Why the gun can overthrow regimes but can never build a nation
By: Abel Eshetu
For generations, Ethiopia has lived under the shadow of the gun. Every change of power, from empire to republic, from revolution to federal rule, has been baptized in blood. Yet, after all the battles fought and victories declared, peace has remained elusive—always promised, never delivered. The belief that armed struggle can bring sustainable peace in Ethiopia has become one of the most enduring myths in our political culture.
From the imperial fall of 1974 to the revolution of 1991 and the wars of the 2020s, Ethiopia’s story has been written by the victors of war rather than the architects of peace. Each armed movement rose with promises of justice, democracy, and liberation. Each toppled a regime that had outlived its legitimacy. And each, in turn, became the next wielder of force—using the same machinery of violence it once denounced.
When the Derg overthrew Emperor Haile Selassie in 1974, the revolution was celebrated as the dawn of equality and progress. The young soldiers who toppled the monarchy vowed to end feudal oppression and modernize the country. But within a few years, Ethiopia descended into the “Red Terror,” where tens of thousands were executed, imprisoned, or disappeared. The revolution devoured its children, proving that power seized by the barrel of a gun rarely learns the language of tolerance.
Then came 1991, another year of hope. The Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), led by the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), marched into Addis Ababa after a long guerrilla war against the Derg. Many Ethiopians, exhausted by decades of dictatorship, welcomed the new rulers as liberators. Federalism was introduced, political pluralism was promised, and a new constitution envisioned self-rule and democracy.
Yet, within a decade, that hope too was betrayed. The EPRDF entrenched a one-party system masked in democratic rhetoric, controlled the press, suppressed opposition, and deepened ethnic fragmentation through a rigid form of federalism. Once again, armed victory delivered not reconciliation but renewed division.
The same pattern repeated itself in the 2020s. When war erupted in Tigray in 2020, it was justified in the name of defending the constitution and national sovereignty. Both sides, the federal government and the Tigray forces, claimed moral authority. Both saw victory as the road to peace. The war ended in military exhaustion rather than genuine reconciliation. Tens of thousands were killed, millions displaced, and the social fabric torn beyond recognition. Even as the guns fell silent in the north, new conflicts flared in Oromia and Amhara. The myth persisted: that one more “decisive battle” could settle the question of peace.
Ethiopia’s political history offers a sobering truth: armed struggle may change rulers, but it cannot change the rules of the game. It replaces one regime with another, but leaves the underlying culture of domination untouched.
Armed victories rarely produce inclusive governance. Instead, they empower a single group to claim moral superiority over others. The winners of war write the constitution, control the media, and shape the national narrative. In such a context, peace becomes merely the absence of fighting, not the presence of justice.
Moreover, armed struggle leaves behind deep emotional and social wounds. Every bullet creates new grievances, new widows, new orphans. Each victory carries the seeds of the next rebellion. The Derg’s fall created TPLF’s dominance; the TPLF’s fall fueled resentment among other regions; the federal government’s triumph in one conflict has already triggered unrest in others. The cycle feeds itself, generation after generation.
The cost of war in Ethiopia is staggering. According to international estimates, the Tigray conflict alone caused over 600,000 deaths and displaced more than five million people. Infrastructure worth billions of dollars, schools, hospitals, roads, was destroyed. The national economy contracted, inflation soared, and youth unemployment skyrocketed.
But beyond numbers lies a moral collapse. The normalization of violence as a tool for political change has eroded the value of dialogue. Young Ethiopians now grow up believing that real change comes only through force, not through civic participation. The moral authority of leadership, once rooted in wisdom, humility, and national service, has been replaced by the logic of might.
Supporters of armed struggle often argue that violence is necessary when peaceful options fail. Indeed, history offers moments, like anti-colonial liberation struggles, where armed resistance seemed unavoidable. But Ethiopia’s conflicts are not about foreign domination; they are about power, identity, and justice among fellow citizens. When citizens fight citizens, every “victory” is a national loss.
The illusion of necessary violence ignores the structural causes of unrest: exclusion, economic despair, corruption, and lack of trust in the rule of law. No army can fix those through bullets. They can only be healed through political courage, reform, and empathy.
The Way Forward: From the Battlefield to the Negotiation Table
If Ethiopia is to break free from its violent past, it must dismantle the myth that peace can be won through war. Real peace requires confronting hard truths: that every ethnic group has suffered, that no one holds monopoly over victimhood or patriotism, and that justice must precede reconciliation.
A genuine national dialogue, not a symbolic conference, must bring together political actors, traditional elders, faith leaders, and civil society to discuss Ethiopia’s future. Transitional justice must acknowledge past atrocities and ensure accountability without vengeance. The culture of militarization must give way to civic education and inclusive development. Peace will come not when one side wins, but when all sides are heard.
Breaking the Myth
The myth of armed struggle endures because it flatters our pride. It tells us we can purify our politics through fire. But fire consumes, it does not heal. Ethiopia does not need another “liberation.” It needs liberation from the idea that liberation must come through war.
Our history has given us enough martyrs. What Ethiopia needs now are mediators, bridge-builders, and visionaries who can dream of unity without uniformity, strength without violence, and justice without revenge.
Sustainable peace is not a prize to be seized on the battlefield; it is a covenant to be built in the hearts of citizens. Until we understand that truth, Ethiopia will remain trapped in the myth that has already cost it too much.