that detects fires based on smoke thresholds and immediately makes phone calls to four family members and one fire control agency—all within just 50 seconds (10 seconds per call). This innovation received recognition and an award from the SolveIT Business Competition, organized by the US Embassy, the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), and iCog Labs. 

But beyond the recognition that has come my way over the years, what satisfies me most is when my effort is having a profound impact on other people and we are beginning to see that. The award is the cream on the cake!

Looking back on your own career, what was essential in helping you make your mark in innovation? 

The tech and entrepreneurship ecosystem in Ethiopia is steadily improving, however belatedly. Access to global tools is growing, and we have a strong pool of talent, especially from universities like Adama Science & Technology University and Addis Ababa Science & Technology University. 

There is now a general understanding and support of what we do by all actors—in government, the private sector and funders. I believe that is important as a way to nurture our dreams and aspirations. 

The government’s commitment, particularly through the ‘Digital Ethiopia 2025’ strategy, is a key driver of this progress. Personally, I see ventures like Tina Mart growing into public companies listed on the Ethiopian Securities Exchange and even becoming a tech unicorn in Africa within the next decade. 

What helped me the most in my journey was solving real problems with a personal connection, continuously learning, and building strong teams that share a mission. To be exposed to some of the brightest people in the world as well as their work is really something to celebrate and a way to inspire the mind to think big but act locally, if I may rephrase the old saying. 

How do you envision Ethiopia’s technology sector ten years from now?

Ethiopia’s future in tech is promising. The software industry, in particular, offers immense opportunities for global impact with relatively low barriers to entry. However, there are still limitations holding back local innovators such as lack of access to international platforms like Apple’s Developer Program and limited access to global payment systems. I believe with the right support and reforms, Ethiopian tech talent can thrive globally, and our startups can compete at an international level.

Ultimately, my goal is to help refurbish the image of Africa as a place where technology succeeds and young people with big dreams can have the support they need to prosper without having to leave the continent and look for support elsewhere. Supporting and mentorship is important to me and I have made it part of my brand to be approachable, to listen and wherever possible, encourage others to follow my work and example. 

“This competition champions leather as the material of choice for a sustainable future, providing designers across Africa with skills, exposure, and a platform to harness its beauty, versatility, and durability,” said Nicholas Mudungwe, executive director of ALLPI.

Ethiopia, known for its beautifully crafted leather products, continues to face challenges in quality perception and market competition from imported goods. Many local consumers appreciate Ethiopian leather’s affordability and design but believe improvements are necessary to boost consumer confidence.

“Ethiopian leather is well-designed and affordable, but quality improvements are needed to compete with imported products that dominate the market,” said Henok Petros, a Seattle-based entrepreneur and frequent customer at Addis Ababa’s leather stores. While he proudly purchases locally made leather goods for his children, he acknowledges concerns about durability.

An Italian IT professional shopping at the same store echoed this sentiment, praising the unique designs but emphasizing the need for higher quality and sustainability. “Price is secondary. What matters is quality and environmental responsibility, which influence our purchasing decisions,” he said.

The LHCA and ALLPI initiative seeks to bridge this gap. Last year, they hosted a competition at Skylight Hotel during Africa Sourcing and Fashion Week in Addis Ababa, where Ruth Girmay, an Ethiopian designer, won the Most Commendable Designer Award for her “Overfishing Bag” inspired by marine conservation.

“This recognition affirms my hard work and dream to excel in sustainable, locally made designs that will elevate Ethiopia in the international market,” Ruth said.

The competition also connects African designers with global industry players, potential partnerships, and sustainable fashion advocates. Kerry Brozyna, president of LHCA, emphasized the importance of sustainability in fashion:

“The industry cannot afford to ignore its environmental impact. Leather is at the heart of slow fashion due to its durability, offering an ethical alternative to disposable fashion trends.”

A local designer who competed last year and plans to participate again this year expressed her excitement, saying, “African designs are beautiful and colorful, but we lack exposure, wisdom, and the know-how to elevate our products. I hope Africa will one day embrace its own creations instead of prioritizing cheap imports.”

At just 22 years old, Hagos Tesfu is weighing a future far from his home in Tigray, the northern Ethiopian region still struggling to recover from war, economic uncertainty, and food insecurity. Two years after the brutal civil war officially ended in 2022, life remains precarious for many.

A young father, Hagos ekes out a living driving a Bajaj, a three-wheeled taxi, but the income barely sustains him—let alone his wife and child. He is part of a growing number of Tigrayans facing dire circumstances, as hunger looms and jobs remain scarce. A sudden halt in foreign aid, following US President Donald Trump’s decision to cut assistance deemed misaligned with his “America First” agenda, has only deepened the crisis.

“I spend half my time in fuel lines, hoping to get petrol that is rarely available,” Hagos told The Reporter. “When I can’t, I have to buy from middlemen at outrageous prices, which eats into what little I earn. Life is unbearable.”

The struggle is visible across Mekelle, Tigray’s capital, where uncertainty has become the norm. The economy, already battered by war, is now spiraling further downward as humanitarian aid—once a lifeline for the region—dries up.

“There was a time when tourists came to see Axum’s historic sites, the Gheralta Mountains, or even just to visit Mekelle,” said Nahom Tesfaledet, a taxi driver. “During the war, humanitarian workers filled the hotels. Now, that time is over. The hotels are empty, and jobs have vanished.”

Throughout the city, young men sit idly on street corners, caught in a cycle of frustration and despair.

One 19-year-old, desperate to escape, found himself ensnared by human traffickers. He sold his Bajaj, borrowed money, and paid 60,000 birr to smugglers who promised him a route to Europe. Instead, he was caught at the Djibouti border and deported back to Ethiopia—returning home deeper in debt and with even fewer options.

Yet, despite the risks, he is already planning another attempt.

“I have no future here,” he said. “I owe too much money, and there’s nothing for me in Tigray.”

He is not alone. Across the region, young people—facing unemployment, hunger, and an uncertain political landscape—are considering the same perilous journey.

A hotel waiter in Mekelle said he does not blame them.

“Leaving is the only option,” he said. “The choice is between a dangerous journey or a slow death here, where hope fades every day.”

For many, the dream is not just to leave Tigray—but to escape Ethiopia altogether.

“I am saving everything I can,” the waiter said. “Anywhere but here would be good enough.”

Few in Tigray have been untouched by the war that ended in 2022. The conflict, which claimed an estimated 600,000 lives and was marked by widespread sexual violence, officially concluded with a peace agreement between the Ethiopian government and Tigrayan leaders. But for many civilians, that peace remains elusive.

Senait Gudafa rarely leaves her home after 8 p.m., fearing the violence that still lingers in the shadows of Mekelle. She speaks of the many women and girls who have been victims of sexual assault—some as young as adolescents—whose suffering has led to protests and condemnation from activists, yet little action from the regional government.

“We’ve normalized rape and sexual violence,” she said. “We have no real support systems, and our quality of life keeps deteriorating.”

At Ayder Hospital, once Tigray’s leading medical facility, the impact of war is stark. Many doctors and nurses, who worked tirelessly throughout the conflict despite shortages of supplies and meager pay, have since left—most heading to the West, aided by the US Embassy in Addis Ababa, which has expedited visa processing for medical professionals seeking asylum.

A hospital administrator described the grim reality.

“Our resources are depleted, we can’t afford to pay staff competitive salaries, and even though the war is over, patients are still suffering,” he said. “Many of our best doctors have gone to the U.S. or Canada. Those who couldn’t get visas have left for Somaliland. They saw too much during the war, and we had nothing to offer to make them stay.”

The administrator himself has had offers to leave, including a chance to work in Rwanda. But for now, he remains in Tigray—out of loyalty to his homeland.

At a gas station in the heart of Mekelle, Brook Temesgen has been waiting in line for more than four hours, hoping to fill his tank so he can work as a taxi driver. He knows many of his colleagues have given up and turned to the black market, where fuel prices are double. But for him, that is not an option.

“I have three children to feed, school fees to pay, and rent due,” he said. “I have no financial support from anyone. I can’t afford black market prices, so I have to wait in the cold.”

If not for his children, Brook admits, he might have taken a different path.

“If I had no one depending on me, I would have tried to reach Yemen, even with all the dangers, just to find a way to Europe,” he said. “Because right now, life here feels like a death sentence.”

Even in peacetime, the struggle for survival in Tigray continues.

But the drink drawing them in isn’t the typical bottled beer lining supermarket shelves. It’s tella, a homemade, fermented barley beverage once associated with older generations and rural gatherings. Now, it’s making an unexpected comeback among the city’s youth.

For Mamo Seleshi, a university student in his twenties, the appeal was gradual. “At first, I didn’t like the taste,” Mamo admits. “But with beer prices constantly rising, my friends and I decided to try tella  Now, this place feels like our regular hangout. It connects us to a tradition our parents once enjoyed.”

Mamo’s sentiment is echoed by his friend from Johannesburg, South Africa, who recently visited Addis Ababa. “I always thought tella was outdated, something our generation wouldn’t touch,” he says. “But what’s the point of visiting Ethiopia if you don’t fully experience its culture? Beer is everywhere, but tella is something special.”

Brewing Business Opportunities

The resurgence of tella isn’t just social—it’s also entrepreneurial. Frehiwot Tadele, 32, began brewing tella at home after watching a TikTok tutorial. What started as a personal experiment soon evolved into a thriving business in her Ayat neighborhood.

“Initially, it was just for me and my family,” Frehiwot says. But slowly I started getting phone calls and it has extended to many contacts all over Addis Ababa owing to the popularity of the drink among younger people.”

Frehiwot’s success reflects a larger trend: the growing appreciation for traditional, locally made products among Ethiopia’s younger generation. Her ambitions to expand hint at a wider shift in consumption patterns, where affordability and authenticity trump mass production.

At Abekesh Traditional Tella House in Ketchene, the cultural renaissance of tella is on full display. Patrons young and old sit side by side on wooden stools, sipping the earthy brew to the sounds of traditional Ethiopian music. Here, social boundaries blur.

Tewodros Alemu, a middle-aged laborer at a nearby construction site, finds comfort in both the taste and the price. “Not only is it affordable, but tella is always homemade with care—not mass-produced in factories,” he says.

A Brew Caught Between Tradition and Modernization

At Bekesah, a traditional tella house, a five-liter jug of the homemade brew costs around 450 birr—enough for a large group to share and savor. On holidays, the venue amplifies the cultural experience by inviting traditional masinko players, Ethiopia’s version of the violin, to entertain guests.

Yet, in a city racing toward modernization, spaces like Bekesah are becoming increasingly rare. Addis Ababa’s skyline is rapidly transforming, with towering skyscrapers replacing the traditional houses that once served as hubs for cultural gatherings. The city’s shrinking number of cultural venues has pushed many to opt for modern pubs over traditional spaces, threatening the survival of Ethiopia’s rich social traditions.

Still, many remain hopeful that the customs that once defined Ethiopia’s identity will endure.

In the Bole neighborhood, near the iconic Medhane Alem Cathedral and close to the popular Kebe Café, once stood a bustling tella bét—a traditional tella house—frequented by construction workers from nearby sites. Earlier this year, the area was cleared to make way for an apartment complex, transforming the lively street into a quiet, desolate space.

Almaz Beyene, the owner of the now-demolished tella house, was renowned for her expertly brewed tella, a craft passed down from her parents.

“To me, the tella I made was love in a cup—a tribute to my upbringing and a tradition I wanted to share with my neighbors,” Almaz reflected.

However, the soaring cost of rent in the capital has crushed her dream of reopening. The rising prices make it nearly impossible to maintain the affordability that made tella accessible to all.

“What’s being lost isn’t just our properties—it’s our identity,” Almaz lamented, criticizing the city’s rapid transformation into a landscape of Dubai-like skyscrapers that overshadow the cultural essence of Addis Ababa.

A Growing, Yet Selective, International Appeal

Foreigners have been slow to embrace tella, but some expatriates—particularly members of the Chinese community working in Ethiopia—are beginning to appreciate the traditional brew.

At Yod Abyssinia Cultural Restaurant, where tej (a homemade honey wine) is a popular choice among visitors, some patrons express a growing interest in tella. The restaurant’s vibrant atmosphere features live music performances, occasionally even in Mandarin and Cantonese, drawing a diverse crowd.

One Chinese customer, an employee of a Chinese construction company in Ethiopia, shared his fondness for tella, though he preferred to remain anonymous.

“Whenever I bring guests here, I order tej, but I wish they served tella too,” he said, recalling how he first discovered the drink while working on a major construction project in the Amhara region.

“Tella is such a mesmerizing drink. I could enjoy it regularly. It takes me back to my early days in Ethiopia,” he added with a laugh. “But tej gets me drunk too quickly, and I don’t like that.”