Entering Ethiopia means navigating infrastructure that is still being built — by state partners who are also potential competitors. That is not in any global playbook.

A few days before Wildberries, the largest e-commerce marketplace in the Russian-speaking world, held its first information session in Addis Ababa, I bought a pair of headphones online. The purchase is worth recounting because of the process.

An influencer’s ad caught my attention. I checked the seller’s Instagram page, then moved to Telegram to place the order. A response came, eventually. I compared prices, asked questions, and made a decision. From there, the transaction moved offline. A phone call to confirm. A deposit sent separately to the seller’s TeleBirr account. Another exchange to arrange delivery. When the driver arrived, we spent several minutes finding each other, navigating by landmarks rather than addresses.

The headphones arrived days later. The transaction was informal and entirely unremarkable. This is how online commerce works in Ethiopia’s capital and it points directly to what any platform entering this market will need to solve.

The front end is digital. Everything behind it is still mainly analog.

On April 15th, Wildberries,  processing over 25 million orders daily in 11 countries worldwide, announced its entry into Ethiopia. Within nearly half a year after signing an MoU with the Ethiopian Investment Holdings, the platform had opened to local sellers.  The rollout begins with outbound trade. Ethiopian sellers in coffee, textiles, and consumer goods are gaining access to international markets before the domestic market opens in turn.

The occasion carried diplomatic weight.

Anastasia Deriglazova, First Secretary of the Russian Embassy, addressed the gathering, framing the entry as an extension of ties between the two countries that stretch back to 1898.

The presentation that followed was a confident account of what Wildberries has already built — order volumes, seller counts, and a track record across Russian-speaking markets. What it did not address was how the platform intends to operate in Ethiopia specifically: its payment infrastructure, its logistics constraints, the regulatory frameworks. The event had the shape of a global platform launch with the harder questions still ahead.

The case for e-commerce in Addis Ababa does not need to be argued. In recent months, fuel shortages have continued to restrict movement. Traffic can turn a 20-minute trip into two hours. Shops carry inconsistent stock. The problem is not persuading consumers to buy. It is connecting everything that happens after they decide to.

Payments remain tightly regulated and only partially interoperable. Despite rapid growth, Ethiopia is still early in its transition away from cash. Around 58 million users now have mobile money accounts, in a country of over 120 million people, and digital payments are growing at roughly 60 percent year-on-year.

 At the same time, internet penetration sits at roughly 31 percent of the population, limiting full-stack digital commerce adoption.

“Ethiopia is ready for business,” declared Yidnekachew Worku, State Minister for Trade and Regional Integration, at the event. In the same remarks, the state minister described Wildberries not as a platform entering Ethiopia’s market, but as “a partner in this transformation, contributing to the systems that will enable digital trade to function effectively in Ethiopia.”

The framing matters.

A platform entering a functioning system operates on top of existing infrastructure. A partner in transformation is being asked to help build it.

Wildberries brings serious capability—scale, an integrated model, experience across multiple markets. But the nature of that capability will be tested here in ways it has not been tested elsewhere.

Safaricom’s experience is instructive.

East Africa’s dominant mobile operator entered Ethiopia in 2021 with more regional advantages than most foreign entrants could claim: a proven model, M-Pesa’s track record, and significant international backing. Four years on, it is still working out how to operate in a market where Ethio Telecom—state-owned, deeply embedded, and now running its own e-commerce platform in Zemen Gebeya—controls much of the infrastructure Safaricom needs to function at scale.

What Safaricom underestimated was not Ethiopian consumers. It was the institutional landscape: a market where the infrastructure you need to build on is partially governed by the same state entities that are also your competitors.

Wildberries enters into a version of the same terrain — except from further away, with less regional context, and a model built entirely outside Africa. Its MoU with the Ethiopian Investment Holdings envisages  the state as a key business partner. But partnership at the institutional level is not the same as fluency within it.

The payment rails, logistics networks, and regulatory frameworks that will determine whether this platform can operate at scale are still being shaped by the same institutions Wildberries is now aligned with. Navigating and adjusting to that context—knowing where the leverage is, how decisions get made, which constraints are fixed and which are not—is not a problem that global expertise solves.

It is a problem that local knowledge solves.

An expert familiar with the Wildberries’ operations was blunt: “The gap between what a platform can do and what a market like Ethiopia requires isn’t a technology problem. The technology exists. What’s harder to source is the institutional fluency. Understanding how payments regulation is moving, how logistics networks actually function, who the right partners are and why. It requires a strong regional strategy and an experienced local team that understands how to navigate the market complexity.

Localization, in this context, means people inside the institutional landscape—with the relationships, the regulatory fluency, and the decision-making authority to move within it—not teams outside designing frameworks for a market they are still learning to read.

The harder problem is not the consumer. They have already figured out how to buy. The harder problem is the infrastructure the transaction depends on — the payment rails, the logistics networks, the regulatory frameworks still being written. At the April 15th event, those questions were not on the agenda addressed by the international speakers who will go back to their Moscow HQ in a couple of days leaving an impression that their  presentation had been built on what works in Kazakhstan or Russia.

Encouragingly, an Ethiopian team was present on the day, which mattered. Wildberries’ newly appointed Country Manager, Biruk Ganene, hails from BeU, a Chinese-owned delivery service, while the event’s convener, Rahwa Gebremeskel, was recently featured in Africa PR Week’s top 10 women professionals.

This leaves hope that Wildberries gets it. The platform can be imported. Local knowledge cannot.

Tigist Hailu is the mother of a child living with autism who has dedicated her life to raising awareness about the condition. She is the founder and director of Melu’e Foundation, which works primarily on autism and other special needs issues with the objective to integrate people with special needs and society. Its mission revolves around empowering individuals and families affected by autism spectrum disorder.

Tigist sat down with The Reporter’s Samuel Getachew, to reflect on the organization’s roles in peoples with special needs, her experience of helping her now 17-year-old child live with autism, on changing people’s attitude towards those living with the neurodevelopmental condition, on opening her own home for those affected by it, and on becoming an inspiring advocate. EXCERPTS:

The Reporter: You are a mother of a son with autism. What were the early challenges?

Tigist Hailu: The early challenges were significant. At the beginning, there was no proper diagnosis and very limited professional support for intervention. It was a time of uncertainty, and we had to search for answers on our own and that was not easy.

During that period, my work with Ethiopian Airlines gave me the opportunity to travel and take different trainings to better understand autism and support our son.

Another major challenge was finding a school. Many schools were not willing to accept a child with autism, and we faced several rejections. Eventually, one school accepted him, but required us to train their staff so they could support his needs.

Over time, we realized the support was still not sufficient. After some years, we made the difficult decision for me to resign and fully commit to homeschooling him.

That journey became the foundation of everything we do today at Melu’e Foundation.

Tell us about your journey to becoming an advocate.

My journey into autism is deeply personal. As I have mentioned previously, I am a mother of a son with autism, and my introduction to this field came through his experience.

Before this, I was working with Ethiopian Airlines as a flight attendant and later as a cabin crew instructor. That opportunity allowed me to travel to different countries and be exposed to different systems and training that I brought with me to Ethiopia in order to help my son and other young people like him who have the same experience.

I used those opportunities to learn more about autism so I could better support my son and be a better advocate for such people who are living with autism. As his needs became clearer, I made the life-changing decision to resign from my career and focus on homeschooling him.

At that time, there was very limited awareness and almost no structured support available locally. What started as a mother’s effort gradually grew into a shared mission. Together with my husband, we established Melu’e Foundation to support children with autism and other developmental delays and their families and it has been a difficult but fulfilling journey that has profoundly changed our lives for the better.

How widespread is the issue?

Autism and other developmental delays are more common than many people realize, but in our context, they are still under-identified and often misunderstood. Many children remain undiagnosed, and families may not know where to seek help.

At Melu’e Foundation, we are seeing a growing number of families coming forward. This reflects both the increasing need and the gradual rise in awareness. However, there is still a significant gap in early identification and access to intervention services but that is slowly but surely changing and we see that up close and in a very practical way.

Do you think there is adequate support locally?

While awareness is improving, the level of support is still not adequate. Services are limited, and there is a shortage of trained professionals.

Most services are concentrated in urban areas like Addis Ababa, making access difficult for many families. In addition, affordability and continuity of care remain major challenges.

This is why our work at Melu’e Foundation focuses not only on providing services but also on building capacity and promoting inclusive systems. But what is evident is that the issue is becoming more known within the community and across our country.

Tell us about the therapy center that you started.

Melu’e Foundation is a non-profit organization established by us—my husband, Kinfe Tsige, and myself—in September 2021. It is a comprehensive therapy center that provides structured and individualized support for children with autism and other developmental delays.

We describe it as comprehensive because we do not focus only on the child, we also focus on empowering parents. We provide evidence-based training, practical guidance, and continuous updates so families can actively support their children’s development.

Our vision goes beyond therapy. We are planning to establish an inclusive school that will create opportunities for children with different learning needs to access education in a supportive and inclusive environment.

This holistic approach, supporting the child, the family, and the community, is what defines our work at Melu’e Foundation.

What can you tell us about the library inside your center and how it is becoming popular among community members?

The library was started in my apartment, in my living room. While homeschooling my son, I wanted to strengthen his social interaction, so I opened my doors and invited people from the community to come and read.

It is a free library, but it has a deeper purpose. It created an opportunity for people to interact with my son, see how capable he is, and better understand autism and other developmental delays. It helped raise awareness that these children are not limited—they simply have different ways of thinking and learning.

Over time, that small living room library grew into a larger library within Melu’e Foundation, maintaining the same concept.

At our center today, we continue to bring the community closer to our children, to promote interaction, understanding, and inclusion. We believe autism is not a disease, but a different way of seeing the world.

Looking ahead, how would you want the issue to be dealt with in terms of policy and advocacy?

Looking ahead, we believe we need to move from awareness to action by building truly inclusive systems for children with autism and other developmental delays.

Inclusion should be part of everyday life, in schools, hospitals, transportation, police institutions, social gatherings, hotels, and across our city’s urban systems. We need to think and act inclusively in everything we do, because everyone is different, and accepting those differences must become our daily practice.

This requires stronger policies, investment in services, and building professional capacity. But most importantly, it requires a shift in mindset.

At Melu’e Foundation, we believe in one guiding principle: inclusive system, inclusive future.

As part of this, we host our annual Autism Awareness and Fundraising event every April 22, bringing the community together to reflect, learn, and take action toward inclusion. We invite everyone to join us in this journey.

Is there anything you’d like to add?

My wish and goal for my son and for all people with special needs is that they live independent lives, are productive through their own God-given potential, and contribute fully to society. Their differences are a beauty the world needs, and I hope my son thrives long after I am gone.

With violence escalating and the death toll mounting, relief agencies have begun to suspend their operations as a result of the latest deadly conflict amid an influx of refugees fleeing violence in Sudan and South Sudan.

The latest relief agency to temporarily pull out of the region is the World Food Programme (WFP), one of Ethiopia’s leading aid agencies.

“Due to escalating tensions in the Gambella region, ongoing food distribution has been temporarily halted in the region, where more than 400,000 refugees rely on assistance, including new arrivals from Sudan and South Sudan”, a WFP spokesperson said this week. WFP has confirmed that its refugee operations in Gambella region are ongoing and operational, following a brief delay due to insecurity last month.

The latest conflict began last month following the killing of Gambella’s police chief, Umod Ujulu, who hails from the Anuak ethnic group.

The killing triggered a wave of violence that residents say has become difficult to contain. 

The President of the Gambella Regional State, Alemitu Omod, said that there are many civilians who have died and are still unaccounted for, and insinuated that the number of the casualties is high.

She confirmed the conflict is still ongoing with the city of Gambella remaining tense and deserted as strict curfews are being introduced to allow families to collect the bodies of their loved ones from public streets.

On Friday, Lok Gatkuoth, a senior figure in the Jewi camp (one of several hosting a total of 430,000 South Sudanese refugees sheltered in Gambella), told The Reporter that the camp has not been spared, reporting that people are being attacked and killed because of their ethnicity.

Gambella is no stranger with ethnic clashes between the two dominant tribes, the Nuer and Anuak over land rights, resources and political sharing and armed attacks happening regularly.

Nyateny Nul, a resident of Gambella, thinks the region is suffering from a dwindling economy, high unemployment and declining support for the thousands of refugees that continue to come to the area, from South Sudan and most recently from Sudan. 

“People are now hungry and they blame their misfortune on others, pushing them to see violence as a way to escape their extreme poverty and hopeless situation and living conditions,” she said. 

The region has a reputation for a political power structure split among ethnic lines, making it hard to govern and leaving it prone to recurring conflicts which often spill into Gambella’s refugee camps, which themselves have been grappling with declining support since last year.

A statement from Doctors Without Borders illustrates the situation. 

“Living conditions for refugees in Ethiopia’s Gambella region are rapidly deteriorating following the significant cuts to humanitarian aid in the region,” the humanitarian organization said last year. “The sharp decline is largely due to global reductions in support from key donors such as USAID, straining basic services such as food distribution, health care, access to clean water, and sanitation services.”

Many residents say it has since gotten worse and extreme, making vulnerable camps with little infrastructure prone to conflict as many fight for the little support that is arriving to the area. The situation is only compounded by the ethnic tensions in the region.

James Akob, a recent arrival from Juba and now living in Pugindo refugee camp, Ethiopia’s biggest temporary settlement, describes the ethnic strife of the last few weeks as a “bloodbath” and said that, even within the refugee camp, people are dying.

“Hungry residents turning against each other based on their ethnicity, blaming their misfortune on the other group and killing each other,” said James.

He blamed the influence of the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement-In Opposition (SPLM-IO), one half of the coalition that rules South Sudan, for sowing the seeds of the recent unrest. 

Inside a restored theater at the heart of Addis Ababa University’s Yared School of Music — the storied institution founded in 1954 by the celebrated Ethiopian composer Ashenafi Kebede — hundreds gathered on a recent evening to witness a new voice reshaping the capital’s soundscape.

A year ago, few knew her name. Now, the artist known to fans simply as YEMa — born Yemariam Chernet — has become a sensation, selling out intimate shows at premium prices and drawing a crowd eager to claim they saw her ascent up close.

Young, self-possessed, and distinctly soulful, YEMa has captivated an unusually broad audience. Diplomatic staff, students, longtime culture buffs, and middle-class families all came to see the emerging star who appears remarkably aware of her moment.

Over a two-and-a-half-hour performance that felt more like a celebration than a showcase, audiences embraced her warm, commanding vocals — often invoking comparisons to the generation that defined Ethiopian pop. Aster Aweke, sometimes called Ethiopia’s Aretha Franklin, comes up often, as does Gigi, the transcendent 1990s vocalist who forged a global career with producer Bill Laswell, known for his work with U2.

“I want my music to be enjoyed by all kinds of people,” YEMa told Amajambo. “And I want it to help the world see Ethiopia as a place whose music can cross borders.”

Crossing borders is now part of her story. Just weeks earlier, she returned from a three-month tour of France — Paris, Lyon, and more than a dozen other cities — performing for an estimated 350,000 people in both solo and collaborative productions. The experience, she says, affirmed her sense of mission as a cultural ambassador on the rise.

Onstage in Addis Ababa, performing tracks from her debut album, “Yedega Sew,” including fan favorites “Shonbite,” “Lomeye,” and the tender ballad “Birk Birk,” she appeared energized, even relieved, to finally bring these songs home. Dancers representing multiple Ethiopian regions joined her throughout the set, reinforcing the inclusive, pan-Ethiopian identity she is shaping around her art.

For many in the crowd, this performance marked a milestone not only for the artist — but for the loyal supporters who watched her move from small club shows to the brink of stardom.

“This is a homecoming for me,” she said with a wide grin. “I’m so happy to see so many familiar faces.”

Her rise to prominence may seem meteoric, but her path was long in the making. YEMa has been singing since childhood, influenced partly by her father, who once managed the popular Zema Lastas Band.

She laughs when told she resembles her idol Gigi — a comparison she accepts with awe rather than entitlement. Growing up, she listened obsessively to the legendary vocalist, often imitating her phrasing and stage presence. “She is a musical genius,” YEMa says, her admiration unmistakable.

Now, with her own voice asserting itself on Ethiopia’s contemporary scene, she is determined to craft a new sound for a new generation — one that resists the formulaic, digitally manufactured music that dominates mainstream playlists.

“She is by far the most talented, dignified, and wonderful artist I have seen in two decades,” said Eyob Tilahun, dancing alongside his 10-year-old son. “She doesn’t need to expose herself or act outrageous to get attention. She is herself — and the talent speaks.”

YEMa’s sound reflects multiple influences — rooted in Gamo and Bonke traditions, then sculpted by the producer and arranger she calls her lifelong partner, Eyuel Mengistu, who many fans affectionately describe as a Quincy Jones–like figure in Ethiopia’s evolving music industry.

She recalls that after Eyuel introduced her to these textures — rarely heard in mainstream Ethiopian pop — she scrapped an entire already-finished LP.

 “It sounded like every other album,” she says. So she started over, embracing what she describes as “a blend of folk and world music” reminiscent of Paul Simon’s celebrated experiments in the 1980s, when African sounds reshaped global pop sensibilities.

Among those drawn to her freshness is Tedros Alemayehu, a soft-spoken man in his late 60s who fondly remembers Motown classics and the golden era of Ethiopian music led by Tilahun Gessesse. “She can extend that legacy,” he said, after joining yet another standing ovation.

YEMa is growing accustomed to such responses. After each show, the applause stretches on, often long after the final note fades.

“This is the ultimate satisfaction,” she said, reflecting on what still feels like the beginning of a much larger journey.

(This article first appeared in Amjambo Africa)

While most young men from his community embark on perilous journeys toward Yemen and Libya, gambling their lives for a chance to reach Europe or the Gulf, Alemu returned home. After months working as a construction laborer in Bishoftu for a wage he says “barely covered daily expenses,” he faced a future that, in his words, “looked completely empty.”

“I didn’t see a way forward in the city, and people my age thought farming had no future,” he said. “But now I’m earning enough to support my family, and I’m even planning to expand into bee farming.”

Alemu is part of a growing cohort of young people finding new promise in agriculture, aided by the Global Green Growth Institute (GGGI), a Seoul-based organization working to modernize farming in low-income communities. Over the past two years, the Institute has introduced training and technology to roughly 400 farmers in the region, helping them shift from subsistence production to sustainable, market-oriented agriculture. The effort—funded by the Italian government under a project titled Fostering Food Security to Prevent Conflict and Ensure Stability—includes access to vermicompost, climate-smart tools, and support to help farmers become food secure and profitable.

Among the beneficiaries is Alemu’s father, 50-year-old Baba Morki, a lifelong farmer in AbjataKebele of Adami Tulu JidoKombolchaWoreda. He has witnessed not only his own transformation but that of his neighbors.

Baba has been part of the program from the start, receiving training in entrepreneurship, organic market linkages, and the use of solar-powered irrigation systems—three of which now irrigate a combined 130 hectares in an area once defined by chronic water shortages. For the first time, he no longer relies on grid electricity, and year-round farming has become possible.

“In the past, if the weather failed us, we sold livestock just to survive,” he said. “It kept us poor and without hope.”

Today, Baba says, the change is visible everywhere. Herds are growing. Income is more stable. Young people, once determined to flee the village, are beginning to see farming as a viable livelihood rather than a last resort.

“Before, our work was seasonal and labor intensive. Now we farm continuously, earn more, and finally dream bigger for our children,” he said. “They no longer need to leave home to build a future.”

Both Baba and his son have earned enough from their fields to build modern homes—an unlikely outcome just a few years ago.

GGGI, which began operations in Ethiopia in 2010, aims to help the country build a climate-resilient green economy by 2030 and reduce its reliance on emergency food aid. More than 10 million Ethiopians currently require humanitarian assistance, according to the United Nations.

The shift toward sustainable agriculture is also reshaping young people’s aspirations beyond the farms themselves. In Batu, 21-year-old waiter and tourism graduate Brook Teshome recalls planning his own journey abroad. He had saved what little he could from long shifts, fully prepared to attempt the clandestine route through Djibouti.

But watching farmers—including his older brother—reap the benefits of the new practices has changed his thinking.

“I used to believe the only way to succeed was to leave,” he said. “Now I see young people making something of themselves here, if they can get land. I’m even considering becoming a farmer instead of working for someone else.”

A similar transformation is underway in Bulbula, where farmer AmanGemeda has expanded his operations with the help of solar irrigation and vermicompost on land that now sits alongside the new Batu–Hawassa freeway.

Aman says that many people are seeing farming in a different light.“My experience is showing others that farming can be different—that we’re not defined by the shortages and hunger that once shaped our lives,” Aman said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For some, the connection to Ethiopia goes beyond music.

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

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

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

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

 (Special to The Reporter)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legislation and Learning

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

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

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

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

Still, attitudes are beginning to shift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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