In Ethiopia, journalism has become a dangerous act of defiance — especially under the rule of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed. Once celebrated as a reformer and Nobel Peace Prize winner, Abiy now presides over a regime built on repression, propaganda, and fear. For journalists like me, the cost of telling the truth became unbearable.
I entered the field of journalism not for fame or fortune, but because I believed people deserve to know the truth. I believed that when the government fails its people — when it lies, abuses its power, or turns its weapons on civilians — someone must speak up. I took that responsibility seriously.
I reported on stories others were too afraid to touch: government airstrikes that killed civilians, massacres in conflict zones, arrests without charge, the silencing of dissenting voices. I witnessed grieving families, displaced communities, and human rights defenders. I exposed the brutal reality behind official press releases.
And for that, I became a marked man.
The backlash was swift and terrifying. I was accused of “spreading false information” and “destabilizing the country.” Security agents followed me. I received threatening calls, warning me to stop “interfering” with national unity. I was summoned for questioning more times than I can count — not to seek truth, but to intimidate and silence.
During one of those interrogations, I was taken to a facility where they didn’t ask questions as much as they issued threats. I was blindfolded, verbally abused, and subjected to long hours without food, water, or rest. They beat me — not to extract information, but to break my spirit. They insulted my work, my identity, my family. One officer told me plainly: “You are lucky you’re not already dead.” I was treated like a criminal simply for doing my job. That experience left deep physical and psychological scars — ones I still carry today.
Worst of all, there was no hope for justice — because the very institutions meant to protect us were the ones attacking us. The security forces were not upholding the law; they were violating it. They were the ones threatening, detaining, and torturing me. Where could I turn, when the police were the abusers, and the courts remained silent? Complaints were pointless, investigations never opened. The human rights commission was either unwilling or too afraid to act. In Ethiopia, under Abiy Ahmed, the state became the predator — and the silence was as loud as the gunshots I reported on.
This is only the first part of my story. In Part II, I will continue reporting — as a journalist — on the brutality of Abiy Ahmed’s government: the deeper layers of repression, the conflicts it fueled, and the ongoing war against truth inside Ethiopia. My story — and the fight for justice — is far from over.
