Girma Berhanu (Professor)
This paper is motivated by a critical reading of How Fascism Works by Jason Stanley and its striking relevance to the current political crisis in Ethiopia. Stanley’s central claim—that fascism is not merely a historical regime type but a set of political tactics used to acquire and entrench power—provides an urgent and illuminating framework for understanding Ethiopia’s contemporary trajectory.
Stanley warns that “multiple countries across the world have been overtaken by a certain kind of far-right nationalism.” His concern is not abstract. It is diagnostic. Fascism, in his account, operates through identifiable mechanisms: the manipulation of history, the destruction of truth, the vilification of intellectuals, the normalization of hierarchy, and the systematic erosion of democratic institutions. These are not theoretical constructs; they are observable political practices. This paper argues, unequivocally, that these practices are not only present in Ethiopia today but are increasingly defining features of the current political order under Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed and the ideology often described as Oromuma.
First, the deliberate construction of a mythic past has become a central political tool. As Stanley notes, fascist politics depends on the fabrication of a glorified historical narrative to legitimize present domination. In Ethiopia, such narratives are not benign reinterpretations of history; they are politically weaponized distortions designed to elevate one identity while delegitimizing others. They function not as history, but as propaganda.
Second, the regime’s reliance on propaganda and the systematic destruction of truth are both pervasive and unapologetic. Stanley emphasizes that fascist politics thrives on the erosion of factual reality. In Ethiopia, official narratives routinely contradict lived experience—whether in relation to economic conditions, national unity, or security. Truth is not merely obscured; it is actively replaced with politically convenient falsehoods.
Third, anti-intellectualism is not incidental but structural. Intellectuals, journalists, and critical voices are increasingly treated as adversaries of the state. Academic freedom is constrained, public discourse is narrowed, and the production of knowledge is subjected to political pressure. As Stanley argues, this is a hallmark of fascist politics: the deliberate weakening of society’s capacity to think critically.
Fourth, the regime cultivates a climate of unreality and conspiracy thinking, in which dissent is reframed as an existential threat. Political opposition is routinely cast as treasonous, protests are interpreted as coordinated subversion, and legitimate grievances are dismissed as destabilizing plots. This manufactured paranoia serves a clear purpose: to justify repression.
Fifth, the normalization of hierarchy and “natural order” is increasingly evident. Stanley’s insight that fascist systems rely on rigid social stratification finds clear resonance in discourses that elevate one ethnic identity above others. Such narratives are not merely rhetorical—they have material and political consequences, reinforcing exclusion and inequality.
Sixth, the deployment of a victimhood narrative further entrenches this system. As Stanley observes, dominant groups often portray themselves as historically oppressed in order to legitimize present power. In Ethiopia, this narrative is mobilized selectively, obscuring current realities while redirecting blame toward constructed historical enemies.
Seventh, law-and-order politics is used as a blunt instrument of control. Widespread instability—much of it exacerbated by state actions—is invoked to justify severe restrictions on civil liberties. Under the pretext of security, repression is normalized and dissent criminalized.
Eighth, nationalism is redefined in exclusionary terms, narrowing the boundaries of belonging. This represents a profound rupture from Ethiopia’s historically pluralistic identity. The nation is no longer conceived as a shared civic project but as the possession of a particular group.
Finally, the systematic erosion of democratic institutions is unmistakable. Electoral processes lack credibility, opposition space is severely constrained, and the rule of law is subordinated to political expediency. What remains is not a functioning democracy, but its hollowed-out façade.
The convergence of these elements is neither accidental nor temporary. It reflects a coherent political logic—one that aligns closely with Stanley’s account of how fascism operates in practice. The Ethiopian case, therefore, should not be viewed as an isolated crisis, but as part of a broader and deeply troubling pattern.
To ignore these parallels is not analytical caution; it is wilfulblindness.
A second urgent motivation for writing this article is the Ethiopian government’s apparent plan to strip Addis Ababa (Finfinnee) of its multi-ethnic character and annex it as part of the Oromia region—a move that is nothing short of an assault on the nation’s cohesion (Washington Update: Human Rights Crisis in Ethiopia, March 21, 2026, Mesfin Mekonen). The “Finfinnee Reclamation Framework,” currently circulating as a discussion draft, exposes the regime’s intentions in chilling detail. According to reports, this framework is being positioned as a “restorative justice” initiative for indigenous Oromo clans, including the Tulama, Gullallee, Ekka, and Gelan. On the surface, it is presented as correcting historical injustices. In reality, it represents a blueprint for exclusion, privilege, and ethnic domination.
The document explicitly calls for transferring political authority, economic power, and land rights in Addis Ababa to Oromo stakeholders. It invokes global models—from Dubai’s “Sovereign Host” approach to Malaysia’s Bumiputera policy and even a Trump-style “America First” template—adapted as an “Oromo First” agenda. In practice, this would mean preferential access to government jobs, contracts, and investments for a single ethnic group, while others are effectively sidelined. The proposal is framed as “strategic and lawful,” but its intent is unmistakable: to redraw the city’s demographic and political map in favour of one group while marginalizing millions of Ethiopians, particularly the Amhara.
This is not reform. It is a brazen power grab cloaked in the language of justice. Addis Ababa is not a provincial enclave to be carved up—it is the federal capital, a city belonging to all Ethiopians. The attempt to impose an “Oromo First” policy on the nation’s heartland is a direct attack on civic equality, national unity, and the very notion of shared citizenship. It is exclusionary governance by design, and it signals a terrifying willingness to subordinate law, history, and ethics to ethno-nationalist ambition.
The reaction from Ethiopian observers and diaspora activists is one of alarm. One correspondent described the framework as “deeply troubling,” warning that it could escalate into a full-scale national crisis. Marginalizing entire communities, particularly the Amhara, is not just morally indefensible—it is politically explosive. Policies that concentrate power, land, and resources in the hands of one ethnic group almost always provoke resistance, unrest, and conflict.
Viewed through the lens of Jason Stanley’s How Fascism Works, these developments are a textbook example of fascist political tactics. The elevation of a single group above others, the manipulation of historical narratives to justify contemporary domination, and the creation of an exclusionary “us versus them” national identity are hallmarks of a system designed to consolidate power through fear and division. The “Finfinnee Reclamation Framework” is not an isolated policy; it is a deliberate, calculated move to institutionalize inequality, marginalize dissenting communities, and assert dominance over Ethiopia’s civic institutions.
This is the moment for alarm, for scrutiny, and for public condemnation. What is being presented as restorative justice is, in fact, a fascistic blueprint that threatens the very foundation of the Ethiopian state. If left unchallenged, it will leave a legacy of displacement, grievance, and violence. The people of Ethiopia—and the international community—must recognize this for what it is: an aggressive, exclusionary, and deeply destabilizing political agenda.
When I shared details of the “Finfinnee Reclamation Framework” with a British business consultant, his response was stark and revealing. He wrote:
“Gosh, this is quite troubling. Hawassa has actually lost out economically, while Arba Minch has grown since the Sidama regional state proclamation. When Hawassa was the capital of the vast SNNPR state, it attracted countless visitors and business activities. All the fishing licenses for the company I consult with were managed there. The logistics center was there, the banking and offices. Now—nothing. Hawassa has become the capital of a small ethno-based region with minimal economic activity. The industrial park is essentially bankrupt, and tourism has declined significantly. As for Harar, it has effectively become a Bantustan—arguably even more exclusionary than what was seen in South Africa. And these are the ‘inspirations’ for Finfinnee’s petty nationalists.”
This assessment underscores a central danger of the proposed framework: it is not merely theoretical or symbolic; it is actively destructive. The very models cited as inspiration for the plan—Hawassa under Sidama and Harar under the Harari regional state—demonstrate how ethnic partitioning produces economic stagnation, social isolation, and the creation of artificial, exclusionary enclaves. If Addis Ababa were subjected to a similar model, the consequences would be catastrophic: the city would be stripped of its pluralistic vitality, economic dynamism would collapse, and millions of residents outside the favoured ethnic group would be marginalized or displaced.
This is a stark, real-world warning that the rhetoric of “restorative justice” and “ancestral rights” masks a blueprint for ethno-nationalist domination. The “Finfinnee Reclamation Framework” is not an abstract policy exercise; it is a politically engineered attempt to convert Ethiopia’s federal capital into a single-ethnic enclave. It draws inspiration from failed or deeply problematic precedents, and history shows that such exclusionary designs inevitably sow division, provoke resistance, and destabilize entire regions.
In short, the framework is less about justice than about power. It reflects a fascistic logic: privileging one identity, marginalizing others, and reshaping civic institutions to cement dominance. Ignoring the lessons of Hawassa and Harar would be reckless; implementing them in Finfinnee would be catastrophic.
Oromummaa, Anti-Heritage, Totalitarianism, and Anti-Democratic Tendencies
Oromummaa refers to a socio-political and cultural framework associated with Oromo identity, collective consciousness, and aspirations for self-determination. It foregrounds themes of cultural pride, unity, and political agency among the Oromo people. Within academic and political discourse, Oromummaa is interpreted in divergent ways: proponents frame it as a project of cultural revitalization and emancipation, whereas critics contend that certain articulations may adopt exclusionary or ethnonationalist characteristics, particularly in multi-ethnic contexts.
The notion of an “anti-heritage” dimension of Oromummaa(see Desalegne Birara, 2023), as advanced by its critics, denotes perceived tendencies to marginalize or delegitimize aspects of Ethiopia’s historical and cultural legacy. This critique often focuses on claims that policies or narratives associated with Oromummaa may undermine the heritage of other groups, particularly the Amhara, including their linguistic, historical, and cultural traditions. It is important to note that this characterization remains contested and reflects broader political and historiographical debates within Ethiopia.
Totalitarianism is a form of political organization characterized by the concentration of power within a centralized authority that seeks to regulate nearly all aspects of public and private life. Defining features typically include the suppression of political pluralism, restrictions on civil liberties (including freedom of expression and media), and the absence of institutional checks and balances. Many analysts have argued that elements of such governance tendencies can be observed in the leadership of Abiy Ahmed, although such assessments are subject to debate and depend on analytical perspective. Classical historical examples of totalitarian regimes include Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union under Joseph Stalin.
Anti-democratic tendencies refer to practices, ideologies, or institutional arrangements that undermine or oppose foundational democratic principles. These include the erosion of free and fair electoral processes, the weakening of the rule of law, and the curtailment of fundamental rights and freedoms. While anti-democratic tendencies may overlap with authoritarian or totalitarian systems, they can also manifest in less overt forms, such as institutional weakening, legal manipulation, or constraints on political competition within formally democratic frameworks.
In Book 8 of Plato’s Republic, Socrates develops a cyclical theory of political regimes in which democracy emerges as a stage marked by an excess of freedom that ultimately destabilizes itself. According to this account, individuals are not consistently oriented toward disciplined self-governance; rather, the permissiveness of democratic life cultivates disorder, fragmentation, and competing desires. Within such conditions, a demagogue can arise by appealing to popular grievances and anxieties, positioning himself or herself as a figure of unity and strength. The democratic commitment to unrestricted speech and participation thus paradoxically creates the very conditions that enable its subversion. For Socrates, democracy contains an internal contradiction: its defining virtue—freedom—can transform into a mechanism of its own undoing, culminating in tyranny.
This classical diagnosis finds resonance in modern political theory. Alexis de Tocqueville, for instance, warned of democracy’s susceptibility to forms of “soft despotism,” in which popular sovereignty may gradually give way to centralized authority under the guise of serving the people’s will. Similarly, Hannah Arendt emphasized how mass society, atomization, and the erosion of intermediary institutions create fertile ground for totalizing movements. These concerns are echoed in the work of Jason Stanley, who argues in How Fascism Works (2020) that contemporary illiberal actors strategically exploit democratic freedoms—especially freedom of expression—to undermine pluralism and normalize exclusionary politics.
Historical experience reinforces this theoretical pattern. The rise of National Socialism in Germany illustrates how democratic procedures and civil liberties can be instrumentalized by anti-democratic forces. Joseph Goebbels famously articulated this paradox, noting that democracy can furnish its opponents with the tools necessary for its destruction. In this sense, both classical and modern perspectives converge on a shared concern: democratic systems may be vulnerable not only to external threats, but also to internal dynamics that erode their foundational norms.
From a comparative political perspective, these frameworks provide analytical tools for examining contemporary cases. In Ethiopia, some analysts argue that political developments in recent years exhibit elements that can be interpreted through this lens, particularly during the premiership of Abiy Ahmed. Such interpretations often point to tensions between formal democratic commitments and practices that may centralize authority or constrain political pluralism.
Taken together, the dialogue between ancient political philosophy, modern theoretical insights, and contemporary empirical observation underscores a central question in comparative political theory: to what extent are the vulnerabilities of democracy universal, and how are they shaped by particular historical and political conditions?
According to Desalegne Birara (2023), recent policy developments in Ethiopia can be interpreted as targeting cultural heritage, particularly since the political ascendancy of Oromummaa in 2018. Drawing on reflective analysis and firsthand observations from selected heritage sites, Birara argues that these processes reflect a broader ideological project. His study contends that certain policies and practices have contributed to the marginalization—or, in some cases, the destruction—of historically significant cultural and religious sites.
Birara further concludes that the current political trajectory is underpinned by a coherent ideological framework that, in his interpretation, seeks to redefine national identity. He argues that this includes the perceived erosion of what he characterizes as “Semitic” historical memory, alongside the reported undermining of Islamic and Christian heritage. In this context, he also points to the increasing visibility of Waaqeffannaa (often rendered as Waqé-fenna), an indigenous Oromo belief system, which he interprets as being elevated in symbolic or political terms. Additionally, Oromummaa is described as functioning not only as a cultural framework but as an integrated socio-economic and political ideology shaping state direction. Birara suggests that even at its early stages, this paradigm shift has had significant implications for Ethiopia’s diverse cultural heritage.
Debates surrounding Oromummaa reflect broader tensions within Ethiopian political thought. For instance, Asafa Jalata (2012) characterizes Oromummaa as a unifying framework, arguing that it seeks to transcend divisions arising from religious plurality and regional differences. However, critics, including Birara, interpret such claims differently, suggesting that the project may instead promote a homogenizing vision of identity. From this critical perspective, Oromummaa is portrayed as aspiring to reshape Ethiopian society along ethnocultural lines—encouraging the adoption of Oromo language, cultural norms, and historical narratives associated with political movements such as the Oromo Liberation Front.
From a comparative political theory standpoint, these competing interpretations can be situated within broader debates about nationalism, state-building, and ideological hegemony. The tension between cultural revival and perceived cultural dominance is not unique to Ethiopia; rather, it reflects a recurring challenge in multi-ethnic states attempting to balance identity, power, and pluralism. Critics argue that when a dominant political conception is perceived as privileging a single identity framework, it risks fostering dynamics that may be characterized as anti-heritage, anti-democratic, or even totalizing in orientation. Ultimately, the Ethiopian case illustrates the complexity of negotiating national identity in a plural society, raising fundamental questions about how states can reconcile cultural recognition, political inclusion, and democratic governance without marginalizing alternative histories and identities.
Concerns have increasingly been raised by some observers regarding what they characterize as authoritarian or even fascistic tendencies within the current political trajectory in Ethiopia. These concerns are often linked to the persistence of armed conflict within the country, which critics argue has contributed to widespread humanitarian suffering and instability. In addition to the domestic consequences of ongoing violence, allegations that Ethiopian nationals may be involved in external conflicts have further intensified scrutiny of state policy and leadership.
Reports suggesting the potential deployment or recruitment of Ethiopian nationals—including former servicemen—into foreign conflicts, particularly in relation to the ongoing war following the Russian invasion of Ukraine, have raised significant ethical, legal, and political concerns. If substantiated, such developments could expose individuals to grave risks while also raising questions about compliance with international law, including norms governing mercenary activity and state responsibility. For a country already facing complex internal challenges—political, economic, and humanitarian—any involvement in external armed conflicts would carry substantial risks and potential long-term consequences for its international standing.
At the same time, allegations of systematic targeting of civilians based on ethnicity or religious identity represent serious violations of international human rights and humanitarian law. Such claims underscore the importance of independent investigations, credible documentation, and accountability mechanisms. International actors—including multilateral institutions, human rights organizations, and foreign governments—are frequently called upon in such contexts to support impartial inquiries, promote the protection of vulnerable populations, and encourage adherence to legal and humanitarian norms.
From a comparative political perspective, these concerns reflect broader patterns observed in contexts where prolonged conflict, political centralization, and weakened institutional constraints intersect. The erosion of democratic norms, restrictions on political pluralism, and the instrumentalization of identity contribute to cycles of violence and governance challenges.
Racialized Discourse, Cultural Erasure, and the Extremes of Oromummaa
The rise of Oromummaa in contemporary Ethiopian politics demonstrates how ethnonationalist ideologies can transform into exclusionary and coercive frameworks when combined with state power. While presented by proponents as a movement of cultural revival and historical redress, in practice, certain strands of Oromummaa have actively marginalized non-Oromo identities, suppressed alternative historical narratives, and promoted a homogenized vision of national belonging.
Critically, this ethnocentric discourse has not remained purely rhetorical. Reports from scholars such as Birara (2023) and observations of heritage sites indicate systematic efforts to devalue or erase the cultural and religious histories of Ethiopia’s Semitic populations, including Amhara communities. The elevation of Waaqeffannaa (Oromo traditional religion) as a central cultural-political paradigm and the institutionalization of Oromo-language and historical narratives exemplify the coercive potential of this ideology when combined with political authority.
From a comparative political perspective, Oromummaaillustrates the dangers of ethnonationalist movements that claim moral legitimacy while undermining pluralism. By framing one identity as superior and others as secondary, such movements risk entrenching divisions, eroding democratic norms, and enabling practices that can be described as cultural erasure or identity-based exclusion. This case underscores the urgent need for critical scrutiny of political ideologies that, under the guise of cultural empowerment, systematically delegitimize the rights, histories, and identities of other groups.
In a 2023 article published in the Advances in Social Sciences Research Journal, Berhanu argued that “Oromummaa” (a term often used to describe Oromo cultural and political identity) is being utilized by extremist elements in a manner that shares similarities with fascism and Nazism. Berhanu’s work highlights that this ideological shift in Ethiopia involves the “Nazification” of movements and targets Semitic peoples, alleging a new type of antisemitism merging with local political conflict.
Ethnic Federalism: Ethiopia’s Engine of Division and Conflict
Ethiopia today stands in a state of deep crisis, and at the centre of this unravelling lies a political experiment that has proven not only flawed but dangerously corrosive: ethnic federalism. Introduced in the early 1990s under the stewardship of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), the system was marketed as a bold effort to empower historically marginalized groups—to allow “nations, nationalities, and peoples” to flourish. In reality, it has entrenched division, weaponized identity, and set the country on a path of recurring instability.
What was presented as liberation has instead become fragmentation. By organizing political life along rigid ethnic lines, ethnic federalism has transformed identity into the primary currency of power. The result is a zero-sum political arena in which communities are pitted against one another, competing for influence, territory, and resources. Far from fostering unity in diversity, the system has normalized suspicion, grievance, and rivalry.
The parallels, however uncomfortable, are difficult to ignore. Like the Bantustan model of apartheid-era South Africa, Ethiopia’s ethnic federal arrangement risks functioning less as a vehicle for self-determination and more as a mechanism of managed division. Under the language of autonomy lies a political order that fragments society while failing to deliver genuine accountability or stability at the centre.
Unsurprisingly, such a system has created fertile ground for ethnonationalist mobilization. Groups such as the Oromo Liberation Front (OLF) and, historically, the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), have drawn on these structural dynamics to advance agendas rooted in identity-based politics. Increasingly, this has taken the form of racialized narratives that divide Ethiopians into opposing camps—most notably through the framing of a “Cushitic” versus “Semitic” dichotomy.
Such narratives are not merely academic abstractions; they are politically potent and socially destructive. By assigning fixed moral characteristics to entire groups—depicting some as inherently virtuous and others as exploitative—they echo some of the most dangerous ideological constructs of the twentieth century. The historical record offers stark warnings. From the propaganda preceding the Rwandan genocide to earlier episodes of racialized extremism, the path from dehumanizing rhetoric to large-scale violence is well documented.
Reports of repeated attacks on civilians, particularly those identified with the Amhara community, have only deepened concerns. If even a fraction of these accounts are accurate, they point to a deeply troubling reality: a political environment in which identity is not merely politicized but weaponized. Allegations of killings, displacement, and the suppression of language and cultural expression demand urgent, independent investigation and accountability.
At its core, the Ethiopian crisis raises a fundamental question: can a state organized primarily around ethnic identity sustain peace, equality, and democratic governance? The evidence of the past three decades suggests a sobering answer. Rather than resolving historical grievances, ethnic federalism has amplified them, institutionalizing division and incentivizing conflict. Ethiopia’s future depends on confronting this reality. Moving beyond a system that rewards fragmentation and fuels resentment is no longer a theoretical exercise—it is an urgent political necessity. Without a shift toward a more inclusive and genuinely civic framework of governance, the cycle of division and violence is unlikely to abate.
Oromummaa, Racialized Discourse, and the Risk of Mass Atrocity
The central aim of this paper is to examine what it characterizes as the dangers associated with Oromummaa as an ideological framework, particularly where it is interpreted as promoting racialized discourse and exclusionary narratives. Critics argue that certain strands of this ideology have contributed to the amplification of identity-based tensions not only within Ethiopia but, potentially, across the wider Horn of Africa.
Dawit Wolde Giorgis (2023) asserts that, in the view of some legal analysts studying violence against Amhara communities in Ethiopia, there is evidence suggesting patterns consistent with atrocity crimes, including allegations of ethnic cleansing and, in more severe interpretations, genocide.
Within certain media and political narratives, particularly those associated by critics with Oromo nationalist discourse, historical interpretations have emerged that portray Amhara and Tigrayan communities as “settler” or “colonizing” groups in relation to Cushitic populations. Critics argue that such framings represent a politicized reinterpretation of history that risks legitimizing exclusion, resentment, and, in extreme cases, violence. From a comparative perspective, the use of historically constructed “othering” narratives has frequently played a role in escalating identity-based conflicts.
Reports of large-scale violence, displacement, and human rights abuses over the past several years—especially in the context of the Tigray War, the Amhara region’s war, and related conflicts—have raised serious humanitarian concerns. While figures regarding casualties and displacement vary widely across sources and remain subject to verification, there is broad agreement among international observers that the human cost has been severe. These developments highlight the need for credible documentation, accountability mechanisms, and international engagement aimed at protecting civilian populations.
A central concern raised by critics is the structure of Ethiopia’s ethnic federal system, which they argue has, in practice, institutionalized divisions and enabled forms of structural discrimination. Within this framework, Oromummaa is viewed not only as a cultural or political project but as a dominant ideological force shaping state policy. Proponents, including scholars such as Asafa Jalata, describe Oromummaa as a dynamic project aimed at cultural recovery, political mobilization, and collective empowerment. However, critics contend that, in its more assertive forms, it can function as an exclusionary and hegemonic ideology, privileging a singular identity while marginalizing others.
From this critical standpoint, the concern is that such ideological dominance—when combined with state power—may foster patterns of governance characterized by coercion, exclusion, and the erosion of pluralism. Observers point to allegations of abuses of power, restrictions on cultural and linguistic expression, and the normalization of hostile identity-based narratives. These dynamics, they argue, risk entrenching cycles of grievance and retaliation, particularly affecting vulnerable communities such as the Amhara.
In broader geopolitical terms, the implications extend beyond Ethiopia. The Horn of Africa remains a region marked by fragile political equilibria and complex inter-state and intra-state tensions. The intensification of identity-based conflict within Ethiopia, if left unaddressed, carries the potential to exacerbate regional instability.
Ultimately, the issues raised in this paper point to the urgent need for sustained attention from both domestic and international actors. Ensuring accountability, safeguarding human rights, and promoting inclusive political frameworks are essential steps toward preventing further escalation. Without meaningful intervention and reform, the risks associated with entrenched identity-based politics may continue to threaten both national cohesion and regional stability.
Oromummaa in Comparative Perspective: Ethnonationalism, Fascism, and Political Theology
A further line of inquiry in this paper is to situate Oromummaa—particularly in its more radicalized articulations—within the broader canon of comparative political theory on fascism and ethnonationalism. While historical fascist movements differed across contexts, scholars widely agree on a set of defining features: the primacy of the collective over the individual, hostility to liberal democracy, the elevation of a unified national identity, and the subordination of pluralism to ideological cohesion.
Benito Mussolini famously defined fascism as a system in which “everything within the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state.” This totalizing vision finds theoretical reinforcement in the work of Carl Schmitt, who conceptualized politics as fundamentally grounded in the distinction between “friend” and “enemy.” In Schmitt’s formulation, political unity is achieved not through deliberation or consensus, but through the identification and exclusion of the “other.” These frameworks, when operationalized, tend to legitimize centralized authority and the suppression of dissent in the name of collective survival.
Similarly, Hannah Arendt, in her analysis of totalitarianism, emphasized how ideologies rooted in singular, all-encompassing narratives can transform political life by eroding individuality, pluralism, and institutional constraints. Such ideologies often rely on mythologized histories and existential threats to mobilize populations and justify extraordinary measures.
From this comparative perspective, critics argue that certain strands of Oromummaa exhibit structural similarities to these theoretical models. In particular, the construction of identity along rigid ethnocultural lines, the elevation of a singular historical narrative, and the framing of political struggle in terms of existential conflict between groups can be interpreted as echoing Schmittian “friend–enemy” logic. The invocation of a reclaimed or restored past—often framed as a response to historical injustice—bears resemblance to the fascist tendency toward nostalgic myth-making as a mobilizing force.
Moreover, the prioritization of collective identity over individual or pluralistic frameworks raises concerns about the marginalization of alternative cultural, linguistic, and religious expressions. Critics contend that when such an ideology becomes intertwined with state power, it risks evolving into a hegemonic project that seeks not merely recognition, but dominance. In such contexts, dissent may be reframed as betrayal, and diversity as a threat to unity.
The role of cultural institutions further complicates this dynamic. The elevation of the Gadaa system as a central organizing principle of political and social life is often celebrated as a recovery of indigenous governance. However, critics argue that its politicization—alongside the promotion of practices such as Irreecha and the traditional belief system of Waaqeffannaa—may signal an attempt to reconfigure national identity along exclusive lines. This raises important questions about the relationship between cultural revival and religious pluralism, particularly in a society where Islam and Christianity remain deeply embedded.
At the same time, caution is warranted in drawing direct equivalence between Oromummaa and classical European fascism. Ethiopia’s historical trajectory, colonial experience, and socio-political composition differ significantly from those of early twentieth-century Europe. Nevertheless, comparative political theory does not require identical conditions to identify analogous patterns. Rather, it allows for the identification of recurring dynamics—such as the politicization of identity, the erosion of pluralism, and the centralization of power—that may manifest in distinct but structurally comparable ways.
Ultimately, the Ethiopian case raises enduring theoretical questions: under what conditions does a project of cultural and political emancipation transform into an exclusionary or totalizing ideology? And how can multi-ethnic states balance the legitimate demands of identity and recognition with the imperatives of pluralism, equality, and democratic governance? These questions are not unique to Ethiopia, but they are rendered particularly urgent by the country’s current trajectory and its implications for regional stability in the Horn of Africa.
Myth, Identity, and Political Mobilization
Some critics of Oromummaa have pointed to what they describe as efforts to reinterpret religious and historical narratives in ways that align with a particular ideological framework. For example, references to biblical passages—such as Psalm 68:31, traditionally rendered as “Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hands unto God”—are, in some discussions, reframed through the term “Cush.” Critics argue that such reinterpretations are not merely linguistic, but part of a broader attempt to reconfigure historical and cultural identity in line with a specific political vision.
From a comparative political theory perspective, scholars have long observed how powerful political movements draw on collective emotions, including grievance, humiliation, and aspirations for restoration. Adolf Hitler mobilized such sentiments in constructing the myth of an “Aryan” national community, using narratives of loss and victimhood to unify followers and justify exclusionary policies. Importantly, contemporary political theorists caution against simplistic equivalence; however, they also emphasize that myth-making, symbolic reinterpretation, and emotional mobilization are recurring features in many forms of mass politics.
In this light, critics argue that certain strands of Oromummaaengage in analogous processes of identity construction and historical reinterpretation, particularly where narratives portray specific groups as historical oppressors and others as collective victims. Such narratives, when generalized or essentialized, risk fostering polarization and entrenching divisions. The concern is not cultural revival per se, but the potential transformation of identity into a rigid ideological framework that delegitimizes alternative perspectives.
The comparison to fascist movements, while controversial, is typically grounded in structural rather than literal similarities. Scholars of fascism note the role of mythic history, collective identity, and the creation of existential “others” as central components of political mobilization. In this sense, the issue at stake is whether political discourse moves from legitimate critique of historical injustices toward the construction of exclusionary or antagonistic identities that undermine pluralism.
Debates surrounding religion further complicate this picture. While many Oromos identify with Islam or Christianity, critics argue that some ideological interpretations of Oromummaa portray these traditions as instruments of historical domination associated with the Ethiopian imperial state. This framing, they contend, risks alienating large segments of the population and reframing deeply rooted religious identities as politically suspect. At the same time, proponents of Oromummaa often counter that their objective is not religious exclusion but cultural reclamation and historical rebalancing.
From an analytical standpoint, the broader concern is the politicization of identity, history, and belief systems in ways that intensify division rather than foster coexistence. Comparative history demonstrates that when political movements rely heavily on mythologized narratives, rigid group distinctions, and emotionally charged historical claims, the potential for escalation and conflict increases significantly. Ultimately, the challenge lies in distinguishing between legitimate cultural and political expression and forms of discourse that risk hardening boundaries, legitimizing exclusion, or undermining the principles of pluralism and coexistence in a diverse society.
“Anger is a valid response to injustice.” — Germaine Greer. I am honestly angry—and it is this anger that drives me to write, because I still believe that, one day, things can be made right.
Fascist Dynamics, Ethno-Nationalism, and the Amhara Crisis in Ethiopia
In this paper, I have sought to trace the intrinsic connections between fascist-style ideology and the current political climate in Ethiopia, characterized by totalitarian tendencies, anti-intellectualism, and the systematic undermining of democratic principles. The manipulation of truth, propagation of falsehoods, dissemination of propaganda, and cultivation of fear and hatred are conspicuous features of contemporary Ethiopian politics.
Within the current political framework in Ethiopia, the Amhara population has emerged as the primary victims of systemic violence and targeted atrocities—a phenomenon that can be termed first-tier victimhood. Communities have endured mass killings, displacement, and the destruction of cultural and religious heritage, yet their suffering often receives limited attention in both domestic and international discourse.
Simultaneously, certain ethno-nationalist actors construct narratives in which they portray themselves as the principal victims, thereby obscuring or denying the experiences of the Amhara. This manipulation of perception constitutes second-tier victimhood, in which historical grievances are amplified selectively to justify exclusionary policies and reframe the conflict in a way that absolves the perpetrators of accountability.
The third layer of victimhood, international or “psychic” victimhood, arises from the widespread misrepresentation and underreporting of these atrocities. Diaspora networks, transnational actors, and media channels often amplify ethno-nationalist narratives, influencing international perception and policy. Even when credible evidence exists—such as reports of mass killings, mass graves, and large-scale displacement—the scale and severity of the atrocities can fail to provoke adequate global attention or action. In this sense, the suffering of the Amhara population becomes invisible on the international stage, with statistics and reports insufficient to convey the human and cultural cost of ongoing violence.
This three-tiered framework highlights a complex interplay of direct victimization, narrative manipulation, and international indifference, which together exacerbate the vulnerability of the Amhara population. Understanding these layers is critical for designing effective interventions, promoting accountability, and ensuring that humanitarian and legal responses are proportionate to the scope of the crisis.
The consequences are profound. The Amhara have increasingly become what some observers describe as “the forgotten people.” Despite repeated reports of mass killings, displacement, and the destruction of cultural and religious heritage, global media and public opinion remain largely indifferent to the humanitarian crisis unfolding in their communities. This constitutes third-tier victimhood: the persistent invisibility of atrocities, which numbs international awareness and response, even in the face of mass graves and well-documented incidents.
Of particular concern is the campaign referred to by critics as “Amharafrei,” which draws an explicit historical parallel to the Nazi term Judenfrei. Originating with policies pursued under the TPLF in 1991 and continuing under subsequent administrations, this campaign aims to eliminate Amhara presence in Oromia and other regions of Ethiopia. The methods employed include historicide, ethnocide, and linguicide, systematically erasing the historical, cultural, and linguistic presence of the targeted communities. While the Amhara are the most immediate targets, the campaign also poses a threat to those who identify primarily as Ethiopian, rather than with a singular ethnic identity.
As Bertolt Brecht poignantly observed in Selected Poems:
“The first time it was reported that our friends were being butchered there was a cry of horror. Then a hundred were butchered. But when a thousand were butchered and there was no end to the butchery, a blanket of silence spread. When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out ‘stop!’ When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.”
This quotation underscores the cumulative, often invisible impact of systematic atrocities and the urgent need for awareness, accountability, and intervention. In the Ethiopian context, recognizing these dynamics is essential not only for documenting historical and contemporary injustices but also for preventing further escalation and ensuring the protection of all communities under threat.
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Contact Information:
Girma Berhanu (Professor)
Department of Education and Special Education
University of Gothenburg
Box 300, SE 405 30
Göteborg, Sweden
