In a sunlit veranda in Merkato, in a neighborhood known as Abba Koran Sefer, a young boy once stood transfixed by the canvases of his neighbor, Jemil Shifa. Each morning, Jemil carried his paintings into the open air to study them in natural light, unaware that a sixth-grader lingered nearby, quietly tracing their lines in an almost obsessive act of imitation.

Nearly three decades later, that boy—now 38-year-old Ashenafe Mestika—still points to those mornings as the catalyst for a career shaped by 15 years of full-time dedication to painting. But the child who once copied what he saw has evolved into an artist intent on capturing something far less tangible: the fractured inner lives of a generation in motion.

His latest exhibition, Entangled Stories—or Teleflef Tarikoch in Amharic—ran from April 4 to May 3 at the New Cinema Complex. It offers an unflinching meditation on one of the defining crises of the modern era: forced migration.

Across 19 works, some stretching nearly five meters, Ashenafe examines the precarious space between departure and arrival — a liminal state where hope and loss exist in uneasy tension. The exhibition does not narrate migration as a linear journey, but as a disorienting condition.

“Through this exhibition, I explore the idea of ‘entanglement,’” Ashenafe told The Reporter. “It is where hope and loss, memory and emptiness, and the physical and psychological toll of crossing borders become inseparable — especially when the destination remains uncertain.”

The works are bound less by narrative than by atmosphere — what the artist describes as a single, “haunting umbrella.” Distorted human forms recur across the canvases: a head fused to a limb, bodies with multiple hands, figures suspended in states of incompletion. These are not abstractions for their own sake, but visual metaphors for dislocation.

One question reverberates through the exhibition: “How long now is?”

It is not a query about time in any conventional sense. Instead, it gestures toward the psychological weight of waiting — of lives stalled in transit, or cut short without resolution. The fragmented bodies evoke what Ashenafe calls the “disappeared”: migrants whose journeys ended without record, their fates unknown, their absence unresolved.

To anchor this sense of loss, Ashenafe threads familiar domestic objects into his compositions — kitchen utensils, household tools — artifacts imbued with cultural memory. Set against stark, often disquieting backdrops, these items function as both relic and witness.

“These objects carry the warmth of home,” he said. “They hold the memory of fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers — of lives that existed before. They are not just tools; they are storytellers.”

In juxtaposing the intimate with the anonymous, Ashenafe attempts to construct what amounts to both memorial and indictment. The works ask viewers to look beyond the abstraction of migration statistics and confront the human stories that vanish within them — stories that, like his figures, remain suspended between presence and disappearance.

Ashenafe’s influence extends beyond the canvas. For the past 12 years, he has led the Ashu Mestika Archive, a long-term documentation project born from a gap he encountered as a student at the Alle School of Fine Arts and Design.

“The biggest challenge was documentation,” he said. “As students, our opportunity to see the work of Ethiopian artists was very limited. We were learning largely from foreign references.”

The archive seeks to correct that imbalance. Through long-form interviews with both established and emerging artists, it aims to build a living record of Ethiopia’s contemporary art movement — a project he envisions unfolding over two decades and serving as a resource for future scholars.

For fellow artist and curator Tamerat Siltan, Ashenafe’s trajectory reflects a broader shift within the community — what he describes as a necessary awakening.

He points to a progression in Ashenafe’s work, from his 2015 debut Internal Expression and Beyond to the more overt Grant Me My Sovereign Death in 2024, as evidence of a deepening engagement with social realities.

“Art should document the thinking of its time,” Tamerat said. “But it must also challenge people — it should provoke, unsettle, and push toward something better.”

Yet both artists are candid about the structural constraints facing the art sector. In a country of more than 120 million people, the domestic market remains underdeveloped, hampered by weak institutions and limited state support.

“The problem is institutional,” Tamerat said. “Too often, those in positions of authority lack a basic understanding of the arts.” He cited the Ethiopian Artists Association as one example, arguing that stagnant leadership has failed to advocate effectively for its members.

The consequences are tangible. While Ashenafe has exhibited internationally—including a residency at the Millerntor Gallery in Hamburg, where he produced a 3.5-by-8-meter mural at St. Pauli’s stadium—the conditions in Addis Ababa remain constrained.

“We are working in an environment where even basic materials are difficult to access,” Tamerat said. “Sometimes it feels like we are scavenging just to continue.”

Compounding the challenge is a tax regime that classifies art supplies as luxury goods, placing additional strain on artists operating within already narrow margins. Tamerat argues that this reflects a broader failure to recognize the economic and cultural potential of the creative sector.

“Art can be a serious economic driver,” he said. “It can generate revenue, attract tourism and project a country’s intellectual and cultural identity to the world. But Ethiopia has not yet treated it that way.”

The absence of coordinated support, he added, affects every layer of the ecosystem — from access to materials and studio space to the scarcity of exhibition venues. Government engagement, in his view, remains largely limited to taxation, with little attention paid to the conditions under which artists work.

“Who is asking how artists sustain themselves?” he said. “Where they get materials, how they access space — these questions are largely ignored.”

Despite these constraints, Ashenafe continues to work with a sense of forward motion. He describes his practice as one of continuity, currently extending into a documentary series focused on video artists. He credits his persistence to a supportive family and early mentorship from figures like Gizachew Kebede, who introduced him to professional studios as a teenager.

When asked what guidance he offers younger artists, Ashenafe resists easy prescriptions. Instead, he returns to intent and responsibility.

“Ask yourself why you chose this path,” he said. “And make sure what you contribute is worthy of that choice. The work demands your full commitment.”

It was a quiet morning at Grace Care Homes in Addis Ababa when, for one elderly resident, the haze of dementia briefly receded. The change came not through medication or intervention, but through music.

As the opening chords of “Astawesalew,” a classic performed by Lemma Demissew during the golden era of Amharic music, drifted through the corridors, the woman rose from her seat. She moved toward the musicians, asked for the song by name, and began to sing. Moments later, she was dancing—her memory, if only temporarily, restored by melody. For relatives and staff gathered nearby, the scene was striking in its immediacy.

That moment would go on to inspire Kine-Fews, an Addis Ababa–based initiative founded in April 2023 that explores the therapeutic power of art and music.

Positioned at the intersection of psychology and the arts, Kine-Fews reflects a growing body of research that recognizes art therapy as an evidence-based complement to mental health care.

In Ethiopia, where access to formal psychiatric services remains limited, the initiative’s founders—graduates of Addis Ababa University’s colleges of Behavioral Science and Performing Arts—have turned to creative practice as a means of addressing psychological distress. Its name encapsulates that mission: kine (art) and fews (healing).

“It was an emotional moment that pushed us to recognize the healing potential of art and music,” said Alazar Tesfaye, the initiative’s founder and manager.

Under his direction, Kine-Fews has assembled a multidisciplinary team that includes singers, instrumentalists, architects, medical doctors and professional psychologists.

The initiative’s premise is supported, in part, by academic research. Moges Ayele, a psychology professor at Addis Ababa University, notes that music can serve as a powerful cognitive cue, linking rhythm and melody to personal and factual memory.

“Drawing or painting can also help individuals externalize emotion,” he said. “It creates visual associations that support recall and expression.” While Ethiopia lacks extensive longitudinal studies on the subject, he added, international research suggests that art therapy is most effective when integrated with conventional treatment models.

Moges cautioned, however, that such interventions require professional oversight. “Art therapy can be a potent tool,” he said, “but only when delivered by trained practitioners.”

Kine-Fews attempts to follow that model. The group collects participant feedback, including pre- and post-session self-assessments, alongside facilitator observations. According to Alazar, the data—though still limited—points to consistent reductions in stress and anxiety, suggesting that creative engagement can help regulate emotional states.

The approach also intersects with a broader social challenge. In Ethiopia, mental health conditions are often stigmatized, leaving many individuals reluctant to seek help or unable to articulate their experiences. Kine-Fews, Alazar said, was designed in part to address that gap.

“Not everyone can express what they feel in words,” he said. “Art creates another pathway—one that feels safe, communal and, at times, even playful.”

He added that participants, ranging from children to older adults, often show marked improvements in their willingness to engage and communicate. Group painting sessions, in particular, appear to foster openness, as individuals gradually move from observation to participation.

One participant in the “Brush & Balance” program—where guided painting sessions are facilitated by trained counselors—described the experience as a form of externalization. The act of painting, they said, allowed them to “see their internal weight take a physical form on the canvas,” rendering it more manageable.

The integration of the arts into medical and therapeutic practice is no longer peripheral. Institutions such as the World Health Organization and the African Union have increasingly framed artistic practice as a legitimate component of public health strategy.

In 2019, the WHO published a scoping review of more than 3,000 studies, concluding that creative disciplines—including music, painting, storytelling and dance—can play a role not only in prevention, but also in the treatment and management of chronic conditions.

Across Africa, that shift is taking on institutional form. In Kenya, the Trust for Indigenous Culture and Health (TICAH) has integrated cultural expression into community health programs, while in South Africa, MusicWorks has focused on music-based interventions for vulnerable populations.

Regional momentum has also been reflected at the policy level: during African Union Healthy Lifestyle Day 2025, the African Union highlighted family mental health and endorsed artistic psychosocial support, signaling a broader transition from viewing the arts as ancillary to recognizing them as functional tools of care.

Within Ethiopia, Kine-Fews has also begun to embed itself in this emerging landscape through partnerships with institutions such as Aha Psychological Service, Mental Health Addis, Nadora Wellness Center and Plan International. Its programming has also been featured in public events, including World Mental Health Day activities at the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa, alongside the Alenilachu Charitable Organization, and observances of International Peace Day.

The initiative’s client base spans both public and private institutions, including Saint Paul’s Hospital Millennium Medical College, First Consult, FSD Ethiopia and the Setaweet Movement.

For Hiyab Tekle, a resident navigating what she describes as minor but persistent mental health challenges, art therapy offered a form of clarity that had eluded more conventional approaches.

“Music and painting helped me release emotions I couldn’t explain, especially sadness and anxiety,” she said. Since beginning the sessions, she reports improved sleep, a greater sense of calm, and fewer intrusive thoughts.

She recalled one session in particular, when the act of painting prompted an unexpected moment of insight. “While painting, I suddenly understood the source of my anger—it felt like a weight lifted,” she said. Unlike more passive coping mechanisms, she added, the creative process fosters a sense of agency. “Art and music make me feel actively involved in my healing.”

That sense of control extends to others. Rediet, a business student at Addis Ababa University, describes using religious music as a stabilizing force in moments of stress.

“I use religious music to take a step back and breathe when I’m overwhelmed,” she said. “The lyrics and rhythms remind me that there is still beauty to be seen.”

Contributed by Bemnet Seifu

By 11 p.m., the hall at the Addis Ababa University Cultural Center was already alive — not with noise alone, but with a mounting, almost tactile anticipation. Students filled the seats; others stood shoulder to shoulder along the walls. Invited guests and curious onlookers pressed inward, forming a dense, electric crowd. The 52nd edition of the weekly “Angafa” art show was minutes from starting.

Scheduled for 11:30, the evening veered off script before it began. The lights went out. For a moment, there was silence. Then illumination returned — not from above, but from within the audience. Dozens of mobile phone flashlights flickered on, casting a soft, collective glow across faces, hands and a stage that refused to disappear.

Out of that light, a voice emerged. Yohannes Alemayehu, a singer from Orchestra Ethiopia Band, began “Hulemenash Mulu,” the Tewodros Tadesse classic music. The audience joined almost instantly, their voices swelling into a chorus that filled the hall. “It didn’t even feel like there was a blackout,” one attendee said. Moments later, the power returned.

What might have been a disruption became something closer to authorship. The audience had not merely endured the interruption; it had absorbed it, reshaping the moment into part of the performance itself. When the lights came back, the program resumed with sharpened energy.

The Fishers Second Band opened with a vibrant set, followed by the young vocalist Anteneh Tesfaye, who performed Tilahun Gessesse’s “Ena Bebekule,” drawing a strong, immediate response.

Then the evening shifted into poetry. Yabsera Tameru took the stage, reading from his poetry book, Love Hope. At the end, he stepped toward the guest artist Dibekulu Tafese and handed him a copy — a quiet, symbolic gesture that suggested continuity between emerging and established voices.

Sirak Wendemu followed, reading from his third book, Somsoma. His delivery drew the hall into near-total stillness before applause broke through. The mood shifted again when Dibekulu purchased both books onstage — each priced at 5,000 birr — transforming appreciation into tangible support.

For many in the room, Dibekulu is more than a guest performer; he is a defining figure in contemporary Ethiopian music. Raised in Addis Ababa, he gained prominence as the lead vocalist of Jano Band, whose fusion of Ethiopian musical traditions with rock elements helped reshape the soundscape of a younger generation. Their album Ertale, featuring tracks like “Ayrak,” marked a turning point. After years of touring across Europe and the United States, he embarked on a solo career around 2020, seeking greater artistic latitude.

Back onstage, that range was visible. A performance by the Ethio Yaredawiyan Dance Group evolved into a shared moment, as Dibekulu joined the dancers, dissolving the boundary between featured artist and participant.

A fashion segment followed under the theme “Tikur Engedaye Meshet,” with the Addis Ababa University Cultural Center modeling group turning the stage into a runway, walking to Dibekulu’s “Tikur Engedaye.”

Music returned in succession. Mekdes Webeshet performed Netsanet Melese’s “Yetale Lij Yetal,” followed by Dagmawi Negus, who energized the room with Girma Beyene’s “Enken Yelalebesh,” combining voice and movement in a kinetic set. Singer Berihun Gizaw closed the sequence with Melkamu Tebeje’s “Ye Leben Adarash,” drawing sustained, emotional applause.

 Dibekulu returned to the spotlight for a quieter turn: an onstage conversation tracing his artistic evolution, from band frontman to solo performer. The tone shifted again when, mid-discussion, he began a restrained, deeply felt rendition of Alemayehu Eshete’s “Wededku Afekerkush.” The hall fell still. Moments later, he pivoted, picking up the drums and launching into his own “Ayrak,” reintroducing rhythm and momentum.

By the time he moved through “Ayrak” and “Tikur Engedaye,” the audience was fully absorbed — singing, clapping and moving in near unison.

“I am so happy to be here,” Dibekulu said. “The students’ energy is incredible — it feels like a concert. This reminds me of the Jano vibe. The poets, singers and dancers — all the young performers — are amazing.”

Performers, too, framed the evening as both milestone and beginning. Speaking afterward, Yohannes described the moment as formative. “At this stage, I introduce myself as an emerging artist,” he said. “It is a great pleasure to perform for this audience. I feel optimistic about the future. I will come with my own music.”

Dagmawi Negus, known as Dagi Jing, emphasized the personal significance of sharing the stage with Dibekulu. “Performing with him was a dream,” he said. “I started performing three years ago on this same stage. I want to thank my parents, my family and especially my bandmates, the Fishers Second Band — they supported me throughout tonight.” He added that while he primarily performs diatonic Amharic songs, he intends to experiment with new styles in the future.

Behind the performances lies a deliberate structure.

Naod Degf, a third-year theater arts student and a representative of the cultural center, described a program designed for continuity as much as showcase. “We organize this art show every Wednesday,” he said. “There are also film screenings on Tuesday nights, along with literary events and book reviews. It’s open to everyone — free of charge.”

For those in attendance, the experience extended beyond performance. Bilen Kuru, attending for the first time, described the event as both inspiration and entry point. “I’m very excited to be here,” she said. “I love Dibekulu’s music, and I enjoyed the event a lot. I’m also trying to sing — this inspires me.”

Abel Mekuria, a regular, framed it more simply. “Whenever I feel stressed, I come here,” he said. “Art relaxes you. It helps you look into yourself.”

As the evening drew to a close, the Addis Ababa University Cultural Center’s director, Assistant Professor Tesfaye Eshetu, presented Dibekulu with a certificate of appreciation. The artist Seleshi Mola followed with a hand-painted work — a final exchange in a night defined by reciprocity.

The lights, by then, were steady. But what lingered was something less tangible: the “Angafa” art show offered a clear, if familiar, proposition—art does not wait for ideal conditions. It generates its own.

When Italian forces crossed the Mareb River in 1935, they carried more than rifles and chemical weapons. Packed into supply crates—and embedded in the logic of occupation—was a quieter apparatus of control: a plan to reshape how people in the Horn of Africa would eat.

The invasion of Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia was not only a military campaign. It was also an attempt to recast identity through the regulation of calories, crops and the rituals of the table.

In “Gastrofascism and Empire: Food in Italian East Africa, 1935–1941,” the historian Simone Cinotto traces how the Fascist regime under Benito Mussolini treated food as an instrument of empire. The colonial administration envisioned East Africa as a “granary” for Italy—an agricultural hinterland that could help secure food autarky by producing wheat, beef, coffee and bananas for the metropole.

But this vision was not merely economic. It was racial, spatial and sensory.

Cinotto shows that the colonial food system operated within a rigid hierarchy, enforced not only through labor and land policy but also through everyday acts of consumption. He describes the emergence of what he terms “food apartheid”: a regime of enforced separation between colonizer and colonized. Laws prohibiting “interracial commensality” made it a punishable offense for Italians and Ethiopians to share a meal.

In cities like Addis Ababa, this translated into a redesigned urban landscape. Markets, cafés and restaurants were segregated, with access and quality determined by race. Dining became a boundary line—one that mapped power as clearly as any checkpoint.

The policy, Cinotto argues, was intended to insulate the Italian “civilizing mission” from local influence. By policing taste and proximity, colonial authorities sought to preserve a distinct European identity, uncontaminated by indigenous culinary traditions.

Control extended beyond the plate to the soil itself. In pursuit of agricultural expansion, the administration resettled thousands of Italian farmers, expropriating lands labeled “unproductive.” They introduced new seeds, livestock and farming techniques designed to replicate the Italian countryside on African terrain.

Cinotto characterizes this as “bio-imperialism”: an effort to overwrite indigenous agricultural systems with one calibrated to Rome’s needs. Supply chains reinforced the project. Ships arriving through ports like Massawa and Mogadishu carried canned goods, mineral water and wine, assembling an imported Mediterranean diet in the middle of the Horn.

The result was an artificial foodscape—one that mirrored Italy while standing apart from its surroundings.

Yet the project was never complete.

Even as the colonial state sought to industrialize and segregate food production, Ethiopian foodways persisted. The cultivation of teff, the fermentation of injera and the deeply communal structure of dining practices endured, not simply as tradition but as a form of quiet defiance.

Cinotto notes that local farmers continued to plant indigenous crops, often in subtle resistance to colonial agricultural directives. In doing so, they preserved more than sustenance. They maintained a cultural system—one that resisted incorporation, even under occupation.

In the markets, the steady exchange of indigenous spices and grains formed a quiet but critical infrastructure of resistance. Despite Italian attempts to impose a “hierarchy of taste”—one that elevated European flavors as inherently superior—the Ethiopian palate remained anchored in local soil and inherited recipes.

In “Gastrofascism and Empire,” Cinotto describes how the Italian military depended on a long, fragile supply chain extending back to Europe, leaving it exposed to disruption. By contrast, Ethiopian patriots— Arbegnoch—operated within a decentralized and adaptive food network. Moving through the highlands, they were sustained by rural communities that supplied essential local staples.

Cinotto frames this contrast as more than logistical. It was structural: a rigid, imported system confronting a flexible, indigenous one—an imbalance that shaped the daily realities of occupation.

The regime also sought to govern through the senses. Sight, smell and taste became tools for constructing racial identity. Fascist doctrine insisted that Italian identity was inseparable from the consumption of Italian wheat and wine—even under the tropical sun. To eat local food, colonial authorities warned, was to risk “going native,” a notion they countered through propaganda and strict rationing.

By 1941, with the collapse of Italian East Africa, the formal architecture of what Cinotto terms “gastrofascism” began to unravel. Italian settlers and their imported provisions either departed or were absorbed into a shifting social order. Yet the imprint of the project—particularly in agricultural policy—did not simply vanish.

What endured more powerfully was resistance. Ethiopia’s food system, defined by its indigenous grains and deeply communal dining traditions, survived the six-year attempt at replacement. In kitchens and fields, continuity proved more resilient than coercion.

The occupation, as Cinotto’s account makes clear, was contested not only on battlefields but across everyday life. The effort to recast identity through food met a persistent refusal: a commitment to local practice that preserved the distinct foodways of the Horn.

Still, the colonial encounter left traces.

Yves-Marie Stranger, author of “A Gallop in Ethiopia: Wax, Gold and the Abyssinian Pony,” notes that certain Italian culinary influences have endured. Spaghetti, once an imported staple, is now commonplace, while espresso and macchiatos are served in cafés across Ethiopia—from major avenues to modest neighborhood counters.

Stranger situates this within a longer history of exchange. Some ingredients now considered quintessentially Ethiopian arrived from elsewhere: the sweet orange, introduced by the Portuguese in the 16th century, gave rise to the name birtukan; tomatoes, chili peppers and potatoes—now central to many stews—originated in South America. Even the spread of plow-based cereal farming, he notes, unfolded gradually, reaching regions like Hararghe only in the late 19th century.

Beyond the overt politics of the 1930s, Stranger argues, certain Mediterranean habits were ultimately indigenized—absorbed into local practice, stripped of their colonial context and reinterpreted within Ethiopian culinary traditions.

Today, the terrain of influence has shifted. The pressures shaping food culture are less about occupation than about globalization and advertising. Sugary carbonated drinks, now common at any feasts, signal a different kind of cultural reach—one mediated through markets rather than mandates.

Yet the core endures.

“Empires come and go, and yet the Ethiopian habit of eating together endures,” Stranger told The Reporter. Whether centered on ancient grains or accompanied by modern additions, the shared meal—gathered around the messob—remains a durable expression of social continuity.

Serge Gasore’s childhood is the stuff of nightmares.

He was a young child when the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi began in Rwanda and narrowly escaped death on multiple occasions. His mother was murdered, and he saw his grandmother killed by a grenade attack on a church where Tutsis were hiding.

He spent weeks fleeing from Hutu attackers but couldn’t avoid being drawn into the war: at nine-years-old, he fought with the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) army. 

Eventually, as a young adult, Gasore was able to leave Rwanda and settle in the United States, where he and his wife founded Rwanda Children, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing shelter, food, medical care and education to at-risk children in the country.

Gasore is just one example of the thousands of people rebuilding their lives, over three decades on from the horrific events of 1994, during which more than one million people – overwhelmingly Tutsi, but also Hutu and others who opposed the genocide – were systematically killed in less than three months.

Alongside another survivor, Marcel Mutsindashyaka, who lost 25 members of his family, Gasore shared his story at a ceremony at UN Headquarters on April 7, 2026, marking the International Day of Reflection on the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda.

When the plane carrying the Hutu president of Rwanda was shot down in early April 1994, extremist Hutus began a wave of killings against the nation’s Tutsi minority and moderate Hutus. This conflict resulted in the deaths of up to perhaps one million Rwandans. Rwanda’s own national commemoration and day of mourning, called Kwibuka, which translates as “remembrance,” is held annually on April 7th. 

Honoring ‘stolen dignity’

UN Secretary-General António Guterres mourned the victims, including “entire families brutally erased”, and honored “their stolen dignity.”

In his message, Guterres paid tribute to survivors like Gasore, whose resilience, he said, “shows the strength of the human spirit.”

Recalling the international community’s failure to heed warnings and take immediate life-saving action, Guterres said we must learn from past failures and protect the living “by rejecting hatred, inflammatory rhetoric and incitement to violence.”

The April 7 event, along with other commemorations held at UN offices around the world, are coordinated by the Outreach Programme on the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda and the United Nations, established by the General Assembly in 2005 to “mobilize civil society for Rwanda genocide victim remembrance and education in order to help prevent future acts of genocide.”

UNESCO also commemorates the International Day of Reflection on the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. It also promotes education about genocides as a means to sensitize learners for the causes, dynamics and consequences of such crimes and to strengthen their resilience against all forms of discrimination.

Remember – Unite – Renew

The African Union (AU), in collaboration with the Embassy of the Republic of Rwanda in Ethiopia, solemnly observes the commemoration at the AU Headquarters in Addis Ababa, under the theme “Remember – Unite – Renew”.

Each year, this commemoration reminds African peoples and the international community of the sanctity of life and the value of humanity, while reinforcing our collective resolve to prevent genocide, uphold human rights, and safeguard future generations. It also provides a solemn moment to remember the lives that were lost.

The occasion offers an opportunity to reflect on the magnitude of human suffering, honor the memory of all those lost, and reaffirm the shared responsibility of African peoples and the international community to ensure that such atrocities are never repeated.

The event commenced with “The Walk to Remember” and the laying of wreaths in honor of the victims of the genocide at the AU Human Rights Memorial. The walk to remember was followed by a commemorative ceremony held at Nelson Mandela Hall at the AU Headquarters. The programme featured prayers delivered by representatives of the Muslim, Orthodox, Protestant and Catholic communities, followed by the Lighting of the Flame of Remembrance, accompanied by a commemoration song.

Participants then viewed the documentary “Rwanda: From Despair to Hope” and observed a minute of silence in memory of the victims. The commemoration also included the official launch of the African Union Human Rights Virtual Memorial with the United Nations Office to the African Union (UN/OAU) as a core partner, introducing dedicated component on the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi in Rwanda, further reinforcing the AU’s commitment to preserving its memory and promoting human rights across the continent.

Mahmoud Ali Youssouf, Chairperson of the African Union Commission, in his remarks, said, “Remember over one million lives lost to hatred, indifference, and inaction.” He stressed that Kwibuka is not only a moment of mourning but also a call to truth, responsibility, and vigilance. He further added that in African affairs, ‘Never Again’ will organized hatred be allowed to become a political project.

 Continuing, he said “we must confront rising threats, hate speech, division, and polarization with unity, courage, and action.” Rwanda’s remarkable journey of resilience and renewal reminds us that history is not fate; it is shaped by the will of people, he added. He concluded by saying, “Remembrance obliges us to act, to prevent, and to defend human dignity everywhere. Africa stands firm for peace, justice, and the protection of all.”

In his statement, Hadera Abera (Amb.), Ethiopia’s State Minister for Foreign Affairs, noted that Rwanda’s history now stands as a definitive testament to the human spirit and a reminder that through the difficult work of accountability, a nation can be reborn, healed, and made whole again.

On his part, Bankole Adeoye (Amb.), Commissioner for Political Affairs, Peace and Security of the African Union Commission, in his welcome remarks on behalf of the AUC Chairperson, stated, “We stand in solidarity with the victims, the survivors, and all Rwandans across the globe to reaffirm our collective commitment in saying, ‘Never Again!’” He commended Rwanda’s remarkable resilience in rebuilding a just, reconciled, and inclusive society that stands as a beacon of hope for the entire continent and beyond.

Infamous Legacy

Rwandans and humanity will never forget April 7. It was the D-Day of the apocalypse that the extremists had earlier warned about. The warning had come during the Arusha peace talks between the RPF and the Rwanda Government (July 1992-August 1993). On Jan. 9, 1993, Theoneste Bagosora (Col.), the infamous architect of the genocide, stormed out of the peace talks, vehemently rejecting concessions to the RPF. He declared that he was heading back to Rwanda “to prepare the apocalypse.” As we would soon witness, not only did Bagosora prepare the apocalypse, he also executed it, ordering the killing of countless innocent people.

But the genocide against the Tutsi was the climax of the killings, not the beginning. Killing Tutsis had been a strategy for the Hutu extremists who were handed power on a silver platter by the Belgians at the independence of Rwanda in 1962.

Like most colonial powers around the independence period, the Belgians abhorred leaving power in the hands of nationalists. They branded them communists to justify their exclusion and extermination.

In the Democratic Republic of the Congo, they killed Patrice Lumumba, the Prime Minister, and in Rwanda, they eliminated the nationalist King Rudahigwa. They went on to install a puppet President, Gregoire Kaibanda, a Hutu groomed in the Catholic Church who was glad to perpetuate their hold over Rwanda.

In the anarchy that followed, thousands were killed, and tens of thousands fled to neighboring countries. The Tutsis who remained in Rwanda continued to be targets of arbitrary killing, alienation and all sorts of abuse. By 1994, the extremists had perfected their genocide plan.

In January 1994, Romeo Dallaire (Gen.), the Canadian UN Force commander in Rwanda, received intelligence on the extremist killers’ capabilities. An informer confided to him that he was in charge of training militias to kill Tutsis, and his teams were ready with necessary arms and ammunition. He further revealed that these teams, which were deployed to many parts of the country, could kill at least 1000 people in 20 minutes. The UN’s inaction, when Dallaire transmitted this information to New York, remains a testament to the organization’s ineffectiveness in the face of such humanitarian crises.

Moving on from Genocide

Some 32 years later, Rwanda has moved on to become one of the most promising countries on the continent of Africa.

Over the past two decades, the country has recorded sustained economic growth averaging around 7-8 percent annually, significantly reduced poverty levels and invested heavily in human capital and institutional reform. Under the leadership of Paul Kagame, the Rwanda Patriotic Front has unified the earlier fractured country, institutionalized unity and reconciliation and built accountable governance systems.

Today, Rwanda ranks among the safest countries in Africa and is globally recognized for its governance reforms and gender equality, with women holding over 60 percent of parliamentary seats, which is the highest representation in the world.

But the legacy of genocide still reverberates in the Great Lakes region. 

(This article is compiled from AU, UN, UNESCO, Kansas African studies center, European Sting and DailySabah.)

Anchored by the motto “Back to My Roots,” the project emphasizes identity, self-reliance and cultural continuity. Temesgen’s approach blends traditional rhythms and choreography with elements of electronic dance music, producing a hybrid form that speaks to both domestic and international listeners without severing its origins.

For Temesgen, the aim is not simply aesthetic innovation. His compositions foreground movement as a cultural language, translating the meaning embedded in traditional dance into a format accessible beyond Ethiopia’s borders.

He is also the author of “Nihine,” derived from a Geʽez word meaning “We,” a title that reflects his emphasis on collective identity. His work has drawn recognition abroad, including participation honors from the Southern Ethiopian Musicians Association at the Africa International Music Festival.

Over the years, Temesgen has performed as a cultural representative in countries including Algeria, Nigeria and the United States, presenting a range of Ethiopian dance traditions. He holds a master’s degree from Howard University in Washington, D.C., and has contributed to projects such as the dance film festival “Mek’rez” and the “Temu Mirt” dance reality program on DStv.

His trajectory into the arts was far from assured. Raised in Addis Ababa, he spent part of his youth supporting his family as a shoe shiner. Today, with more than two decades of stage experience, his contributions to cultural education have been incorporated into a Grade 2 national textbook.

Temesgen’s early life unfolded in the busy Shiro Meda area, where he was born and raised. By the age of 12, he had begun to pursue dance more seriously, drawing inspiration from his immediate surroundings.

His father, a shemane, or traditional weaver, worked long hours producing shema — the fabric used in Habesha clothing — while his brother practiced painting. The rhythms of the loom and the discipline of visual art formed an environment that quietly shaped his sensibility for movement and expression.

In 1998, Temesgen joined the Children and Youth Theatre Club, marking his entry into formal artistic training. Five years later, he advanced to the Hager Fikir Theatre, one of the country’s most prominent cultural institutions, where he worked alongside established figures including Tesfu Birhane, Aster Bedane and Sinafikish Tesfaye.

The experience proved formative.

At one point, he performed on the stages of both the Children and Youth Theatre and Hager Fikir Theatre in a single day — a moment he regards as a turning point in his career. Building on that momentum, he went on to establish the Ye-Temesgen Lijoch Ethiopian Cultural Dance Group.

The group quickly gained attention, attracting a growing number of students and audiences. Under his direction, enrollment expanded significantly, with nearly 40 young dancers training in traditional forms — a sign, Temesgen said, of sustained interest among a new generation in Ethiopia’s cultural heritage.

Over time, Ye-Temesgen Lijoch (YTL) has developed into a prolific performance ensemble, with appearances on more than 500 stages and in four stadiums. Its productions have included large-scale musical theater works featuring choreographies involving as many as 1,500 performers.

Temesgen attributes part of the group’s growth to an unconventional training method. Dancers rehearse to DJ-driven beats and perform based on real-time cues — an approach he said has broadened both discipline and adaptability. A televised version of the format ran for six consecutive months, drawing a sustained audience.

His own artistic output has also expanded. In addition to writing and performing two original singles, Temesgen has contributed vocals to projects by other Ethiopian artists. His latest undertaking, “ETDM Beats,” is a 13-track album that blends traditional Ethiopian forms with contemporary production, incorporating elements drawn from 17 cultural traditions.

The album, arranged by the krar player Fasika Hailu, brings together a range of collaborators, including instrumentalists and vocalists such as Gizachew Teshome and Tesfaye Taye. Among its tracks are “Dorze Dance,” which combines Dorze and Minjar influences, and “Erase Enesalehu,” a piece that merges reggae with stylistic elements from the Raya tradition.

Through ETDM Beats and related initiatives, Temesgen has sought to position traditional dance and music within a broader global framework, while also creating opportunities for young performers.

He described ETDM as a practical response to the challenge of representing Ethiopia’s wide array of dance traditions — more than 80, by his estimate — under a single, recognizable platform. “It becomes difficult to market each individually on the global stage,” he said, adding that a unified format could help younger artists engage across cultures.

At the same time, Temesgen expressed concern about structural constraints facing the creative sector. He said limited institutional support and the absence of a comprehensive cultural policy continue to restrict growth.

“There is no clear framework governing the arts, despite the sector’s economic potential,” he said, calling for policy reforms that would better support artists and cultural entrepreneurs.

He also pointed to challenges in advancing larger initiatives. A proposal he developed to establish an arts university was not approved, he said, citing regulatory and land-access barriers. “We need a system that allows artists to pursue projects at scale,” he said.

Despite those obstacles, Temesgen said his long-term goal remains to establish a cultural center that can present Ethiopian artistic traditions at an international standard while serving as a platform for future generations.

Temesgen also places part of the responsibility for the sector’s stagnation on the Ministry of Youth, Sports and Culture, which he said has yet to give sustained attention to the arts. At the same time, he pointed to the government’s Corridor Project — which has reshaped parts of Addis Ababa’s urban landscape — as an example of how targeted reform and investment could produce what he described as “radical change” in the cultural sphere.

To Meweded Kibru, an artist and choreographic director who has worked closely with him, Temesgen’s practice defies narrow definition. He described it as “multi-dimensional,” arguing that Temesgen operates not only as a choreographer or trainer, but as a thinker capable of interpreting artistic expression from multiple vantage points.

Meweded said Temesgen’s work extends beyond performance into mentorship and cultural preservation. By training more than a hundred students — often taking into account their personal circumstances, education and family background — he uses dance as a tool for discipline and development. In that role, Meweded said, Temesgen functions as both instructor and guardian figure.

He pointed to the recent ETDM album as evidence of Temesgen’s broader artistic reach, describing it as an attempt to position Ethiopian music within an international framework.

During collaborative sessions, Meweded observed a process that went beyond choreography in the conventional sense. Temesgen, he said, constructs what he described as a “pattern of movement,” aligning physical expression closely with musical arrangement.

Meweded ultimately framed Temesgen’s contribution in terms of direction rather than performance alone, likening his role to that of a film director shaping a narrative through the body.

For younger artists, Meweded argued, Temesgen represents a model of disciplined engagement with culture. His influence, he said, lies not only in performance but in shaping a generation of practitioners capable of sustaining and evolving Ethiopia’s artistic traditions.

That vision extends into Temesgen’s long-term ambitions. He has proposed establishing an international arts university with multiple departments, including film and arts journalism, designed to anchor creative training within Ethiopian cultural frameworks. The project, however, has yet to move forward.

In the meantime, Temesgen is seeking to build momentum through the international exposure of ETDM, with the aim of attracting institutional backing. His objective, he said, is to create a platform where Ethiopian artistic forms can be studied, developed and presented at a global standard.

“My ultimate goal is to build an international art university,” he said, “one that prepares future generations to contribute to the global cultural landscape through work that is both innovative and rooted in identity.”

That atmosphere — restless, communal and unceasing — formed the backdrop of his early years and would later become a recurring subject in his art.

From a young age, Eyob gravitated toward drawing and painting, developing an ambition to become a full-time visual artist. His work, he says, seeks to bridge generations, translating memories of earlier urban life into visual forms that resonate with contemporary audiences.

He traces the origins of his practice to primary school. As a third-grade student, he began sketching scenes inspired by Ethiopian childhood traditions, including the seasonal gift-giving associated with Enkutatash. What began as an exercise in observation evolved into a sustained artistic inquiry. Today, his work examines the rhythms of urban life, where personal memory and the passage of time intersect in a visual language marked by movement and transition.

Over the past two decades, Eyob has built a career as a full-time artist, mounting four solo exhibitions and participating in more than 15 group shows in Ethiopia and abroad. His latest exhibition, “Beneath the Roof,” opened on March 26, 2026, at the Gebre Kristos Desta Center, presenting more than 70 works.

The collection ranges widely in scale, from intimate canvases measuring 30 by 40 centimeters to expansive mural-like compositions stretching up to 2 by 10 meters. Many of the works are created on corrugated iron — both reclaimed and newly sourced — underscoring the material realities of the city itself.

“Beneath the Roof” draws on decades of observation, assembling visual narratives of shifting living conditions in the capital. Eyob’s multidisciplinary approach — spanning painting, sculpture, photography, sound and installation — incorporates materials gathered from across the city, including metal sheets, architectural fragments and everyday objects. These elements are reconfigured into layered compositions that engage with memory, displacement and transformation.

At the center of his practice is a sustained focus on the evolution of urban space. His work examines the tension between the city’s past and its rapidly changing present, using architectural forms as both subject and metaphor.

“The city is the true reflection of my life, as it is for many,” he said. He described the exhibition as an attempt to register a sense of unease. “Today, as I observe my surroundings, it feels as though people, objects and streets are being absorbed into a single, indistinct hue — unsettled by a turbulence of destruction and rebirth.”

He said the pace of change in Addis Ababa prompted him to organize the exhibition as a way of engaging the public and recalling earlier forms of urban life.

In response, many of the works incorporate corrugated metal sheets salvaged from construction sites and demolition areas, painted in muted greens and yellows to evoke altered landscapes. Earlier panels depict human figures embedded within processes of urban transformation, while installations feature objects recovered from dismantled homes — doors, brooms and fragments of furniture — arranged as material traces of displacement.

Together, these elements form densely layered compositions, reflecting a city in flux and the fragments it leaves behind.

Eyob, a lecturer at the Alle School of Fine Arts and Design, where he also coordinates the M.F.A. program and serves on the Academic Council, said the exhibition has drawn visitors who recognize the city’s shifting landscape across different political and developmental eras. Many, he noted, are familiar with earlier state-led housing programs as well as redevelopment initiatives that accelerated after the 2005 Ethiopian general election.

The works also reflect more recent forms of displacement, including relocations tied to corridor development projects that have moved residents from inner-city neighborhoods to the urban periphery.

Eyob said the exhibition resonates across generations. Two of the pieces — constructed from corrugated iron and ceiling materials — are particularly personal, tracing his own sense of identity across time.

“Change is inevitable,” he said. “However, the exhibition unfolds as a kind of passage, echoing the transformations of Addis Ababa itself. Within this gathering of remnants, one can sense both a marking of an ending and an invitation to engage with a form of nostalgia that is active and reflective, rather than merely sentimental.”

Yet, he argues, transformation should not come at the expense of memory. For Eyob, the possibility of renewal depends on acknowledging what came before.

“That is what I aim to convey in ‘Beneath the Roof,’” he said, describing the exhibition as a meditation on continuity. Each roof, he added, shelters a distinct family history — lives shaped by successive waves of urban change. His works, composed of corrugated iron and ceiling fragments, stage a visual negotiation with modern development, allowing past and present to coexist within the same frame.

For the exhibition’s curator, Jermay Michael Gabriel, the project operates as what he described as a dispositif — an arrangement through which material memory is both organized and made visible. Central to this approach is Eyob’s use of kornis, a traditional ceiling framework that once defined the interiors of many Ethiopian homes.

Constructed by repeatedly layering plaster-soaked fabric, these ceilings created an intermediary space where dust accumulated over decades, alongside the traces of everyday life.

“Eyob’s artistic practice emerges as an act of preservation and reactivation of memory,” the curator said. “He rescues these ceiling frames from destruction brought about by rapid urban change, transforming them into aesthetic objects and historical witnesses that hold within them a quiet persistence against forgetting.”

Jermay says that Eyob’s role extends beyond that of a painter. He becomes, instead, a mediator between ruin and representation. Weathered plaster and rusted corrugated iron are treated as “involuntary paintings,” shaped over time by exposure, humidity and decay. By repositioning these fragments within the gallery, the exhibition resists simplified portrayals of African urban life, presenting instead a layered and evolving reality — one in which the ceiling above a child’s bed can remain both a site of imagination and a silent record of transformation.

For Meron Getu, a fourth-year student at Addis Ababa University’s Department of Business and Economics, the exhibition became something more personal: a reflection of her own experience of displacement.

Visiting the gallery on opening day, Meron Getu found herself standing before the towering corrugated panels, overcome by a sudden sense of recognition. The textures, layered and weathered, did not read to her as purely aesthetic decisions but as fragments of a city she felt was slipping out of reach — a city increasingly unrecognizable within the span of her own young adulthood.

Her response closely echoed the tensions at the center of Eyob’s practice. While she acknowledged, as the artist does, that transformation is an inevitable feature of a growing city, she was struck by the scale of what is erased in the process. Moving through installations composed of salvaged doors and plaster ceiling frames, she described a sense of absence — the disappearance of familiar landmarks and lived spaces — that has made memory itself feel urgent, even resistant.

“It feels as though the city I grew up in is being replaced by something I don’t yet know,” she said, reflecting a broader unease about how to locate the present without a stable sense of the past.

For Meron, the exhibition offered a rare site of reckoning — a space in which what Eyob has described as a “nameless turbulence” becomes legible. Discarded materials are not only preserved but reactivated, allowing a younger generation to navigate between childhood memory and an altered urban landscape.

Looking ahead, Eyob said he hopes to extend the life of the work beyond the gallery. His aim is to bridge public exhibition with academic practice, documenting projects across multiple media and integrating them into the education system. By doing so, he seeks to encourage emerging artists to draw from their immediate environments rather than looking outward for validation.

Focusing on local realities, he argued, offers a pathway to engaging broader human conditions.

“If you are a creator,” he said, “you transform adversity into opportunity.”

For Toffic Hugera, a father of three from the neighborhood commonly known as 22-Mazoria, the holy month is unfolding far from the home and community he knew for decades. In recent weeks, his house and small business were demolished as part of the city’s Corridor Development Project, a sweeping urban renewal initiative stretching from Edna Mall to 22-Mazoria.

“Ramadan has always been about faith, patience, and being together,” Toffic said. “This year feels different.”

Traditionally marked by fasting, prayer, and acts of charity, Ramadan is also a time when social bonds are renewed. For families like Toffic’s, displacement has complicated those rituals. Though he is careful to note that he does not oppose the broader goals of urban redevelopment, the loss of familiar surroundings has cast a shadow over the season.

“I am not against the project,” he said. “But not spending this time with the people I’ve known for years is a disappointment.”

For Toffic, the disruption is less about material loss than the erosion of a shared social fabric — the neighbors who gathered each evening, the routines shaped over years, and the sense of belonging that defined past observances.

He believes others facing similar displacement, including Christian residents preparing for the upcoming Easter holiday, may experience a comparable sense of dislocation. “Holidays are about community,” he said. “When that changes, the feeling changes too.”

Still, adaptation is underway. Amid the upheaval of relocation, Toffic has tried to preserve a sense of normalcy for his family. In recent days, he has been buying new clothes and small gifts for his wife and children — gestures that remain central to the holiday’s spirit.

Ramadan, observed during the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, is defined by fasting from dawn to sunset, spiritual discipline, and acts of generosity. In Ethiopia, daily routines begin with suhoor, the pre-dawn meal, and conclude with iftar — also known locally as afur — when families and neighbors gather to break the fast, often with dates, water, and traditional dishes such as sambusa, genfo, and injera with stews.

Evening prayers, particularly the Taraweeh held in mosques, remain central to the observance. In cities like Harar, the month is marked by lantern-lit streets, coffee ceremonies, and communal gatherings that blend faith with long-standing cultural practices.

Markets across the country typically see a surge in activity ahead of the holiday, as families prepare by purchasing food, clothing, and gifts. The greeting “Ramadan Kareem” — “Generous Ramadan” — reflects both the spiritual aspirations of the month and its emphasis on giving.

Religious leaders have repeatedly underscored these values. The late Grand Mufti Abubaker Ahmed once described Ramadan as a period defined not only by prayer and fasting, but by social responsibility and compassion. More recently, Sheikh Haji Ibrahim Tufa, president of the Ethiopian Islamic Affairs Supreme Council, has called on Muslims to embrace unity, forgiveness, and support for those in need.

Highlighting Ramadan as a season of spiritual discipline, mercy, and charity, Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed (PhD) drew a parallel between the endurance required during the fast and the perseverance necessary for Ethiopia’s “democratic journey.” In his social media post, the Prime Minister argued that just as the blessings of Eid succeed the rigors of Ramadan, Ethiopia’s current struggles will yield a “bright era” if the citizenry remains committed to peace and unity.

“Just as we have arrived at the Eid al-Fitr holiday after completing the fast of Ramadan, it is a gateway for us as a country to transition into a bright era after passing through years of democratic thirst and challenges,” he stated.

Such messages resonate strongly in a year marked by transition for many urban residents.

Even as bulldozers reshape parts of the capital, the rhythms of Ramadan endure — in shared meals, and small acts of generosity. For families like Toffic’s, the setting may have changed, but the essence of the month remains.

When Benito Mussolini uttered those words to a roaring crowd in Rome, he was not merely delivering a speech. He was announcing a war—one that would test the limits of fascist expansion and ignite one of Africa’s most enduring symbols of resistance.

The declaration came decades after European powers had formalized the late-19th-century “Scramble for Africa,” the colonial project that divided much of the continent among imperial powers.

Yet Mussolini’s imperial ambitions would collide with one of Africa’s most consequential acts of resistance. In Adwa, in what is now Ethiopia’s Tigray region, Ethiopian forces—later immortalized as the “Black Lions”—defeated invading Italian troops, preserving the country’s sovereignty and delivering a historic rebuke to European colonial expansion.

130 years later, the legacy of that resistance has returned to the global stage. At the 76th Berlin International Film Festival, held from February 12 to 22, 2026, audiences were introduced to Black Lions, Roman Wolves: The Children of Adwa, a sweeping documentary by the Ethiopian historian and filmmaker Haile Gerima (Prof.).

Running nearly nine hours, the film is both an expansive historical excavation and a meditation on memory, myth and resistance. It revisits Italy’s colonial ambitions in Ethiopia and situates the country’s struggle within the broader history of fascism and African anti-colonial movements.

At the center of the documentary is Ethiopia’s arduous fight against fascist Italy during the Second Italo-Ethiopian War of 1935 to 1941. The project, which took Haile more than three decades to complete, traces the resilience of Ethiopian patriots who waged a protracted resistance against occupation before ultimately reclaiming their independence.

Told through a distinctly African perspective, the film foregrounds the stories of Ethiopian men and women who resisted fascist rule. Haile also confronts one of the least examined aspects of the war: Italy’s use of chemical weapons in Ethiopia, a series of war crimes that remain largely absent from many Western narratives of World War II.

The documentary draws on a vast archive of material, weaving together oral histories and testimonies from more than 200 Ethiopian veterans and witnesses. Haile also incorporates archival footage from Italy, France, Britain, Germany and Russia, assembling a transnational historical record to reconstruct Ethiopia’s wartime experience.

Structured as a five-part cinematic epic, Black Lions, Roman Wolves chronicles both the brutality of fascist occupation and the enduring spirit of resistance that followed. In recognition of the project’s significance, the Berlin festival awarded Haile the Berlinale Camera on February 17, honoring his lifetime contribution to cinema and the film’s world premiere.

Haile’s path to filmmaking began decades earlier. In 1967, the Ethiopian-born director moved to the United States to study at the University of California, Los Angeles, where he became a leading figure in the L.A. Rebellion—a generation of African and African American filmmakers who, beginning in the 1970s, sought to create an independent Black cinema that challenged Hollywood’s dominant narratives.

Across a career spanning more than a dozen films, Haile has consistently fused personal memory with historical and political inquiry. His work is marked by counter-narrative storytelling and a distinctly Pan-African sensibility. Scholars often cite his landmark film Sankofa as emblematic of this approach, noting how it confronts the legacies of slavery and resistance while centering African cultural perspectives.

With Black Lions, Roman Wolves, Haile’s lifelong artistic mission takes on a deeply personal dimension. Driven by memories of war and the urgency of preserving fading testimonies, he spent decades documenting the Ethiopian patriots who resisted Mussolini’s forces. Determined to retain full creative control, he financed the film largely on his own.

Yet for many observers, the project is more than an ambitious documentary. It is also a battle over historical memory—an effort to reclaim ownership of a story that has often been overlooked, minimized or told through the lens of others.

Early previews of the footage have drawn enthusiastic responses, particularly among African American and Ethiopian diaspora audiences. Many viewers have pointed to the film’s deep historical and cultural resonance, describing it as a rare cinematic preservation of a shared heritage. For some, it offers an uncommon portrayal of an unequivocal African victory over European colonial forces. For others, it raises provocative questions about historical memory, suggesting that the descendants of Italian soldiers have, in different ways, returned to Ethiopia still grappling with the legacy of a defeat suffered generations ago.

Others see Black Lions, Roman Wolves as something more reflective: a meditation on histories shaped by oppression, resistance and the unfinished work of decolonization. In that sense, the film’s themes resonate well beyond Ethiopia, echoing broader global conversations about how nations confront the violence embedded in their past.

For Haile, however, the documentary represents something far more personal. He describes the project as the culmination of a life lived within what he calls an “environmental sing-song” of resistance.

Haile grew up in a household steeped in the memory of war. His father was a playwright who documented colonial atrocities, while his mother was orphaned during the Italian occupation. The filmmaker has described the documentary as a final spiritual union with his father’s legacy. One of his father’s works, Yewatit Gishit, served as what Haile calls a “dictionary” for the film — a painstaking record of Ethiopian lives lost during the occupation.

That personal connection transforms the documentary from a historical chronicle into something more intimate: an act of what Haile calls “counter-storytelling,” aimed at challenging what he describes as the “miseducation” surrounding the war — not only in Western narratives but also among Ethiopian and Italian audiences.

The road to the film’s world premiere was itself arduous. For nearly two decades, Haile fought to gain access to colonial archives, particularly those controlled by the Italian institution Luce. He describes the process as both bureaucratically exhausting and emotionally draining.

“I was fighting bureaucracy and guilt at the same time,” he said, reflecting on the struggle to obtain archival footage. “It took so much from me as a human being.”

Beyond the archives, the documentary also confronts the psychological weight of history. Haile has said that even his own generation once struggled to fully believe the magnitude of Ethiopia’s victory at Adwa, having grown up under the influence of Western-centered historical narratives.

By weaving together oral histories from more than 200 Ethiopian veterans and witnesses, and by drawing on the cultural folklore surrounding resistance, the film attempts to construct a counter-narrative to the silence that has long surrounded the war — including Italy’s use of chemical weapons in Ethiopia.

For Gerima, completing the project represents both a personal reckoning and a national reflection.

He hopes the film will encourage viewers — particularly in a modern Ethiopia grappling with internal divisions — to question the narratives they have inherited.

“I grew in the film more than anybody would get out of it,” he said during a recent media discussion about the documentary’s three-decade journey. “I learned more about my mother, my father and my country.”

To further illuminate the intellectual depth of Haile’s cinematic legacy, scholars and critics have spent decades examining the layers of what he calls “counter-storytelling.”

Among those who have closely studied his work is Tekletsadik Belachew, a researcher and author of The Dead Speaking to the Living and Stories from the Fireplace. In an interview with The Reporter, Tekletsadik said Haile’s films operate at the intersection of regional identity and global Black liberation.

Even when his stories are rooted in the Ethiopian highlands, Tekletsadik noted, they resonate far beyond national borders.

“Most of his films revolve around the history and experience of people of African descent,” Tekletsadik said. “Even when they are specifically about Ethiopia, they always carry a Pan-African flavor.”

According to Tekletsadik, Haile’s work is defined by a deliberate effort to reclaim narratives long distorted by colonial historiography. Whether directing in Amharic or English, the filmmaker maintains a consistent perspective that centers African voices and experiences.

That thematic continuity, the scholar argues, runs throughout Haile’s body of work—from early films such as Harvest: 3000 Years to the internationally acclaimed Sankofa—and reaches its most expansive form in Black Lions, Roman Wolves.

One of the key insights from Tekletsadik’s research is Haile’s dual role as both filmmaker and historian, a distinction that the scholar says is often overlooked in mainstream criticism.

In that sense, Black Lions, Roman Wolves functions not only as a cinematic project but also as a therapeutic archive for a nation that, Tekletsadik argues, has often been “miseducated” about its own history of triumph and trauma.

By documenting the testimonies of more than 200 Ethiopian patriots, Haile constructs what the researcher describes as a vital historical window—one that allows younger generations to encounter the lived realities of resistance.

“Regarding memory, it has a lot of benefits,” Tekletsadik said. “Thinking about what happened to us and what we became—whether the past was good or bad—has a therapeutic effect.”

For him, the documentary is more than a historical retelling. It is, as he describes it, a form of “holy water,” intended to preserve memory while helping a nation confront its past.

In that sense, Black Lions, Roman Wolves stands as more than an ambitious film project. It is an act of cultural preservation, safeguarding the fading voices of Ethiopia’s wartime defenders and reclaiming the narrative of the Second Italo-Ethiopian War from the margins of colonial archives.

Described by many visitors as a “replica” of the capital, the installation Addis Zemen (Amharic for “New Era”) at the recent Adey Abeba exhibition at the Gebre Kristos Desta Center serves as a symbolic mirror of the sweeping renovations that have reshaped Addis Ababa over the past two years.

The work anchors the debut solo exhibition of artist Tariku Shiferaw, introducing his signature installation style to a local audience. Through the piece, Tariku captures the visual language of a city in transition, marking a notable moment in the capital’s evolving artistic and urban narrative.

Tariku describes his practice as a site-responsive, immersive medium driven by conceptual intent. By incorporating sound and physical objects, he seeks to narrow the distance between artwork and observer, inviting viewers to experience the installation from within its physical and conceptual boundaries.

His featured work, Addis Zemen, draws inspiration from the ubiquitous aesthetics of construction sites across Ethiopia—particularly eucalyptus scaffolding and green tarpaulins. Tariku interprets these structures as a three-dimensional grid system, a symbolic framework used to map everything from terrestrial landscapes to celestial constellations.

While Ethiopia’s rapid development has become a source of collective pride, Tariku notes that it has also been accompanied by the disappearance of historic villas and other heritage structures. In Addis Zemen, he captures this precarious transition by juxtaposing the raw geometry of scaffolding with what he describes as a sense of “resilient optimism.”

That optimism appears through the inclusion of living elements—cabbage (gomen), flowers, indigenous enset (false banana) and other plants often found growing on demolished sites—alongside a blue-and-white wall evoking the sky.

Tariku, a New York-based artist known for using “mark-making” to explore the intersections of social, political and physical space, arrived in Addis Ababa in January 2026 for a three-month residency. The residency followed an invitation from Agegnehu Adane, dean of the Alle School of Fine Arts and Design at Addis Ababa University.

During his stay, Tariku gathered the materials and conceptual elements that shape his current installation at the Modern Art Museum housed within the Gebre Kristos Desta Center. Collaborations with faculty members and students created opportunities for professional exchange, while time spent with family and the broader community offered insight into the rhythms of the city.

“The installation is the result of a deliberate search for materials and ideas that reflect the city’s evolution,” Tariku told The Reporter. “My immersion within the art school and the broader community allowed for a deep professional dialogue that was essential to capturing the complexities of contemporary life.”

Since opening on Feb. 28, the three-week Adey Abeba exhibition has drawn more than 200 visitors daily. In addition to the installation, it features nine abstract paintings from Tariku’s Mata Semay (Amharic for “Night Sky”) series.

Tariku describes the series as an imagined celestial landscape, using mythology as a conceptual framework for symbolic marks within society. The works, he says, explore how systems of value are shaped by mythological narratives that exert subtle yet profound influence.

Each piece—including Abyssinia Semay, Movement of My People, and Abebachin Besemay—carries layered meanings intended to extend beyond personal expression. For Tariku, painting becomes a vehicle for narrating the history, culture and lived experiences of his people across time.

“The Mata Semay series explores my identity and the broader African experience,” he said. “It acts as a cultural counterpoint to Western mythologies while reflecting realities that resonate with our daily lives.”

While the nine paintings were produced in New York City over an eight-month period ending in early January, the installation itself was shaped by Tariku Shiferaw’s fascination with the kinetic energy of Addis Ababa. The site-specific work reflects the capital’s rapid development through an immersive soundscape that echoes the movement of markets, traffic and construction sites.

Tariku says the auditory layer of the exhibition is not intended to deliver a direct message but to capture fleeting moments of lived experience. The soundscape, he explained, is a curated archive of recordings he has gathered since 2019, combining contemporary urban sounds—such as New York subway trains and dripping water—with historical audio, including Ethiopian chants recorded in 1934 ahead of the Italian invasion and traditional Zulu warrior rhythms.

Through this juxtaposition, the artist extends his exploration of “mark-making,” tracing the functional rhythms that shape human societies.

“The soundscape captures a collection of moments from the past several years,” he said, noting that the recordings evoke memories of his childhood in Ethiopia. “Collecting these sounds became a way of preserving connections to the communities I grew up around. They resurface long-lost memories and remind me of the intricate ways society comes together.”

Echoing the artist’s reflections, Bekele Mekonnen, director of the museum, said the Mata Semay series interrogates how value systems emerge through the subtle but enduring influence of mythology.

For guest curator Jermay Michael Gabriel, however, the exhibition represents a cyclical rebirth that invites viewers to reconsider what is at stake in moments of urban transformation.

“The exhibition may represent a personal renewal or the contemporary transformation of Addis Ababa, yet the definitive answer remains elusive,” he said. “Its temporary nature reminds us that each return brings something unforeseen, leaving the threshold between memory and foundation unsettled.”

Gabriel added that the use of locally sourced wooden poles, readymade objects and simple structural forms reflects a city in architectural flux. In his reading, the installation navigates the fragile space between rubble and projection, ruin and promise.

“It does not simply present a statement,” he said. “It performs a kind of passage through the Mata Semay series.”

In the work, he continued, the sky functions as a symbolic archive—an imagined space where value and memory are projected onto the celestial realm. The installation’s scaffold-like structure echoes the grid system that underpins Tariku’s paintings, directly linking the physical environment of the exhibition to the conceptual language of the series.

“I am struck by how the structure speaks simultaneously of building and of language,” Gabriel said. “The plants evoke childhood nostalgia and the resilience of greenery emerging from demolished sites, while the blue sky across the walls, alongside rubble and plastic jerrycans, recalls the intimate rhythms of street vendors and neighborhood commerce.”

Within the Adey Abeba exhibition, the rebirth of the city is presented not as a linear celebration but as a layered process of excavation and renewal. The approach has resonated with younger practitioners in the capital, including full-time painter Yohannes Tameru, who describes the work as a rare example of large-scale contemporary installation in Ethiopia.

For Yohannes, the exhibition at the Gebre Kristos Desta Center signals a bold departure from the country’s more traditional artistic formats.

He said Tariku’s installation captures the “current situation” of Addis Ababa through a visual language rooted in transformation. Construction materials such as eucalyptus poles and green tarpaulins, paired with symbolic greenery, reflect a city in constant motion.

Large-scale contemporary installations remain rare in Ethiopia, Yohannes noted, largely because they require substantial financial resources and institutional support. Yet he believes the exhibition succeeds in opening a broader conversation with the public about how visual narratives can evolve alongside the city itself.

“The exhibition and the installation serve as a pioneer for new perspectives on art,” Yohannes told The Reporter.

For younger practitioners Meron Belay and Rahwa Kemal, the exhibition has also become a source of motivation.

Meron points to the immersive corridor installation, where viewers move from familiar visual elements toward more experimental contemporary forms, allowing the work to resonate more deeply.

Rahwa argues that expanding public awareness is equally important. She suggests that the sector could benefit from “open house” events where visitors are encouraged to experiment directly with materials such as canvas, helping narrow the distance between the public and the creative process.

Both artists say such exhibitions are essential for a younger generation seeking to connect personal creativity with broader social and cultural aesthetics.

“It makes you feel motivated when an exhibition like this is organized,” Meron said.