So a Nobel laureate has won an election. Good for him. But as champagne corks pop in Addis Ababa, alarm bells are ringing in Whitehall. The obvious question: does a peace prize inoculate a nation against its own demons? History suggests no.
The man in question, Abiy Ahmed, swept the polls with an alleged 90-something per cent of the vote. A landslide. But landsliding in the wrong direction. When a single figure commands such monolithic support, the foundations of democracy begin to tremble. One recalls the plebiscites of Napoleon III or the block votes of Brezhnev.
London's fear is not misplaced. Ethiopia is a mosaic of ethnicities: Oromo, Amhara, Tigrayans, and a dozen others. Abiy himself is a master of the unifying rhetoric, the ‘medemer’ philosophy of togetherness. But rhetoric does not feed a starving Tigrayan, nor does it soothe the grievances of an Oromo farmer whose land has been seized. The 2019 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded for ending the war with Eritrea. A noble feat. But peace with a neighbour does not guarantee peace within.
Indeed, the current conflict in the Tigray region suggests the opposite. What began as a political dispute has descended into a humanitarian catastrophe, with reports of massacres, famine, and ethnic cleansing. The international community, including our own Foreign Office, has been tepid in its condemnation. Why? Because Abiy is the ‘good guy’. The reformer. The peacemaker. Yet we are learning that peacemakers can also be perpetrators. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
London's concern, however, is not purely altruistic. Britain has strategic interests in the Horn of Africa: security cooperation, counter-terrorism, and the flow of migrants across the Mediterranean. A collapsed Ethiopia would send waves of refugees northward, destabilising Egypt, Sudan, and ultimately Europe. The fear is not just of bloodshed, but of a chaotic meltdown that will wash up on our shores.
We have seen this movie before. Rwanda. Bosnia. The Balkans. The pattern is archaic: a strongman leader, a veneer of stability, ethnic tensions, then a conflagration. Abiy is no Mobutu, not yet. But the parallels are troubling. He has concentrated power, muzzled the press, and jailed opponents. The election may have been ‘free and fair’ in the technical sense, but the opposition boycotted it. A one-horse race does not a democracy make.
What is to be done? Sanctions? Threats? A sternly worded letter from the UN? Such gestures are often performative, a way for Western leaders to look concerned without actually intervening. The truth is that we have no appetite for another foreign entanglement. Afghanistan taught us that. Iraq taught us that. The age of intervention is over. We are in the era of ‘constructive engagement’, which is diplomatic code for ‘looking the other way’.
And yet, we must look. Because history does not forgive those who avert their eyes. The collapse of Ethiopia would be a catastrophe for the region and a moral stain on the international community. We must hold Abiy to the promises he made when he accepted that prize: peace, democracy, human rights. If he fails to deliver, then the Nobel committee should consider revoking the award. A symbolic gesture, perhaps, but symbols matter. They shape the narrative. And in the battle for the soul of Ethiopia, narrative is everything.
The old Romans used to say, ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’ Who watches the watchmen? In Ethiopia, we are the watchmen. Or we should be. Let us not be found sleeping.
