The Politics of Ethnicity in Ethiopia African Social Studies Series

Editorial Board Martin R. Doornbos, International Institute of Social Studies, The Hague Carola Lentz, University of Mainz John Lonsdale, University of Cambridge

VOLUME 25

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/afss The Politics of Ethnicity in Ethiopia

Actors, Power and Mobilisation under Ethnic Federalism

By Lovise Aalen

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2011 Cover photo: “Kids in a Dorze village, Ethiopia”; copyright Eric Lafforgue, 2009.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The politics of ethnicity in Ethiopia : actors, power and mobilisation under ethnic federalism / by Lovise Aalen. p. cm. — (African social studies series ; v. 25) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-20729-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Minorities—Government policy— Ethiopia. 2. Ethnicity—Political aspects—Ethiopia. 3. Ethnic groups—Political activity—Ethiopia. 4. Ethiopia—Ethnic relations—Political aspects. 5. Nationalism— Ethiopia. 6. Federal government—Ethiopia. 7. Ethiopia—Politics and government— 1991– I. Aalen, Lovise. II. Title. III. Series : African social studies series ; v. 25.

JQ3756.M5P65 2011 320.463049—dc22 2011015987

ISSN 1568-1203 ISBN 978 90 04 20729 5

Copyright 2011 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. CONTENTS

Preface and Acknowledgements ...... vii Abbreviations ...... xi Selected Glossary ...... xiii List of Maps and Tables ...... xv

Chapter One Introduction: The Limits of Institutions in Multiethnic Societies ...... 1

Chapter Two ‘National Self-Determination’: Federalism the Ethiopian Way ...... 25

Chapter Three The Historical Trajectories of Local Ethnic Polities: The Sidama and the Wolayta ...... 55

Chapter Four Ethnic Politics in Play: Implementing Self-Determination in a South Ethiopian Context ...... 95

Chapter Five Crafting Ethnic Politics: The Formation of Parties in Sidama and Wolayta ...... 109

Chapter Six Dealing with Local Minorities: The Persistence of Discriminatory Practices under Ethnic Federalism ...... 127

Chapter Seven Identities or Resources at Stake? Controversies on National Self-Determination in Sidama and Wolayta ...... 147

Chapter Eight Conclusion: The Facets of Ethnic Federalism 179

References ...... 195 Index ...... 203

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Ethnicity is a powerful political and social force, and it can be both an asset and a burden for political actors in multiethnic societies. Eth- nicity also conveys meaning, as it can define how people see themselves and how they are seen by others. This book explores a unique experiment in institutionalising the politics of ethnicity: the implementation of ethnic-based federalism in Ethiopia from 1991 onward. This experiment is unique because the Ethiopian government dares to do what other governments of multiethnic states in Africa have avoided: give every ethnic group the constitutional right to govern its own affairs. But this experiment is implemented in a context common to many other African societies, that of an authoritarian political system. Since 1991, political power in Ethiopia has formally been devolved to ethnically based federal units, governed by ethnic parties. It is indis- putable that the introduction of the ethnic-based federal system has given strong impetus to Ethiopian communities’ continuous construction of ethnic identities. By setting up fixed and easily distinguishable ethnic political and administrative units, the political system has institutionalised the politics of ethnicity and made ethnic identities less fluid and flexible. This book explores the process of political mobilisation in two communities in southern Ethiopia, Sidama and Wolayta. It describes how institutionalised ethnicity, in combination with the pragmatic power politics of an authoritarian regime and in a specific local context, has led to sharper inter-ethnic and intra-ethnic divides, ‘ethnicisation’ of socioeconomic conflicts, and the reinvention of traditions, in many cases to the disadvantage of historically marginalised groups. The book touches upon two main themes. First, it addresses the link between political institutions and political behaviour by scrutinis- ing the relationship between federalism and the mobilisation of ethnic identities. While this link remains a consistent theme in political science, few studies have combined the institutional approach with a constructivist approach to ethnicity. This book helps fill this gap by adopting a multidisciplinary methodology, looking into how both political science and social anthropology treat the issues of ethnic identities and ethnic political mobilisation. In line with the Africanist viii preface and acknowledgements tradition in political science, the book demonstrates the need for a contextualised understanding of institutional reform. The empirical studies of two southern Ethiopian ethnic groups show that even if communities go through the same type of institutional reform, they are likely to produce different political outcomes. A main argument is therefore that federal institutional arrangements, isolated from other political processes, cannot produce predictable or uniform changes in the relationships between ethnic groups. The second major issue taken up by the book is how to explain ethnic political mobilisation. Drawing on the debates between con- structivists and instrumentalists on the issue of ethnic identity, I argue that ethnic political mobilisation cannot be understood as exclusively an outcome of struggles over resources. The thorough empirical analyses show instead that ethnically motivated disputes always contain an element of meaning—a meaning which is independent of whether or not ethnic political mobilisation leads to material and political benefits. In the analysis of historical trajectories, majority-minority relations, party formation, and specific controversies fed by ethnic claims within the two ethnic communities, it becomes clear that ethnic political mobilisation not only expresses strains in the relationship between different ethnic groups, but also reflects struggles between subgroups within each ethnically defined community. In line with a constructivist approach to ethnicity, this book therefore suggests that ethnic political mobilisation must be understood as an outcome of both inter-ethnic and intra-ethnic relations. The principal research for this book was done during preparation of a PhD dissertation in political science at the University of Oslo. The study was supported by a grant from the Research Council of Nor- way; parts of the study were also funded by the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs through my participation in research organised by the Norwegian Centre for Human Rights (NCHR) at the University of Oslo. I wish to thank my supervisors Nils Butenschøn and Kjetil Tron- voll at NCHR for crucial advice at every step, all the way from formu- lation of the project proposal to the final stages of writing. I would also like to thank the group of researchers associated with the programme “Accommodating Difference” at NCHR and the Chr. Michelsen Insti- tute for initial comments on the project proposal. Comments from my PhD examiners, Christopher Clapham (Cambridge University) and Jean-Pascal Daloz (Oxford University), were of great help in the process of transforming the dissertation into a book. preface and acknowledgements ix

I am grateful to the Chr. Michelsen Institute (CMI) for providing me with a comfortable work space, congenial colleagues, and excellent library facilities at the Institute’s headquarters in Bergen. Thanks go to the Rights, Democracy and Development group at CMI for their useful comments on the theoretical framework for the book. I am also grateful to the Royal Norwegian Naval Academy, which gave me time to revise the manuscript for this book while I served as asso- ciate professor in 2008–09. The manuscript benefited from excellent language editing by Cathy Sunshine and from detailed indexing by Lisa Kleinholz. Useful comments came from two anonymous peer reviewers provided by Brill Publishers. During my two-year stay in Ethiopia, from December 2004 to December 2006, I benefited greatly from the assistance provided by the Department of Political Science and International Relations at Addis Ababa University. In addition to helping me obtain the necessary residence and research permits, department chair Kassahun Berhanu and his colleagues also provided me with an office and included me in their daily activities. I would like to thank my only female colleague in the department, Jalele Erega, for cheerful conversations in the staff lounge and for the good spirit of our teaching cooperation. Thanks also to the librarians at the Institute of Ethiopian Studies Library at Addis Ababa University for helping me locate historical and ethnographic docu- ments on Sidama and Wolayta. This book could never have come to fruition without the practical assistance, information, and inspiration provided by my informants and research assistants/interpreters during my stay in Addis Ababa, Awassa, Sidama, and Wolayta. I wish to express particular admiration for and gratitude to the people who took personal risks by discussing sensitive political issues with me—people whom I will not name for the sake of their safety. Finally, I thank my family: my husband and four children for their understanding as I spent long hours at the computer and in the field, and my parents for giving me crucial help with housing and babysit- ting during the most intensive periods of writing.

Bergen, March 2011

ABBREVIATIONS

Organisations followed by (EPRDF) are members of the Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Democratic Front. Those followed by (opposition) are opponents of the EPRDF.

AAPO All Amhara People’s Organisation (opposition) AEUP All Ethiopia Unity Party (opposition) ANDM Amhara National Democratic Movement (EPRDF) CUD Coalition for Unity and Democracy (opposition) EPLF Eritrean People’s Liberation Front EPRDF Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Democratic Front EPRP Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party HF House of Federation (upper chamber of national parliament) HPR House of Peoples’ Representatives (lower chamber of national parliament) ISEN Institute for the Study of Ethiopian Nationalities MEISON All-Ethiopia Socialist Movement nb notebook (for references to interviews in the text) NGO nongovernmental organisation OPDO Oromo People’s Democratic Organization (EPRDF) SEPDM South Ethiopian Peoples Democratic Movement (EPRDF) SHPDO Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic Organisation (opposition) SIM Sudan Interim Mission SLM Sidama Liberation Movement (opposition) SNNPRS Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State SPDO Sidama People’s Democratic Organisation (EPRDF) TPLF Tigray People’s Liberation Front (EPRDF) UEDF United Ethiopian Democratic Forces (opposition; also called Hibret) WADU Wolayta Agricultural Development Unit Wogagoda Wolayta, Gamo, Gofa, Dawro Peoples’ Party (EPRDF); also refers to the amalgamated language of the four groups xii abbreviations

WPDF Wolayta People’s Democratic Front (opposition; also called the Front) WPDO Wolayta People’s Democratic Organisation (EPRDF) WPE Workers’ Party of Ethiopia (also called the Derg) SELECTED GLOSSARY anga ritual purity or purity of descent (Sidama) awacho smiths and tanners (Sidama) awraja administrative district during the Haile Selassie regime ayle slaves, former slaves, and their descendants (Wolayta) balabat local notable or landowner who acted as a local administrator during the imperial regimes; literally, ‘one who has a father’ (Amharic) chiqun the exploited (Amharic) chinasha potters (Wolayta) dabo idir clan idir (Wolayta) dabua chima clan or lineage elder (Wolayta) dabusha clan assemblies (Wolayta) dana administrative districts/administrators in the 1800s (Wolayta) degela tanners (Wolayta) Derg group of military who took power in 1974; literally, ‘committee’ (Amharic) dogola middle/lower class (Wolayta) godabishu the enslaved (Wolayta) gabber peasant; literally, ‘one who pays tribute’ (Amharic) gada age-set system (Oromiffa) gadana leader in the generational class system (Sidama) gana religious leader (Sidama) gomane punishment for violating moral/social norms (Sidama) gome punishment for violating moral/social norms (Wolayta) goqa commoners/farmers (Wolayta) gult grant of power over a tract of land and its inhabitants (Amharic) hadicho potters (Sidama) halale ‘true way of life’, set of social and moral norms (Sidama) hillancha ‘skilled workmen’, referring to stigmatised groups of smiths, tanners, and potters (Wolayta) idir funeral/mutual aid association (Amharic) k’arite women’s informal community leader (Sidama) kawo divine king of Wolayta xiv selected glossary kawona royal lineage clan; literally, ‘the king’s children’ (Wolayta) kebele lowest administrative unit during the Derg and EPRDF regimes; kebeles were originally established by the Derg as peasant and urban dweller associations to administer land reform luwa generational class system (Sidama) madbet personal fief (Amharic) malla free men; traditionally advisors to the king (Wolayta) mender village; an informal administrative unit below the kebele, including several groups of hamlets (Amharic) mote Sidama clan leader neftegna soldier-settler during the Menelik regime; literally, ‘one who carries a gun’ (Amharic) qomo clan (Wolayta) sera ostracism from the community (Sidama) songo council of elders based on a clan, lineage, hamlet, or neighbourhood (Sidama) tehaddso political renewal movement tumma set of moral and social norms (Wolayta) wogache smiths (Wolayta) wollabicho commoners/free farmers (Sidama) woreda county administration during the Derg and the EPRDF zelan nomadic herders (Sidama) zemacha the Derg’s ‘development through cooperation’ campaign LIST OF MAPS AND TABLES

Maps

1.1 Administrative Map of Ethiopia ...... 8 3.1 Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State (SNNPRS) and the Locations of Sidama and Wolayta ...... 57

Tables

1.1 Initial criteria for case selection ...... 9 1.2 Contrasting contextual characteristics of the selected cases ...... 11 3.1 The clan systems of Sidama and Wolayta ...... 63 3.2 Differences between marginalised groups in Sidama and Wolayta ...... 67 3.3 The historical trajectories of Sidama and Wolayta ...... 86

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION: THE LIMITS OF INSTITUTIONS IN MULTIETHNIC SOCIETIES

States in Africa are known both for their ethnic diversity and for their instability. Frequent reports of ethnic claims and clashes feed the perception of African societies as torn by conflicts rooted in primitive and primordial political forces. Viewed from the outside, African states often appear incapable of handling their ethnic diversity. On closer look, it is apparent that African governments use various strategies to manage ethnicity, both politically and institutionally. In many cases, moreover, governments play an active role in the staging of ethnic politics and conflicts as a way of strengthening their own power bases. So ethnic diversity, with its tensions, is not only a problem and a burden: it can also be an asset in a government’s efforts to consolidate its control of the population. This book explores one African government’s attempts to manage ethnic diversity: the Ethiopian implementation of ethnically based federalism. Going further than most multiethnic states in Africa and elsewhere, Ethiopia has constitutionally asserted that every ethnic group, or ‘nationality’, within its borders has the right to self-determination, including the right to administer its own territories and even to secede if certain conditions are met (Article 39 of the Ethiopian Constitu- tion). Since the Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) came to power in 1991 and first introduced the idea of ethnic self-determination, the country has moved from a situation of large- scale conflicts between a centralised state and ethnically based liberation fronts during the previous regimes to a situation of relative stability today. It is, however, equally clear that at the local level, particularly in areas with multiethnic populations, the number of conflicts labelled as ethnic has risen during the last decade. An increasing number of groups have demanded to have their own separate ethnic administrations, detached from larger multiethnic administrative areas. This is happening in a context of widespread human rights violations and suppression of political opponents, most often linked to electoral processes. Although the right of nationalities to self-determination is 2 chapter one constitutionally safeguarded, it is still the most contested principle in Ethiopian political life. The system of ethnic federalism has been in operation for more than a decade; the burning political question continues to be whether this system is a guarantee of unity, as presented by the EPRDF, or a recipe for disintegration, as argued by the main opposition. This disagreement constitutes the major conflict line between the ruling party and its strongest opponents, and it was the key issue used to mobilise voters in the first genuinely contested election in the country’s history in 2005. A significant research issue in political science is the question of how multiethnic states should be governed and which measures should be introduced to curb tension between ethnic groups in these societies. Traditionally, political scientists have been preoccupied with the design of institutions as a way of accommodating ethnic diversity. Institutions are seen as defining the rules of the political game and setting the boundaries of the arena in which political competition takes place (Posner 2005). Through constitutional engineering, the political system in a country can be configured to regulate the relationship between minority and majority groups, ensure that all groups are represented in governance of the state, and provide incentives for inter-group cooperation. A central argument of this book, however, is that the formal political institutions of the state are only one determinant of ethnic political mobilisation. Equally important are the informal aspects of politics: the power games of the ruling party and the relations and contestations, past and present, between the various ethnic communities in society and between subgroups within these communities. The theoretical approach of this book leans on the ‘Africanist’ tradition in political science, a tradition which dates back to the early 1960s with the work of, for instance, Apter (1963) and Austin (1964) on politics in Ghana. Africanists have been deeply influenced by social anthropology’s stress on cultural and historical factors in the understanding of political institutions. Drawing on Geertz (1983), who sees culture as the structures of meaning through which people shape their existence, proponents of this view contend that politics is not mainly embodied in constitutions and institutions but rather constitutes one of the principal arenas in which such structures of meaning publicly unfold. This does not mean that ‘culture’, conventionally defined as ‘customs and cults’, necessarily explains or determines the outcome of political actions. It means instead that explanations of politics should limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 3 consider the specific cultural environment as the framework in which politics takes place (Chabal and Daloz 2006). Linked to this approach is a growing body of literature in political science which focuses on the informal aspects of politics, arguing that informal institutions, such as clientelism and patrimonialism, may play an even more important role than formal institutions in shaping political behaviour and outcomes (Chabal and Daloz 1999; Helmke and Levitsky 2006). In this book, the focus nevertheless will be on patterns of interaction between formal and informal institutions. Formal institutions matter—but they matter differently and may have completely different meanings across societies and across different communities within the same society. Going beyond both the highly polarised rhetoric of the contending parties in Ethiopian politics and the purely institutional approach to the accommodation of ethnic diversity, this book explores how the process of implementing ‘national self-determination’ has unfolded on the ground in the Ethiopian federation. Instead of affirming that institutions decide, I ask: who are the actors determining political behaviour and mobilisation under ethnic federalism in Ethiopia today? The study is concerned with the interplay between actors in the making of politics, including actors at the national, regional, and local levels, in formal and informal political organisations, and in traditional elites and various subgroups within the ethnic communities. In line with the constructivist approach to ethnicity, ethnic groups are seen not as homogenous and univocal but rather as constellations of different and often conflicting interests, reflecting inter alia traditional hierarchies, social strata, and generational and gender lines. These intra-ethnic cleavages make the politics of ethnicity flexible and unpredictable, and they also make it difficult to forecast how the same national political process will play out in different regional and local contexts. In order to understand how the national political framework of institutions and parties is reproduced or recreated in a regional and local setting, the book offers a case study of two ethnic communities, the Sidama and the Wolayta, in one of the federation’s regions, the Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State. The Southern region has more than 56 officially recognised ethnic groups. Under ethnic federalism, it has experienced a surge in demands for the establishment of separate administrative units for ethnic groups, and it has the highest numbers of conflicts labelled ‘ethnic’ in the country. The Wolayta and the Sidama are key players in the ethnic politics of the Southern region. Actors within both groups have had significant 4 chapter one disputes with neighbouring groups, and they have clashed with the regional government and the ruling party over implementation of the right to national self-determination. By asking how the two communities’ traditional political organisations, hierarchies, clan structures, social stratification, marginalisation, and patterns of modernisation have affected the political behaviour of current actors, we can better understand how the interplay between institutions, informal interventions, and historical trajectories affects contemporary political mobilisation under ethnic federalism.

The politics of ethnicity in Ethiopia, past and present

The politics of ethnicity in Ethiopia is set in a context of successive authoritarian regimes and a history of suspicion and inequality between ethnic groups. During both the rule of Emperor Haile Selassie (1931–74) and the military Marxist regime of Mengistu Haile Mariam (1974–91), ethnic groups, cultures, and languages were clearly ranked, and ethnically based movements were oppressed. Inequality based on ethnic affinity has been a part of Ethiopian governance since the establishment of the modern state at the end of the nineteenth century, with the Amhara perceived as the ruling group. Anyone seeking to gain political power or employment in the state administration had to adopt Orthodox Christianity and the Amharic language. Although the structures of ethnic rank and suppression were formally eradicated in the new political order of 1991, suspicion across ethnic boundaries remains widespread. A popular perception today is that the Tigrayans are the new ruling ethnic elite and that they are attempting to monopolise political power and channel state resources to their own region in the north of the country. This perception gains strength from the fact that the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) is the dominant force in the ruling EPRDF coalition and in the central government. The major institutional structure of the ethnic federal system was introduced in 1991, when the Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Dem- ocratic Front came to power. The EPRDF, a coalition of four ethnically based parties which was created by the TPLF, had been fighting a war against a centralised, Amhara-dominated regime, and it gained support and legitimacy from ethnically based constituencies. The principle of national self-determination was formally announced in a transitional conference the same year. Although a range of political limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 5 organisations took part in the conference, the agenda of the EPRDF/ TPLF was adopted largely unmodified (Vaughan 1994). The principle became the cornerstone of the new Constitution, which entered into force in 1995. In the drafting of the new Constitution, competing political forces were practically excluded from the process. This resulted in a situation in which the major institutional framework of the country, the federal system, is very much linked to the specific interests of the actors behind it, namely the members of the EPRDF. Many people see it as ‘the EPRDF’s federal system’ and not as ‘Ethio- pia’s federal system’. In this sense, these basic structures, which are supposed to be independent of political party influence, have lost some of their neutrality and legitimacy in the eyes of citizens. The introduction of national self-determination in 1991 resulted in subdivision of the country into different regional states, each with the right to exercise independent lawmaking, executive, and judicial powers. Representatives of each ethnic group within the regional states were also given the right to be represented in the institutions at the central level. On paper, these arrangements upheld the central principle of federal systems: that the regional units are autonomous from the central government, while the central government at the same time incorporates regional units into its decision-making procedures according to constitutional mandate (King 1982). But these constitutional and institutional structures largely contradict another basic structure of the Ethiopian state: the centralised party system. As my earlier study of regional autonomy in the Ethiopian federation from 1991 to 2000 has demonstrated, the centralised party organisation of the EPRDF, which essentially controls all the regional governments, undermines to a large extent the regional states’ ability to operate independently from the central government (Aalen 2002a). This has an obvious effect on the federal system’s ability to accommodate ethnic diversity. Even though the institutional structures give equal rights to ethnic groups, the legacies of the past and the practices and perceptions of the present contribute to a situation in which distrust and domination prevail.

Understanding politics in local context

The research for this book stemmed from my interest in the Ethio- pian federal system and its unique nature as explicitly ethnically based. After years of attempted centralisation and suppression of ethnically 6 chapter one based movements in the multiethnic state of Ethiopia, the new regime that came to power in 1991 constitutionally asserted that every ‘nation, nationality or people’ should be granted the right to self-determination through a federal system defined along ethnic lines. So my research was not theoretically defined, but was spurred by curiosity about a real-life situation: what effect would the introduction of autonomy for ethnic groups have on the relations between ethnic groups and the level of ethnic tension in the country? Some interesting ethnographic studies had offered several examples of new and localised conflicts, labelled as ethnic, that had erupted since the introduction of the federal system (Abbink 1998; James et al. 2002; Schlee and Shongolo 1995; Turton 2003). Although the authors of these studies did not focus specifically on the federal system and its link to ethnic conflict, they seemed to indicate that the conflicts had to some extent been stimulated by issues that had arisen with the introduction of ethnic federalism in these communities. The findings of the ethnographic studies further stirred my interest in examining these real-life processes in selected ethnically defined communities in Ethiopia. I wanted to understand what was taking place on the ground, both within and between ethnic groups. How was the federal system actually implemented in these communities, and how was it interpreted, negotiated, and exploited by members of the various ethnic groups? Would the federal system have any impact at all, or were there other factors driving the relationships between and within ethnic groups? By exploring the interface between actors within the national political framework and those at the local level, I hoped to help explain the consequences of introducing self-government for ethnic groups in a specific empirical context. My interest in these processes was also spurred by my previous research on Ethiopian politics, which started in 2000 with studies for a master’s degree in comparative politics. I collected data in the two regional states of Tigray and Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State (SNNPRS) in order to analyse the relationship between the central and regional levels of government in the Ethio- pian federation. This led to the publication ofEthnic Federalism in a Dominant Party State: The Ethiopian Experience 1991–2000 (Aalen 2002a), which concluded that although Ethiopia is a constitutionally decentralised state, its party system makes it highly centralised. I also participated in research by the Norwegian Centre for Human Rights, investigating the general elections in Tigray in 2000 and local elec- limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 7 tions in the Southern region in 2001. This research resulted inEthiopia since the Derg, a co-edited volume with Siegfried Pausewang and Kjetil Tronvoll (Pausewang, Tronvoll, and Aalen 2002; Aalen 2002b). Research on the general elections in 2005, again focusing on the SNNPRS, led to a chapter entitled “Revival of Tradition? The Power of Clans and Social Strata in the Wolayta Elections” (Aalen, forthcoming). Through these enquiries, I was able to get an overall idea of the main trends in Ethiopian politics. I soon identified the Southern region, SNNPRS, as a particularly interesting setting for examining the interface between national and local actors due to its multiethnic character and the proliferation of what appeared to be ethnic-based political movements and conflicts. Since I was already interested in the interactions between national and local actors, a natural next step was to scrutinize politics taking place in a local context, in some of the administrative units of the SNNPRS. The administrative units in this region are all delineated more or less along ethnic lines, which means that they correspond largely to what are perceived as ethnic groups. So for all practical purposes, the subjects for enquiry would then be ‘ethnic groups’. After considering the characteristics of several ethnically defined communities in the Southern region, I finally chose Sidama and Wolayta. My attention was first drawn to these groups by the fact that in both communities, conflicts labelled as ethnic had taken place since the introduction of federalism in 1991.

Why Wolayta and Sidama? In a serious conflict in Wolayta in 1999–2000, agents of Wolayta local politics protested the regional government’s attempt to introduce a new language for administration and education in Wolayta, replacing the native tongue. This led to mobilisation of the people with the help of ethnic politics. The final outcome was a redrawing of the administrative map, giving Wolayta a separate administrative unit. In Sidama, repeated conflicts have broken out because of tension between Sidama local actors and regional/national authorities over the administrative status of Sidama and the regional capital of Awassa, which is on Sidama land. In all instances of conflict, the Sidama political actors have mobilised on ethnic grounds. On top of this ‘ethnic’ political mobilisation in both communities, there is a continuing border conflict between them. Wolayta and Sidama are ethnically defined, adjacent administrative units; serious conflict between them has taken place in the border area 8 chapter one

2 3

5 1 7

10 8

Regions and chartered cities 1. Addis Ababa 2. Afar 3. Amhara 4. Benishangul-Gumuz 5. Dire Dawa 6. Gambela 7. Harari 8. Oromiya 9. Somali 10. Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State 11. Tigray

Map 1.1 Administrative Map of Ethiopia limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 9 around Lake Abaya, and this is still not resolved. The repeated mani- festations of ethnic political mobilisation and the ongoing border conflict between these adjoining ethnic communities suggested a unique set of circumstances linked to inter- and intra-ethnic relations. The Sidama are the largest and the Wolayta the second- or third- largest ethnic group in the Southern region (Central Statistical Author- ity 1998/99). They are also the two most politically influential groups in the SNNPRS. They compete for control of the regional administration, and the regional presidency has rotated between officials from these two groups—and no others—since 1991. The fact that the Sidama and Wolayta are neighbours and power brokers on the regional level makes it possible to analyse how the relationship between these groups at the local level is reflected in a larger regional setting, and conversely, how regional power struggles are reflected in local political surround- ings. The dominance of the two groups in the region also makes it easier to analyse how local and regional politics is linked to politics at the national level. The national government, led by the EPRDF, needs powerful allies in all the regions to sustain its power. This concern influences the national government’s responses to and intervention in the politics of the Southern region, and it affects how the national principle of self-determination for nationalities is implemented and negotiated in a regional and local context.

Table 1.1 Initial criteria for case selection CRITERION SIDAMA WOLAYTA Ethnically defined Organised as a region A part of North Omo administrative units in 1991–92, then as a zone up to 2000, and a separate administrative separate administrative zone from 1992 on zone thereafter ‘Ethnic political Mobilisation to regain Mobilisation against mobilisation’ regional status for introduction of the amal- Sidama and control of gamated Wogagoda lan- Awassa in 2002 and guage in 1999–2000 2006 Local political actors Two Sidama acted as A Wolayta acted as interact with regional presidents regional president from regional and national from 1992 to 1999 and 2000 to 2006 levels from 2006 on 10 chapter one

During preliminary investigations of the two groups, I discovered that the two cases also offered interesting contrasts in their historical, social, cultural, and economic contexts. These contrasting characteristics added value to the comparative analysis of the two groups, providing the opportunity to investigate how the national political framework of ethnic federalism may have different expressions in different communities. As described in chapter 3, the two groups have dissimilar traditional political systems, the Wolayta being centralised and the Sidama decentralised. Although their traditional structures of clans and marginalised groups have many similarities, they also exhibit crucial differences. The two groups have also had dissimilar experiences with northern invasion and incorporation of the south into the Ethiopian empire at the end of the nineteenth century: the Wolayta mounted a strong armed resistance, while the Sidama did little to oppose the occupation. During the Derg regime that began in 1974, however, it was the Sidama who organised armed resistance through the Sidama Liberation Front (later renamed Sidama Libera- tion Movement); Wolayta political mobilisation on ethnic grounds was insignificant in this period. When it comes to economic context, Sidama has been able to sustain a population on its own land through coffee production and agriculture, while land degradation and lack of an alternative to traditional agriculture have forced many Wolayta to migrate to neighbouring areas and regional centres. Finally, after completion of fieldwork in Wolayta and Sidama, I was able to identify two different patterns of internal political mobilisation under the political order of ethnic federalism. In Wolayta, ‘ethnic political mobilisation’ has apparently reinforced internal cohesion and strengthened a common Wolayta identity, while in Sidama, the political mobilisation has aggravated internal divisions, leading to separate political organisations of subgroups. In light of these findings, I enlarged the scope of my research: instead of merely attempting to explain the proliferation of ethnically labelled conflicts in SNNPRS, I also asked why groups within the same political framework produce such different patterns of political mobilisation.

Ethnic identities: Meaningful, instrumental, and contested

Ethnic groups are conventionally perceived as sharing common cultural traits, language, religion, history, and tradition. The primordial limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 11

Table 1.2 Contrasting contextual characteristics of the selected cases CONTEXTUAL SIDAMA WOLAYTA CHARACTERISTIC Traditional political Decentralised union of Centralised kingdom authority clans Clan structures and Territorially concen- Territorially dispersed marginalised groups trated and hierarchically and hierarchically ordered clans; marginal- ordered clans; mar- ised artisans, some with ginalised artisans and their own land descendants of slaves, without land rights Response to northern Scattered and uncoordi- Centralised and coor- occupation (1887–94) nated resistance, finally dinated resistance, leading to peaceful leading to forced and submission bloody submission Political mobilisation Organisation of armed No organised resist- during the Derg resistance through the ance, except under- (1974–91) Sidama Liberation Front cover as self-help association Economy Cash cropping and sub- Subsistence agriculture sistence agriculture and labour migration Internal political Divided between Cohesive as one front mobilisation during subgroups appearing to represent ethnic federalism all segments understanding of ethnic identity implies that ethnic group members share cultural commonalities that are stable and constant and that provide a basis for the common action of the group. According to this approach, these shared traits are natural, inborn, and inherited or are determined by physical or genetic characteristics. However, most contemporary scholars agree that the primordial approach does not capture the essence of ethnic identities and cannot explain why ethnicity has remained a source of political action. According to this view, ethnicity is not a given but rather a dynamic and flexible phenomenon created by human thought and action. Both instrumentalist and constructivist scholars share this understanding. Those taking the instrumental approach have underlined that ethnicity is strategically used and can be manipulated for political ends (Bates 1983). Those taking the constructivist approach go beyond this and add that ethnicity is not only a matter of strategy; it must be constructed on the basis of 12 chapter one selective interpretation of real cultural experiences of history and tradition, not just any experiences, in order to provide a basis for political mobilisation (C. Young 1996). A fundamental challenge to an instrumentalism based on rational choice is that it assumes, a priori, that it is the individual and profit- maximising preferences of ethnic group members which matter for ethnic political mobilisation. When ethnic groups are defined as “calculating, self-interested collective actors”, maximising material values through the vehicle of communal identities (Bates 1983), this suggests that individual preferences are automatically and unquestioningly aggregated into a common stance. Thus the dominant preferences become the values of the whole group, and ethnic groups are seen as homogenous and cohesive, speaking with one voice (Yeros 1999). The constructivist, by asking about different meaningsfor the actors within the group, may shed light on intra-ethnic contestations. Ethnic groups represent different social strata, genders, generations, clans, and religions, and contestations between these subgroups influence the interplay between institutions and the political behaviour of ethnic groups. I will briefly discuss the implications of the constructivist approach and identify elements which can enhance our understanding of intra- and inter-ethnic relations in Ethiopia under the ethnically based federal system.

Self-ascription A central element of constructivism is the concept of ethnicity as a self-ascriptive category rather than one that depends on objective cultural markers. According to this view, members of ethnic groups assert their identities subjectively: someone takes ethnic identity X by virtue of believing that he is an X, calling himself an X, and acting in ways that validate his X-ness (Eriksen 2002). It is argued that ethnic groups are efficient in mobilising because their construction is based on what people feel are ‘real’ and plausible cultural experiences (Berman 1998; Yeros 1999), often created by myths of common descent and invention of tradition (Illiffe 1979; Ranger 1983). The selection of cultural markers thus has to touch on people’s actual experiences, linking them to a history that really happened (Peel 1989). Although ethnicity may have been created to serve present needs, this does not imply that ‘anything goes’, since the different versions of history are limited in number. It seems clear, therefore, that the construction of ethnic categories takes place within a defined space; some new categorisations will be viable limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 13 while others will not (Eriksen 2002). The study of ethnicity as self- ascription should therefore be supplemented with a historical investigation of ethnogenesis, that is, how historical events have spurred common action and the creation of ethnic activism (Ausenda 2002).

Internal contestations The construction of an ethnic group is partly a function of its interactions with other groups, but it is also an expression of internal power struggles between different segments of the group. The constructivist approach in recent studies has produced a new focus on internal contestations within ethnic groups. It is no longer taken for granted that ethnic coalitions are cohesive and always act in the same way. Members of ethnic groups may have different opinions and allegiances and may change identity according to circumstance. Yeros (1999) and Feierman (1990) are among many scholars who present a postmodern critique of the concept of ethnicity and claim that the creation of ethnic groups has to be understood as a struggle between subgroups in the community, including those defined by gender, class, generation, and religion. Ethnicity should be seen as a process of negotiation and interpretation. Colonisers, the state, or entrepreneurs are only some of the agents; an array of other actors play important roles, for example peasant intellectuals (Feierman 1990) and women’s associations (Hunt 1990). In historical studies of the political mobilisation of ethnicity in Kenya, Lonsdale has posited the concept of ‘moral ethnicity’. He points out that although ethnicity is not a primordial category, it is still a source of social obligations, defining the rights and responsibilities of ethnic group members (Berman and Lonsdale 1992; Lons- dale 2004). He argues that membership in an ethnic group means that one abides by certain moral imperatives when dealing with other members; thus ethnicity can give a sense of community by protecting people when they are vulnerable and alone. He also draws attention to the internal contestations in this process: the internal dimensions of ethnic groups are not harmonious and egalitarian, but conflictual. The process of defining common social values reflects a continuous internal social tension between competing elites and subgroups. In the case of Kenyan ethnic mobilisation, this power struggle resulted in the imposition of conservative authoritarianism by the ‘traditional elite’. The study of ethnic group mobilisation should therefore investigate 14 chapter one these contestations—how they shape the internal power constellations and how they finally affect the group’s relations to other ethnic groups and to the state.

Ethnicity as one of many identities Ethnicity is only one of many identities, and whether ethnic identity is the fundamental one in a given context or situation is a matter for empirical investigation. A difficulty in the study of ethnicity in general, independent of theoretical approach, is that by isolating ‘ethnicity’ as a focus of research, one easily loses sight of all else. If a researcher looks for ethnicity, he or she will find it—possibly at the cost of overlook- ing other kinds of relationships which are also ‘there’ (Eriksen 2002, 161). But if we are going to take seriously the constructivist claim that ethnicity is situational and relational, we also have to accept the notion that ethnicity is not necessarily the most important and over- arching identity in all situations and at all times, and that it need not be politicised, but can remain as a social category without political implications. Other kinds of identifications, such as gender, religion, or class, may have the decisive effect on political mobilisation in a given society. Even in societies with a high degree of ethnic diversity, ethnicity need not be an issue on the political agenda. So it should not be assumed that ethnicity is a socially and politically relevant identity in a given context; rather, this is a question for investigation. We also have to take into account that individuals who have an ethnic identity also exhibit several other identities at the same time and that the features defining the ethnic identity may not be of primary significance. Based on the ‘cultural repertoire’ available to individuals, people have many identities to choose from, and they can subscribe to several at the same time (Posner 2005). But these multiple identities do not mean segmented identities: the identities cut across each other and people share different identities with different people at different times (Eriksen 2002, 170). As pointed out by Chabal and Daloz (2006), the assumption that it is possible to identify clearly those characteristics that distinguish one ethnic group from another is essentially a colonial myth. What is ‘ethnic’ varies, and ethnicity is always mixed with other identities. The study of what appears to be ethnic mobilisation should therefore question the significance of ethnic identities and claims, and it should empirically investigate how ethnicity interacts with other identities and whether ethnicity has any impact at all. limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 15

Analytical frames for exploring ethnic political mobilisation in Ethiopia

If one treats ethnic groups as the cases for enquiry, one runs the risk of ignoring the fluidity of ethnic identities, taking the boundaries of each unit as given and its cohesiveness as a fact. This can, in the final analysis, create ethnic differences when there are none, or at least it can contribute to a sharpening of ethnic lines which initially were not salient (Ratcliffe 2001). With respect to my cases, I will argue that such reifications can be avoided or at least minimised. I will also argue that ethnicity in Ethiopia is not only ‘one identity among others’ but has taken a prominent position in society, essentially because of the ethnic-based federal system. It feels natural, therefore, to start off with an analysis of ethnic categories. Given the ethnic character of the political system, ethnicity as a social phenomenon is not something that one must actively search for, or that one must create in order to see. It is already ‘there’ through the ethnic delineation of administrative boundaries, the constitutional assertion of every ethnic group’s right to self-determination, and the ethnic organisation of political parties. This does not mean, however, that all these political expressions should be taken as rooted in ethnicity. As suggested by the constructivist approach, what appears to be purely ethnic political mobilisation may in fact be expressions of ethnicity interplaying with other nonethnic identities—or it may not have anything to do with ethnicity at all. In my study of southern Ethiopian politics, every political expression, mobilisation, and conflict that appears to be ethnically motivated must therefore be explored empirically, without predefined assumptions or expectations. Likewise, political expressions which appear to come from unified and cohesive ethnic groups should be empirically inves- tigated. Because ethnic groups are composed of different subgroups which are likely to have separate interests and agendas, every ‘ethnic political mobilisation’ should also be seen as an expression of, or an outcome of, internal power struggles between these subgroups.

The question of meaning A constructivist approach to ethnicity and a case-oriented methodology, used in combination, seem to be good tools for the analysis of ethnic political mobilisation in Ethiopia, avoiding the danger of essentialism and reification of ethnic differences. But there is still a dilemma 16 chapter one with this kind of ‘deconstruction’ of ethnicity: if the researcher finds that the apparent ‘ethnic political mobilisation’ has nothing to do with ethnic claims at all, the actors themselves are still mobilised by and find meaning in their ethnic identity. Then there will be, as pointed out by Eriksen (1999), a fundamental gap between the analyst’s and the actors’ perceptions of reality, which again may create potential conflicts: The main paradigm represented by academics is not only at odds with, but to a large extent incommensurable with, the experienced life-worlds of the people that we ostensibly study[.] It also, with a few notable exceptions, tends to caricature those life-worlds, often creating contrasts between a (benign, liberal) cosmopolitan attitude and a (totalitarian, irrational) localist or ethnicist attitude; a kind of contrast which is less marked in ongoing social life than in social science models, and which is both inaccurate and potentially politically harmful. (Eriksen 1999, 45) As a solution to this dilemma, Eriksen suggests that the analyst should address the subjective experiences of the actors, asking how ethnicity and other social phenomena are defined from within, from the ‘local life-worlds’. This suggestion is largely in accordance with the ‘cultural approach’ advocated by Chabal and Daloz, who call for investigating politics from a local perspective. Their semiotic methodology implies a “decoding of what makes sense to the actors concerned” by means of a historically and culturally based study of the ways in which these actors formulate an explanation of the logics of their politics (Chabal and Daloz 2006, 173). In practical terms, it may nevertheless be difficult for the analyst to ascertain the subjective experience that motivates people’s actions and detect the meanings that actors attach to their actions. The most obvious way of doing this is to observe the actors involved and ask them directly, through interviews. The focus then shifts to the reality of events, to the processes as they actually take place and as the people concerned perceive them. But the researcher should not take the statements of the actors at face value. Instead, she should attempt to analyse people’s utterances in a matrix of social, historical, and cultural contexts. This entails what Geertz (1983) describes as the ‘art of interpretation’. That is, detection of meaning is not simply a matter of restating what people say; rather, the analyst must delve into the logic of their understanding, analysing and interpreting this in the context of the specific time and space (Chabal and Daloz 2006). limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 17

In my own analysis of how Sidama and Wolayta ‘ethnic politics’ interplays with regional and national politics, I have attempted to strike a balance. I want to uncover the instrumental use of ethnicity but also to reveal the actors’ perspectives—how ethnic (and other) categories make sense to the various political actors within the two groups and their subgroups. Through interviews and observations, I have tried to view ethnic political mobilisation through the lenses of the people involved. I have attempted to detect ‘meaning’ by talk- ing to the key actors in Sidama and Wolayta politics and interpreting their statements within the context of Ethiopian national politics and the local historical, social, and political structures of Sidama and Wolayta. At the local level, the interviewees included ‘ordinary people’ such as peasants and members of marginalised artisan groups; elders in rural villages and small towns; officials of the zone,woreda (county), and kebele (lowest administrative unit), who for the most part were also members of the ruling party; opposition party members and candidates at the zone, woreda, and kebele levels; representatives of local nongovernmental organisations (NGOs); local independent intellectuals such as teachers and businessmen, who in many cases acted as ‘ethnic entrepreneurs’; and, finally, traditional elders, who were respected in the communities and were part of traditional conflict resolution institutions. At the regional level, interviews were conducted with regional government officials, including the regional president and his advisors; the speakers of the State Council and the Council of Nation- alities (the latter is the regional equivalent of the national House of Federation); regional opposition leaders and candidates; and representatives of NGOs and the independent press. At the national level, I interviewed representatives of the Ministry of Federal Affairs, the Prime Minister’s Office, the House of Peoples’ Representatives, and the House of Federation (the upper chamber of parliament, which deals with ‘nationality’ issues), as well as national opposition party leaders and representatives of the independent press and NGOs. Because of the frequent turnover in government positions in the Southern region, I also conducted interviews with former officials, including previous regional presidents. I then analysed interviewees’ statements and comments on current political events within the historical frame of the two communities and their links to the histories and events on the national political stage. 18 chapter one

The interviews were done in English and in the Ethiopian languages of Amharic, Sidama, and Wolayta, depending on the interviewee. The Ethiopian-language interviews were conducted with the help of interpreters, who translated to and from English during the conversations. Experience from earlier research on politically sensitive issues made me decide against tape recording the interviews. I have found that many informants, with the possible exception of officials at the federal level, will be reticent in interviews and will refrain from making controversial or critical remarks if a tape recorder is running. My notes from the interviews are systematised in a collection of 10 notebooks identified by geographic location and interview dates. Quotes from interviewees in this book are drawn from the field notebooks: they are either direct quotes, if the interview was in English, or quotes from translations provided by the interpreter, if the interview was in an Ethiopian language. The political sensitivity of the issues also made me avoid naming informants in the book, again with the exception of prominent public figures; instead I describe interviewees with respect to their occupation or position, place of residence, and ethnic group, when pertinent.

Institutions and ethnic political mobilisation Examining the political situation in Ethiopia under ethnic federalism gives us a thick and complex picture of the relationship between institutions and ethnic political mobilisation, which is a far cry from the more parsimonious assumptions of the theoretical debates on federalism. In these debates, federalism is defined as the subdivision of a state’s territory into various subunits or regional states, which are provided with a constitutionally guaranteed right to autonomy and sovereignty over their own territories and representation in the central government (King 1982). If we take a purely institutional approach to politics, we will assume that the introduction of a federal solution in a multiethnic society would have a determining effect on the relationship between ethnic groups and that it would be possible to predict certain outcomes of this change. The desired outcome is that federal reforms put an end to existing or potential ethnic conflict and provide arenas for cooperation across ethnic lines. By dispersing power territorially, federal systems may create multiple arenas of representation and participation and empower many different actors; this in turn may help prevent the political game from becoming a zero-sum limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 19 struggle between the various ethnic groups in the country. The devolution of power can establish a political arena where regional leaders can negotiate contentious issues and reach compromises, thereby diffusing potential political conflicts before they reach the central level (Horo- witz 1991). If federations are ethnically based, as the Ethiopian system is, the country is divided into subunits whose borders are drawn in such a way as to ensure that each ethnic group forms a local majority in one or more of the subunits (Kymlicka 2006). Once minorities control their own areas, they may gain a sense of security and the ability to promote their own cultures and identities. Although many prominent proponents of the institutional approach, such as Horowitz (1991) and Lijphart and Waisman (1996), have underlined the importance of contextual factors in determining the success of institutional arrangements in mitigating ethnic conflict, the focus on institutions as the independent variable easily leads to the assumption of a monocausal or straightforward causal relationship between institutional design and management of ethnic diversity. In effect, this understates the need for a combinatorial explanation of ethnic political mobilisation and conflict and may lead to policy prescriptions that rely on institutional reform as a ready-made solution and quick fix to complex political circumstances. Empirical studies, like this study of the Ethiopian federation, are likely to reveal that institutions are only one of many drivers of ethnic relations, one that may or may not have an impact on whether a particular ethnic political mobilisation turns into conflict. With a more open starting point, allowing for the evaluation of combinations of factors and of the contexts in which institutional reform and ethnic political mobilisation occur, it should be possible to come up with a more empirically sensitive and nuanced description of these relationships and to provide more constructive policy suggestions for ethnically divided societies. Another important point is that it is not only formal institutions that shape political behaviour and outcomes; informal institutions, ranging from bureaucratic and legislative norms to clientelism and patrimonialism, also do (Bayart 1993; Chabal and Daloz 1999; Helmke and Levitsky 2006). If we choose to believe in the supremacy of informal politics, we can argue that a state’s ability to manage ethnic diversity does not depend on whether it is federal or unitary, has institutions of power sharing, or has gone through electoral system reform. The impacts of these formal institutional arrangements will be merely symbolic, since what matters is how, for example, patron-client networks 20 chapter one influence relationships between ethnic groups. In my research on Ethi- opian ethnic mobilisation under ethnic federalism, I found that formal institutions do matter, but they matter differently and may have completely different meanings across and within various societies. I have thus chosen to focus on the patterns of interaction between formal and informal institutions. The relationship between these can change across time and space within the same polity.

Research on the interface between local and national politics in Ethiopia

A political analysis of the Ethiopian federal system would be incom- plete if only the national framework were studied; at the same time, local realities cannot be understood without considering the actions of agents at the national level. Since these issues are essentially political in nature, one might expect to find most of the relevant studies within the political science literature. But political science studies of the federal system of Ethiopia have paid relatively little attention to the local interpretation and negotiation of national policies. Political scientists have focused instead on the legal framework and to some extent on the structures of central party power in order to understand the functioning of the federal system (Brietzke 1997; Kidane Mengisteab 1997; Paul 2000). Only a few political science studies have examined the implementation of the federal system in local settings (Aklilu Abraham 2000; Asnake Kefale 2003; Markakis 1998). Implementation has to a large extent been viewed as a one-way process in which local communities, if they are mentioned at all, are cast as passive recipients of directions from above. As a result, political scientists studying the Ethiopian polity have largely discounted the notion that “local appropriation and re-creation of ideas and practices of national governance and state legitimacy can prove decisive for the social basis and political stability of a regime” (Abbink 1997a, 321). In my review of the literature, I discovered that the interface between the local and the national has been better explored in anthropological and ethnographic studies of local communities in Ethiopia (Abbink 1997a; Bassi 1997; James et al. 2002; Schlee and Shongolo 1995). Although these studies were all carried out in smaller communities, they have, to varying degrees, recognised the impact that the national political frames have on local contexts. This is part of a general trend in limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 21 anthropological studies today. Anthropologists are showing increasing interest in studies of the state, asking how people perceive and interact with the state, how they interpret government laws and regulations, and how they comment on the actions of local as well as national political leaders. There is a recognition that “the micro events are integral parts of the macro phenomena and vice versa”, even though these micro-macro relations usually are “asymmetrical relationships” (Poluha and Rosendahl 2002, 32). This implies that in most cases local actors and ordinary citizens have little influence on government policies, but even so, their activities may sometimes create disruption for the power holders, forcing them to redefine policies and institutions. In my search for literature dealing with the history of the Ethio- pian polity, another challenge came to the fore. Most of the historical studies are informed by the tradition of ‘Greater Ethiopia’, describing events from the point of view of the imperial ruling class dominated by northerners, essentially the Amhara (Levine 1974). The accounts of the imperial state’s expansion to the south at the end of the nineteenth century, including to Wolayta and Sidama (Cerulli 1956; Haberland 1974), are written not from a southern perspective but from the perspective of the central power holders in Addis Ababa, the capital. The expansion is thus portrayed as a process of incorporation and integration rather than one of occupation and subjugation. The orientation towards the centre has also led to a general lack of written history on southern Ethiopia. With respect to Sidama, for example, there is no comprehensive work on the general history of the people, only scattered bits and pieces in ethnographic and historical studies (Braukämper 1977; Brøgger 1986; Hamer 1987; Stanley 1967) and religious studies (Tolo 1998). The same is true for the Wolayta, although the writings of Tsehai Berhane Selassie and the ethnographic and religious studies of Chiatti and Balisky respectively offer valuable insights into the history of the Wolayta kingdom (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1973; Chiatti 1984; Balisky 1997). For both Sidama and Wolayta, literature dealing with the two societies under the Derg regime is almost entirely absent. Apart from these contributions, the centrally oriented perspective is dominant in historical writings all the way up to the 1980s. The publication of a historical/anthropological book by Donham and James in 1986, however, marks a shift away from Amhara-centred history writing. Their edited volumeThe Southern Marches of Imperial Ethiopia explicitly challenged the established history tradition by deliberately focusing on the histories of the peripheral communities of the south: 22 chapter one

[. . .] another story remains untold, for there were many ‘others’ who helped make twentieth-century Ethiopia. These other Ethiopians lived their lives mostly in the periphery rather than at the political centre; [. . .]. It is these other Ethiopians and the history which they made that are the subject of the essays that follow. (Donham and James 1986, 3) In the aftermath of the publication of Southern Marches, a new generation of Ethiopian and foreign historians and anthropologists have explored the histories of the southern, eastern, and western peripheries of Ethiopia, contributing to a growing body of literature on ‘peripheral peoples’ (Abbink 1991; Data Dea 2003; Donham 1999; Triulzi 2002; Turton 2003). This new scholarship has included studies of the minorities within these communities (Freeman and Pankhurst 2003). These have been highly relevant for my own exploration of subgroups within my two cases, Sidama and Wolayta. But ethnographic studies still reflect to some extent the influence of the structural functionalists who dominated early anthropology. They tend to focus on bounded local communities, depicting each community’s social system as the product of internal cultural structures like rituals, norms, and kinship. They are less explicit about the linkages between the micro and macro levels, between the local appropriation of politics and the actions, policies, and institutions at the national level. Some of the recent publications on Ethiopia that are situated at the juncture between anthropology, history, and political science have nevertheless bridged this gap by including accounts of the wider political development of the country as well as localised studies. Good examples are the edited volumes Remapping Ethiopia: Socialism & After (James et al. 2002) and, of particular interest for my own research on ethnicity and federalism, Ethnic Federalism: The Ethiopian Experience in Comparative Perspective (Turton 2006).

Organisation of the book

While the introduction in chapter 1 has set the empirical, method- ological, and theoretical frames for the study, chapter 2 deals with how and why the principle of national self-determination was introduced in Ethiopia. It describes how the policies of both the imperial state and the Marxist military regime with respect to ethnic diversity led to a marginalisation of ethnic groups and hindered integration of different nationalities into a common Ethiopian nationhood. The chapter goes limits of institutions in multiethnic societies 23 on to discuss the EPRDF’s ideological and political motivations for introducing ethnic federalism, the party’s contradictory approach to ethnicity, and the web of formal and informal powers in the national political system. Chapter 3 outlines the historical trajectories of the Sidama and the Wolayta, including the organisation of their traditional polities; their traditional hierarchies and social stratification; northern conquest at the end of the nineteenth century; and modernisation through Prot- estant missions, introduction to the market economy, and the socialist revolution of the Derg. All these trajectories affect the patterns of political mobilisation in Wolayta and Sidama today, and the interpretations of these events are essential parts of the perpetual construction of ethnic identities in the two communities. Chapter 4 looks at how the politics of ethnicity plays out in a regional and local context, in the Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State and in Wolayta and Sidama. It describes how the regional party organisation of the EPRDF has translated the central party organisation’s approach to ethnicity in the south. In keeping with the EPRDF’s change from an initial policy of ‘national liberation’ to a focus on ‘administrative integration’ and ‘containment of narrow nationalism’, the original five southern regions were merged into one—the SNNPRS—and the various nationality-based parties were amalgamated into a common organisation at the beginning of the 1990s. Chapter 5 analyses the specific party development in Sidama and Wolayta, looking at how the EPRDF consolidated its position by creating a new and loyal elite of party cadres in the communities and how the party’s power politics coupled with the traditional conflict lines between clans and social strata created two different patterns of political mobilisation in Sidama and Wolayta. Chapter 6 gives an account of the internal contestations within Sidama and Wolayta, exploring the persistence of discriminatory practices against marginalised groups of artisans, descendants of slaves, and women. Chapter 7 analyses three controversies on the right to self-determination that have taken place in Sidama and Wolayta under the EPRDF: the Sidama’s struggle for a separate regional administration and control of the SNNPRS capital, Awassa; resistance to the introduction of an amalgamated North Omo language in Wolayta; and the 24 chapter one conflict between the Wolayta and the Sidama in the border areas along Lake Abaya. Finally, chapter 8 outlines the book’s main findings and revisits the theoretical framework discussed in the introduction. In light of the empirical findings of this study, the conclusion calls for reframing the study of ethnic self-rule in multiethnic states to take into account the wider contextual explanations for political behaviour and the internal contestations within ethnic groups. CHAPTER TWO

‘NATIONAL SELFDETERMINATION’: FEDERALISM THE ETHIOPIAN WAY

In Africa, ethnicity has been, and largely still is, stigmatised both in state doctrines and in intellectual discourse, where it is described as a backward political force. The Ethiopian case, however, deviated from this pattern at an early stage in the post-colonial period, and the issue of nationalities was on the official national agenda decades before the ethnic-based federal system was introduced in 1991. Although inequality based on ethnic affinity has been a part of Ethiopian governance since the establishment of the modern state at the end of the nineteenth century, and both Emperor Haile Selassie (1931–74) and the military Marxist regime of the Derg (1974–91) oppressed ethnic-based movements, Ethiopia moved more quickly than its African counter- parts to recognise, at least symbolically, the question of rights for ethnic groups. While other post-colonial African countries still suppressed both the cultural and political expressions of ethnic identities, the Derg introduced the Stalinist idea of multinationalism and started using the label ‘nationality’ as an alternative to other African national elites’ often derogatory use of ‘tribe’ (C. Young 1993, 29).

The ethnic legacy of the Ethiopian imperial state

Ethiopia’s singular experience of ethnic politics is linked to its history of state building, which differs fundamentally from the common Afri- can pattern. In general, on the African continent, multiethnic states were created almost arbitrarily by colonisation. Nationalism, including a downgrading of separate ethnic identities, became the dominant ideology of the decolonisation and independence struggles. The Ethio- pian state, however, was built by incorporating peripheral peoples into a state which already possessed a strong identity and historical core. This resulted in processes of marginalisation, exploitation, and alienation. Ethnicity in Ethiopia thus has a peculiar edge which is lacking to a degree in post-colonial states. 26 chapter two

The core Amhara culture As pointed out by Clapham (1988), the concepts of ‘nation’ and ‘state’ have indigenous points of references in Ethiopia, in contrast to elsewhere in Africa where they were largely alien ideas imported and imposed by external colonisation. The history of the Ethiopian state goes back to the establishment of the Axum dynasty of northern Ethio- pia in the fourth century. In a state surrounded by Muslim-dominated areas, the early adoption of Christianity (fifth century) contributed to the development of a distinct political and religious identity. Although the modern Ethiopian state was not established until the end of the nineteenth century, various kings and princes from Abyssinia, as the Amhara- and Tigrayan-populated highlands were called, managed to consolidate enduring large-scale political organisations, with coinages and monuments (Clapham 1988). After prolonged periods of rivalry between various Amhara and Tigrayan kings and princes, power was finally consolidated in the hands of the central emperor during the last half of the nineteenth century. Since the Zagwe dynasty in the thirteenth century, all who aspired to ascend the throne had to prove their lines of ancestry back to King Solomon of Israel (Donham and James 1986). The legend of the Ethio- pian emperors’ Solomonic descent remained official state mythology until the reign of the last Ethiopian monarch, Haile Selassie. This story of royal lineage, together with the Amharic language and Orthodox Christianity, was at the heart of Ethiopian national identity and the concept of the Ethiopian state. With the central state’s incorporation of peripheral areas of the south, west, and east in the 1890s, this identity was used to legitimise northern rule. The northern rulers looked upon themselves as civilised and superior, while the newly subjected peoples were seen as “primitive, without culture or effective government, and lazy, dirty and war- like” (Marcus 1995, 193). It was possible for elite groups in the newly incorporated areas to assimilate into the core culture—‘Amharise’— but only by denying their own traditions and faith, adopting the Amharic language and culture, taking Amharic names, and converting to Christianity. While the state, after its expansion, came to include a wide range of peoples with their own histories of statehood, kingdoms, and political organisations, the core values of Ethiopian nationhood remained unchanged, and national identity continued to be narrow. This has led Clapham to conclude that federalism the ethiopian way 27

it is precisely because Ethiopia has this core identity, associated with one people but also claiming a special national status, that it suffers from much more intense problems of national identity and integration than other African states, in which ethnicity is the result of the almost hap- hazard process by which different peoples were tossed by colonisation into a common political unit. (Clapham 1988, 24)

The essence of exploitation: The landlord system After expansion of the state at the end of the nineteenth century, new economic structures reinforced the cultural supremacy of the north. Donham writes, “The poorest peasant from the north considered himself superior to any southerner. This cultural expression was not just the result of primordial sentiments; it was underpinned by material inequalities created in the new Ethiopia” (Donham 1986, 24). Before expansion, the state was essentially maintained by surplus extraction from agriculture in the northern areas. Peasants paid tribute to landlords, either in kind or by forced labour, and were called gabber, which in Amharic means ‘one who pays tribute’. But land scarcity and overpopulation in the north restricted the rulers’ possibilities of surplus extraction. The extension of control to the peripheries eased overcrowding in the north by providing new areas for settlement, and it gave the landlords access to new groups of peasants from whom to extract tribute. In areas where the population submitted peacefully, the northerners introduced fixed annual tribute. In other areas, Emperor Menelik’s governors took direct control. There, state officials, soldiers, or settlers called neftegna—in Amharic, ‘one who carries a gun’—were given grants of land, and peasants living on those lands were obliged to pay tribute and provide labour to their lords. The state also used the process of land measurement to appropriate land. This forced the peasants to buy their land back from the state or become tenants on the land they used to own. Local rulers acted as intermediaries between the state and the peasants, thus retaining control of one-third to one- sixth of the land in the new areas (Bahru Zewde 1991). Many of these local rulers integrated successfully into the Ethiopian elite by adopting the core values of the northern state. This has led Bahru Zewde (1991) to conclude that the exploitation and oppression associated with the peasant-lord system in Ethiopia had more a class than an ethnic basis. Nevertheless, the class aspect did not prevent the political mobilisation of ethnicity during the last period of imperial rule. This points back to the paradox of Ethiopian nationhood: while 28 chapter two assimilation into the core culture allowed participation in the national political system, this assimilation could not be done without a complete subordination of one’s own origin, culture, and religion. This, according to Clapham, “fostered a level of resistance which few other African states have had to face” (1988, 25). The exploitative economic structures under imperial rule resembled those of a feudal system in some respects. Like the European feudal lords, the Ethiopian landlords depended on the control of arable land and peasant labour to gain political power. Through the grant of personal fiefs, they acquired the power to dominate the peasantry by collecting tribute in kind and in labour. But in most cases the fief holders did not own the land of the peasants they controlled, and peasants maintained formal possession of the land they worked. Another non- feudal aspect of the Ethiopian system was that the right to personal fiefs was not completely hereditary, but was subject to the emperor’s appointment (Clapham 1988; Donham 1986). This created a complex web of personal loyalty lines across the state, which in the short run secured the position of the emperor. In the long run, however, it undermined the emperor’s ability to build institutions which could handle the larger movements and organisations that came out of the modernisation process. In the final years of imperial rule, Haile Selassie realised that the exploitative land ownership system had to be reformed. A committee decided in 1965 that fees and labour services should be abolished, and the intermediary role of the tribute collectors was reduced by making peasants pay tax directly to the state (Bahru Zewde 1991). These reforms challenged the position of the regional landlords, but they did little to ease the peasants’ burdens. The emperor failed to solve the fundamental contradiction of the economic system, but his actions weakened the personal loyalty of the landlords, his most important allies.

Attempts to redefine the state: Class versus ethnicity

The political, cultural, and economic structures of the imperial regime produced a level of alienation and exploitation that favoured the out- break of both class and ethnic confrontations. From the 1960s onward, an urban class-oriented opposition asserted itself. The earliest protests against Haile Selassie’s government were organised by young elites, federalism the ethiopian way 29 many of whom had gone abroad for education financed by scholar- ships from the emperor himself. After living for a time in Europe or America, they came home with the realisation of how economically and politically backward Ethiopia really was (Balsvik 2007). They pointed to the stark contrast between Ethiopia’s proud history of winning battles against European colonisers and its miserable level of development; even African colonies were ahead of Ethiopia in the 1950s. Another provocative contrast was the gap between the high living of Haile Selassie’s courts and nobility and the destitution of the masses: “rarely was poverty combined with such pride, pomp and pretension as in Imperial Ethiopia” (Balsvik 2007, 17). In large annual demonstrations, the student movement called for land reform and eradication of the ‘feudal’ system. But despite their focus on rural poverty and unjust distribution of land, the first revolutionaries never attempted to create alliances with underprivileged groups in the peripheral areas; indeed, they were anxious to distance themselves from the rural backward- ness of the countryside (Messay Kebede 2008). This created a political mobilisation different from the African decolonisation struggle, in which urban and rural forces fought together under the common umbrella of nationalism.

The class-oriented opposition From the end of the 1960s, the student movement’s call for land reform was coupled with attacks on Amhara supremacy and on the forced assimilation policies of the imperial regime. Inspired by Sta- lin’s and Lenin’s work on the question of nationalities in Russia, the students demanded equality for all ethnic groups and liberation from the superimposed Amhara culture. One of the first written expressions of this stance is Wallelign Mekonnen’s article titled “The Question of Nationalities”, published in the student pamphlet Struggle in 1969 (see Balsvik 2007). Together with the Eritrean struggle for independence in 1961, this ideological input convinced the students of the importance of national self-determination within the frame of a socialist state. The most ethnically conscious students were from the northern Tig- ray province (J. Young 1997). The Tigrayans had from the time of the Axum dynasty in the fourth century competed with the Amhara for dominance of the Abyssinian highlands. In the last half of the nineteenth century, Tigrayan power diminished as the political centre moved southward to Addis Ababa and Shewan kings attained 30 chapter two power. In the 1960s, Tigrayan students came to see the degradation and underdevelopment of their region as an expression of exclusion from the Amhara-dominated state bureaucracy (Kiflu Tadesse 1998). By the end of the 1960s, an unofficial student organisation exclusively for Tigrayans was established, and it became the first political pre- cursor to the current power holder in Ethiopia, the Tigray People’s Liberation Front. Notwithstanding the student movement’s consensus on address- ing the nationality question, a schism developed between those who argued that the revolution should focus on class and those who were preoccupied with the cause of ethnic liberation. The two major socialist parties that were established just before the coup in 1974, the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party (EPRP) and the All-Ethiopia Socialist Movement (MEISON), addressed class contradictions first and foremost. According to this view, oppression of the various ethnic groups by the Amhara elite had its roots in the class basis of the old regime. Removing this class exploitation would solve the nationality question, and nationalities could then be recognised, claim an equal place in the Ethiopian state, and even have the right to secede. The right to secession was, however, a tactical concession, as the socialist parties believed that once the old regime was removed and replaced with a Communist party committed to ending national exploitation, there would be no need for secession (J. Young 1997). Members of the Tigrayan movement argued on the contrary that the class contradiction could only be solved through national liberation struggles by each oppressed ethnic group. It was the class-oriented faction that emerged victorious from the coup d’état. Through what has been described as a creeping coup, a group within the armed forces (the Derg, Amharic for ‘committee’) took power in September 1974. Initially swearing loyalty to the throne and espousing a nationalist ideology, the Derg gradually turned to Marxism-Leninism as a guiding ideology for transformation of the imperial state. Influenced by the radical student movement, the new power holders launched reforms of the exploitative landlord system. The Derg believed that by redistributing land, they could eradicate class exploitation and thereby remove the root cause of nationality conflicts. Beginning in March 1975, the state confiscated both rural and urban land and set up peasant associations and urban dwellers’ associations (kebele in Amharic) to redistribute the properties. A ‘development through cooperation’ campaign, known as zemacha, federalism the ethiopian way 31 sent around 60,000 university and secondary school students to the countryside to bring the revolution to the people (Balsvik 2007, 52). They participated in various developmental and literacy activities and helped organise the peasant associations. To the common Ethiopian, the zemacha, together with the land reform, was one of the most visible early outcomes of the revolution.

Consequences of the Derg’s nationality policy: What is Ethiopia? Rhetorically, the Derg recognised the equality of all Ethiopian nationality groups. But a genuine recognition of national self-determination appeared to conflict with the strong pan-Ethiopian nationalism that the Derg put forth from the beginning. Its slogan Ethiopia tikdem! (‘Ethiopia first’ in Amharic) expressed the priorities of the new regime: unity and preservation of the state (Markakis 1987). After a few years of attempted secular nationalism, the Derg leader, Mengistu Haile Mariam, reconnected with the Orthodox Church, which shared the government’s vision of the ‘Ethiopian nation’; Orthodox Christians became important allies in Mengistu’s efforts to stop the spread of Protestantism, which was defined as a foreign religion. From 1978 on, Mengistu launched a campaign against Protestant churches, and conversion to a Christian faith other than the Orthodox was tantamount to rejecting Ethiopian nationality (Donham 1999, 142). But the new nationalism had to find a way to address issues of national equality, since the old nationalism was so much based on the superiority of one group over the others. The attempt to redefine Ethiopian nationalism away from its focus on Amharic language and culture created confusion about what it meant to be an Ethiopian and contributed to a new ethnic discourse that questioned the fundamental issue of Ethiopian statehood: One the one hand, the revolution glorified and redeemed the nation. Now, at last, Ethiopia would be liberated, would come into her own. On the other hand, how the nation was to be defined was by no means clear. Just what was ‘Ethiopia’? (Donham 1999, 129) Although the Derg had carried out a genuine revolution by capturing the state and changing the class system through land reform, it nonetheless preserved the old notion of the state, based on Orthodox Christianity. The land reform rectified the issue of land, but it did not prevent the growth of ethnic political mobilisation against the central core. The Derg’s new policies failed to prove that ethnicity could be 32 chapter two reduced to a mere class matter. The failure of this project in turn created the situation that the Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary Demo- cratic Front inherited in 1991 and attempted to solve through ethnic federalism.

The EPRDF’s ethnic reconstruction: Ideological and political motivations

The Tigray People’s Liberation Front, which became the most prominent ethnic-based opposition to the military regime, shared the Derg’s view that there was a connection between ethnic and class exploitation, but it disagreed on the causal line and effects of this relationship. Similar to the leaders of the EPRP and MEISON, the TPLF leaders were Marxist-Leninists and were influenced by Stalin’s views on how to govern a multiethnic state. They shared the conviction that a strong socialist party should lead the transformation of the state to cater for the interests of all nationalities. But the TPLF leaders envisioned struggle for the liberation of the nationalities as a precondition for revolutionary transformation (Balsvik 1985; Merera Gudina 2006). Although the Derg had relied on the support of the radical student movement to take power, it soon launched campaigns to get rid of opponents and possible challengers to the revolutionary regime. In the Red Terror of 1976–78, the regime targeted supporters of the EPRP, killing tens of thousands of students and intellectuals (Tronvoll, Schaefer, and Girmachew Alemu Aneme 2009). Although MEISON was spared in this campaign, its members were later excluded from the circles of power and imprisoned or forced into exile. But the Derg still exploited the radical ideology for all it was worth, and its policy towards ethnic groups was to allow, and even to stimulate, cultural articulation of ethnicity. In 1983 it established the Institute for the Study of Ethiopian Nationalities in order to provide the government with more information about various ethnic groups and plan the process of drafting a new constitution that would include provisions concerned with the country’s ethnic diversity. In the Derg’s Constitution of 1987, Ethiopia was recognised as a multinational state. According to this Constitution, five of the 30 administrative regions, including Eritrea, Dire Dawa, Tigray, Assab, and Ogaden, gained autonomous status. But the powers enjoyed by these regions were strictly delegated and were not protected by any constitutional guarantees. federalism the ethiopian way 33

Along with the new Constitution, the Derg established a so-called civilian government led by a new political party, the Workers’ Party of Ethiopia (WPE). The Derg’s undisputed leader, Mengistu Haile Mar- iam, became chairman of the party and president of Ethiopia. Under the tight control of the WPE, national groups gradually became even more suppressed and less empowered than previously. But the new autonomy structures and the promotion of ethnic cultural expressions fostered a further politicisation of ethnicity, lifting it up on the national political stage. Through the activities of the TPLF and other ethnically based liberation movements, ethnicity became the rallying point for opposition to the Derg. It was therefore inevitable that ‘the national question’ would be given prominence by the successor regime.

Victory of the nationality-oriented opposition In 1975 Tigrayan students started recruitment for the Tigray People’s Liberation Front, an exclusively Tigrayan organisation advocating national self-determination for the Tigray region (J. Young 1997). Leaders of the TPLF went back to the countryside of their home region, where they worked to mobilise the peasantry to support their guerrilla struggle against the Derg. The TPLF manifesto from 1976 called for an independent republic of Tigray, but this was later modified to specify cultural and political autonomy for the region within a united Ethiopia. There were competing factions within the movement which disagreed on whether the front should be exclusively Tigrayan with nationalist aims or an ideologically based nationwide organisation. In 1985 Meles Zenawi and his Marxist-Leninist League of Tigray emerged as the winner of the internal struggles. From then on, the TPLF aimed to build a multiethnic Marxist-Leninist party against the Derg, but only ethnic-based movements were allowed to participate (J. Young 1997). In a strategic alliance with the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF), the TPLF was able to take control of Tigray in 1989. That same year, it created a broader movement, the Ethiopian Peoples’ Rev- olutionary Democratic Front, which provided allies when the TPLF proceeded to Addis Ababa to topple the Derg. Initially, the EPRDF included the Ethiopian People’s Democratic Movement, an Amhara- based organisation which later changed its name to the Amhara National Democratic Movement (ANDM), and the Oromo People’s Democratic Organization (OPDO), created by the TPLF in 1990. The 34 chapter two

OPDO was largely made up of former soldiers of the Derg captured by the TPLF (J. Young 1997). This was also case with the fourth party in the coalition, the South Ethiopian Peoples Democratic Movement (SEPDM), which joined in 1994. Apart from being the creator of the new front, the TPLF dominated its armed forces by providing two- thirds of the soldiers (de Waal 1994). When the EPRDF arrived in Addis Ababa it met no resistance. The Mengistu regime had lost crucial external support when the Soviet Union dissolved. By the time the EPRDF entered the capital, Mengistu had fled to Zimbabwe, aided by the United States. Negotiations hosted by the United States and the United Kingdom started in London. Ulti- mately the Americans backed a new Ethiopian government led by the TPLF/EPRDF and an independent Eritrea controlled by the EPLF. After taking power, the EPRDF modified its Marxist-Leninist stance and officially abandoned its admiration for Albanian socialism, which the party leaders had proclaimed until 1989 (J. Young 1997). The party declared its commitment to ‘revolutionary democracy’ and a collective mobilisation of the people. Revolutionary democracy was not to be equated with liberal democracy, as defined by the West. The EPRDF believes that for democracy to be genuine, it should be based on communal collective participation in which representation is not individual but is based on consensus (Vaughan and Tronvoll 2003). Nevertheless, concepts like ‘good governance’ and ‘economic liberalism’ became part of their vocabulary, in large part to please the international diplomatic and donor community. And while the party still called for the introduction of a federal system based on the principle of national self-determination, it no longer cast this explicitly as part of a revolutionary struggle. Instead, the EPRDF leaders argued that ethnic federalism was an inevitable response to the legacy of ethnic domination and marginalisation in the history of the Ethiopian state. Because of the suppression of ethnic groups in the past, a new system of governance had to take into account the ethnic aspects of state organisation—and this necessarily implied restructuring the state along ethnic lines.

Stalin’s legacy Some scholars have argued that the ideological background to the federal model in Ethiopia is not necessarily the Soviet model; the EPRDF could also have looked at experiences of multinational federations in the West when the system of ethnic federalism was moulded (Kymlicka federalism the ethiopian way 35

2006). But despite the party’s attempts to tone down its socialist past, there is no doubt that the TPLF as a guerrilla movement was inspired by the Stalinist theory of nationalities. After taking power, the front continued to believe that ethnicity was a natural and efficient principle on which to organise and mobilise the people as long as this mobilisation was led by a strong vanguard party (Clapham 2006; Vaughan 2003). A clear indication that the TPLF continued to be inspired by the Soviet system and the Soviet understanding of the ‘nationality question’ is that Ethiopian Constitution of 1995 gives ‘nations, nationalities and peoples’ the right to secession in Article 39(1). No other current constitution incorporates this right, although the Canadian system has allowed secession as an option in referenda on the status of Quebec (Hechter 2000). The only parallel to Ethiopia’s constitutionally guaranteed right to secession is found in the former Soviet Union, where the federation’s various republics had a constitutional right to secede, although secession was never tried or even made possible in practice (Smith 1995). In justifying the introduction of ethnic federalism, the EPRDF/TPLF leader and current prime minister of Ethiopia, Meles Zenawi, claimed that all they were trying to do was “to stop the war and to prevent a new one erupting”. He maintained that ethnic federalism was the only way to restructure the country democratically, enhancing the political participation of the Ethiopian population and giving ethno-regional rights to previously oppressed peoples or nationalities (Vaughan 1994). Meles Zenawi’s argument in defence of ‘national self-determination’ is thus in line with the pro-federal view set forth by some proponents of the institutional approach to the management of ethnic diversity, as described in chapter 1. He apparently assumed that institutionally restructuring the state into an ethnic-based federation would promote regional autonomy that in turn would reduce the demand for sovereignty (or secession) and mitigate tensions between ethnic groups and the state, as well as between different ethnic groups.

Ethnicity as an instrument to maintain unity and control The EPRDF’s desire to break with the past was likely motivated by more than its stated intention to remedy the injustices done against ethnic groups and prevent future ethnic conflicts. As a new power holder, the EPRDF needed to clear the ground and eliminate the influence of previous rulers by creating a completely new state structure. In comparative studies of states which have introduced autonomy 36 chapter two solutions for their subnational groups, it has been shown that the prospects of establishing autonomy arrangements are strongest when the state undergoes a regime change (Ghai 2000, 14). This is because the new leaders who are in charge of the transition may be opposed to the previous centralised system, and they may need to find new allies, to be secured by the promise of autonomy. This was the case in Ethio- pia, where the launch of federalism enabled the new EPRDF regime to carry out a complete restructuring of the state aimed at overcoming the Amhara hegemony and providing a structure in which the EPRDF could govern without interference from the old elite (Abbink 1995; J. Young 1998). In line with this argument, it has been claimed that the TPLF’s only priority after the fall of the old regime was to stay in power and maintain the control over other opposition forces that they had gained through military struggles. After many years of war between the Derg- controlled central state and ethnic liberation movements, ethnicity had become a political force that could not be removed or ignored. Thus, a TPLF-controlled centralised unitary state without ethnic concessions would have been vulnerable to the same ethnic revolts that had brought down the previous regimes. In order to stay in power the party needed to reorganise the state, and ethnic division of the country under a federal system served this purpose (Ottaway 1995). As a minority government, the TPLF saw ethnic federalism as an efficient tool to ‘divide and rule’ (Poluha 1998). Viewed from this perspective, the launch of ‘self-determination for nationalities’ did not only reflect ideological conviction or a desire to pacify ethnic wars, but served as an instrument by which the new power holders could secure their control of the state apparatus.

The EPRDF’s approach to ethnicity: Instrumental use, primordial definition

As pointed out by Vaughan (2003, 86), the Stalinist understanding of ethnic identities, which undergirded the TPLF/EPRDF’s ideas of ‘national self-determination’, incorporates two contradictory elements. The first element can be equated to what I have defined as the instrumentalist approach: the notion that ethnicity is malleable and can be manipulated and mobilised for political ends. Ethnic identities are particularly useful in this endeavour, since they are based on mobili- federalism the ethiopian way 37 sation from the inside, relying on people’s own cultural traditions and knowledge systems. This contradicts the second element of the Stalinist understanding, which reflects a primordial approach to ethnicity: a belief that the criteria for establishing ‘nations, nationalities, and peoples’ are objectively and externally identifiable, based on fixed characteristics that can be ascribed from outside, without the involvement or self-reflection of members of the ethnic groups. In this regard, it is considered sensible and justifiable that the vanguard party, from outside, can grant self-determination to ethnic groups which have fulfilled the criteria set by the party. This contradictory understanding of ethnic groups has shaped the EPRDF’s policy of ethnic federalism in a peculiar way. Self-rule for ethnic groups is not granted because ‘self-determination for the nationalities’ is an end in itself, but because ethnic self-rule is recognised as the most efficient way to mobilise the community, neutralise possible separatist movements, and foster unity and integration. This reflects an instrumental understanding of ethnicity: ethnic identity is not valued for its own sake, or because it is a category which exists independent of the political mobilisation of it, but because it is useful as a tool for achieving other aims. Although the EPRDF leaders today do not state explicitly that ethnicity is useful only for political mobilisation, they still go far in acknowledging that it was chosen as a means to reach another end goal, the unity and integrity of the Ethiopian state: [Ethnicity] was used for that moment to initiate the spirit of struggle. It was a strategy, not an end in itself. The end goal was to build unity with the acceptance of difference. (Interview with member of Consti- tutional Committee, House of Federation, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:170) Despite this instrumental view of ethnicity, the EPRDF-created Consti- tution defines ethnic groups as clearly distinguishable cultural groups, harkening back to the primordial definition of ethnicity. Article 39(10) of the Ethiopian Constitution defines a nationality as a group of people who have or share a large measure of a common culture or similar customs, mutual intelligibility of language, belief in a common or related identities, a common psychological make-up, and an identifiable, predominantly contiguous territory. (Constitution of the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, 1994) This definition gives the interpreters of the Constitution (i.e., the House of Federation, the constitutional interpretative body) the right 38 chapter two to decide, from outside, which congregations of people will be entitled to the status of ethnic group and hence who has the right to self- determination. The criteria focus on primordial traits—inborn common culture, customs and language, psychological makeup and identities, and fixed boundaries around each group—and all traits are expected to be easily identifiable from the outside. It could be argued that the EPRDF’s adoption of the Stalinist approach to ethnicity implied an awareness of class tension within ethnic groups, and that this means that the EPRDF does not look upon ethnic groups as monolithic, homogenous units. I would argue that even if the class perspective was a part of the EPRDF’s initial Stalin- ist approach, it is not reflected in any of the EPRDF’s practical policies towards nationalities or ethnic groups. The Constitution contains no mention of class or other nonethnic cleavages, only of ethnicity. Its definition of nationality is based on a primordial approach to ethnicity, seeing ethnic groups as homogenous and fixed, equivalent to unified political units. In addition, the EPRDF’s idea of class seems also to diverge from the Western or the Stalinist version of the concept. In the Ethiopian context, class is more a matter of rural versus urban, farmer versus middle class, ethnic versus pan-Ethiopian or nonethnic (and in practice often Amhara). The peasantry was mobilised on the basis of ethnicity, which also became the basis for political participation and representation. Class is thereby channelled into the ethnic- nonethnic cleavage, which at the end makes it difficult to pay attention to intra-ethnic class struggles. So in a sense, the EPRDF did see class distinctions, meaning socioeconomic divisions, within ethnic groups, and in this way saw these groups not as monolithic units. But when it came to cultural divisions and concern for minorities within the ethnic groups, the TPLF and the EPRDF had no interest. As Tronvoll has demonstrated in his report on minorities in Ethiopia, the EPRDF argues that there are no minorities in Ethiopia: there are only ethnic groups (Tronvoll 2000). As long as the ethnic groups are treated and represented equally, there is no minority problem. This is also what I found in my research in Sidama and Wolayta: the TPLF, unaware of the internal conflicts within the two groups, assumed that they could be mobilised in coherent ways. This paradoxical combination—using ethnicity as an instrument to promote unity while at the same time defining ethnic groups primordially—has enabled the ruling party to manage ethnic diversity according federalism the ethiopian way 39 to its own desires, but it has also had unforeseen effects which have been difficult for the ruling party to handle. This is particularly true in the multiethnic Southern region of the Ethiopian federation, as described in chapters 4, 5, and 7. The EPRDF’s instrumental approach to ethnicity implies that ethnic political mobilisation should only be allowed when it serves the end goal of unity and integration; this in turn provides party leaders justification for curbing ethnic mobilisation which does not serve this aim. If self-determination leads to disintegration and undermines the country’s unity, self-rule for ethnic groups should be denied. This contrasts sharply with the all-embracing right to self-determination that the Constitution awards to ethnic groups defined along primordial lines. In practice, however, the all-inclusive and primordial definition of ethnicity in the Constitution has led an increasing number of peoples, or in some cases groups of elites, to claim ethnic status, even if they have not been perceived as ethnic entities in the past; this has led to apparent ethnic political mobilisation where no such thing has taken place in the past. The logic behind these new ethnic claims appears to run as follows: the Constitution gives the right to self-determination to those who meet specified criteria, and therefore it is justifiable and legitimate for us to demand self-determination as long as we see our- selves as fulfilling the criteria that the Constitution sets forth. Another effect of giving the right to self-determination to ‘every nation, nationality and people’ is that this right is accorded to all groups externally defined as ethnic, including groups that never mobilised to claim such a right and even those that never saw themselves as nations. In this way, exclusive ethnic identities are imposed on peoples or individuals who previously had no, or mixed, ethnic affinity. All Ethiopian citizens, including those who live outside their ‘ethnic territory’, are classified according to ethnic category when they obtain the official identification card, which is needed to gain access to public services. As pointed out by Kymlicka, this leads to a narrowing of people’s choices and identifications: In Ethiopia, [. . .], multination federalism was adopted for (or shall we say imposed on?) groups that had not yet expressed a democratic desire for it. And now the government is trying to persuade these groups that they should identify themselves as ‘nations’ or ‘peoples’ with ‘rights of self-determination’ (rather than, say, as branches of a larger group, or as a loose confederation of clans, or as communal contenders, or as trans border pastoralists). (Kymlicka 2006, 56–57) 40 chapter two

Particularly in the early period of the transitional process, when the EPRDF was struggling to clear the ground after defeating the Derg, this kind of ethnic political mobilisation was seen as useful in achieving the ruling party’s end goal. But the rapid increase in ethnic claims from the mid-1990s onward created managerial and resource problems for the EPRDF. The party thus felt it necessary to reject many of the claims on the grounds that they did not serve the overall aim of integration. In many instances the government has rejected claims by saying that the issue of self-determination for the group at hand is not ‘an identity issue’, thus rejecting the group’s primordial status and claiming that local elites had tried to mobilise the people in order to gain administrative benefits. This is patent in southern Ethiopia today: although the Constitution gives the right of self-rule to all those who fulfil explicit criteria, in practice the ruling party recognizes the right very inconsistently, according to political circumstance and what best serves the interest of the party. This produces conflicts and tensions between the self-proclaimed ethnic groups and the regional government, as well as competition between different ethnic groups that have gained different administrative statuses. There is an underlying contradiction: the primordial definition of ethnic groups in the Constitution gives an all-inclusive right to self-determination, which stimulates new groups to advance claims to ethnic self-rule. But as not all such claims are in the ruling party’s interest, some will therefore be denied, a situation which again produces political struggles.

The idiosyncrasy of the Ethiopian federal system The concept of ethnic groups as objectively and externally identifiable, combined with the assumption that every citizen is an ethnic citizen, makes the Ethiopian system very different from other federal systems in the world. It also deviates from what is commonly suggested in theoretical debates on federalism and ethnicity. A common argument in such discussions is that when ethnicity is the only officially acknowledged identity, other identities are downgraded. This may limit individual flexibility and choice and encourage parochialism and essentialism. Smith (1995) argues that federal models based on ethnicity can be justifiedonly when steps are taken to protect the basic rights of those citizens who have a different commitment to ethnicity, or no commitment to it at all. This provision is not in place in the Ethio- pian model. According to the Constitution, there is no super-national federalism the ethiopian way 41 category and it is therefore difficult to formally claim an all-Ethiopian or mixed ethnic identity. Compared to other federal systems in the world, the Ethiopian system appears even more idiosyncratic. No other federation has a constitution which gives a general right to self-determination to ‘all nations and nationalities’. In Western federal constitutions, the right to self-rule is given to specifically defined groups through ‘case-specific reforms’, or provisions tailored for particular groups and territories as an outcome of their democratic mobilisation. In practice, certain groups that have mobilised explicitly for the right to govern themselves have gained this right after being recognised by the central government (Kymlicka 2006). The Ethiopian federal model also deviates from other models by aiming to ensure that each major national group is organised into a separate regional state, making up the dominant majority of that state. In most federations, the dominant groups control at least two and most commonly several subunits, and the aim is to prevent administrative lines from paralleling the ethnic ones. In the Nigerian federation, for example, the three ethno-regional units of the First Republic were subdivided in order to prevent one group from dominating the whole federation and minorities within the three units from suffering under a large majority (Horowitz 1985). In Nigeria, as well as in other federations, the states have also avoided imposing ethnic names on the subunits and have instead promoted ethnically neutral names which reflect topography and history in order to avoid encouraging ethnic claims (Kymlicka 2006). In Ethiopia, by contrast, each regional state is named for its dominant ethnic group. The Ethiopian Constitution’s definition of ethnic group also overlooks the most common understanding of ethnicity in the social sciences today, the constructivist understanding. As discussed in chapter 1, there is a consensus across the social sciences that ethnicity cannot be defined by fixed, inborn, and natural criteria, but is an outcome of self-ascription and selective interpretation of meaningful cultural and historical experiences. This conception entails assumptions that both the content and the boundaries of ethnic groups are fluid and flexible, that the salience of ethnic identities varies across time, and that individuals may change their ethnic group membership according to situation. With the Ethiopian Constitution’s stress on fixed criteria such as common culture, language, psychological makeup, and identifiable territory, there is no room for seeing ethnic groups as flexible and malleable. 42 chapter two

The contradiction between the primordial definition inherent in the Constitution and the constructed nature of ethnicity is evident in the realities on the ground in the Ethiopian federation. The Constitution presumes that ethnic groups live in geographically concentrated areas, are homogenous, have common interests, and can be easily equated with political units (Poluha 1998). This is far from the reality in Ethiopian society, where marriages across ethnic lines are common and ethnic groups have intermingled, creating large ethnically mixed populations. The Amhara in particular, and to some extent also the Oromo, are spread all over the country and have intermarried with the local population wherever they have settled. Hence, a large share of the Ethiopian population cannot be classified as belonging to one ethnic group or another, or they can be said to belong to several, as memberships in ethnic groups are not mutually exclusive.

Formal and informal powers: Institutions and the central party apparatus

The Ethiopian Constitution includes an impressive list of individual and group rights in line with most of the international human rights conventions in force. Also remarkable is that the Constitution gives wide-ranging powers to the regional level of government, including the right to secession, which minimises the central government’s ability to intervene in subnational affairs. In light of these constitutional provisions, it is tempting to conclude that the EPRDF has carried out a complete restructuring of the Ethiopian state since taking power from the centralised Derg regime in 1991, resulting in a comparatively decentralised federal system. The formal institutional framework of the Ethiopian federation was launched through what seems, from the outside, to be a democratic process. But when one examines the way these constitutional proclamations and the institutional framework were introduced and are implemented in practice, it is evident that the EPRDF government represents more continuities than breaks with the old regime.

A transition in the hands of the EPRDF The idea of ‘national self-determination’ was first launched at the transitional conference in 1991, soon after the EPRDF came to power. The new Constitution, drafted in 1994 and ratified in 1995, legalised the system. federalism the ethiopian way 43

Although the transitional conference included a wide spectrum of political parties, their views were hardly taken into consideration, and the EPRDF’s agenda for the transitional period was adopted largely unmodified (Vaughan 1994). Similarly, the EPRDF totally dominated the drafting and ratification of the new Constitution. The introduction of self-determination for nationalities was done without the benefit of broad consultation with the Ethiopian people, and there was no bar- gain between competing political forces, which federal theory holds to be an essential part of a sustainable federal system (Riker 1964). This again points to the problems of sustainability inherent in the Ethio- pian federal project. Federal solutions that have been imposed from above have less chance of success than those that have been negotiated in a democratic and participatory way (Ghai 2000, 18). The military superiority of the TPLF and the control that the party imposed during the transitional period left the opposition unable, both physically and politically, to reject the federal solution. In the end, the EPRDF’s total dominance in the introduction of the new political order severely damaged the legitimacy of the federal arrangement. The Ethiopian federal system is highly centralised, and regional governments are extremely dependent on the central level in making their decisions and running their daily affairs. The explanation lies in part with the institutional framework itself: it provides for a strong executive with few checks and balances by other institutions, and the revenue sources that the Constitution grants for the regions are relatively meagre. But the major explanation for the continued centralisation is the nature of the ruling party itself. Its internal organisation, featuring ‘democratic centralism’ and ‘accountability upwards’, and the blurred distinction between the party and the state both contribute to a situation in which the ruling party is able to closely control regional and even local affairs. The main institutional features of the federal system as defined by the Constitution contrast in some respects with the internal workings of the EPRDF party and its ability to intervene, often using informal means, in the running of the federation at all levels.

The formal institutional framework The institutional framework of the Ethiopian federal system includes two contradictory elements. According to the Constitution, the regional governments have wide powers to run their own affairs and implement 44 chapter two their own policies. But these powers are undermined by the meagre financial resource base of the regions and the strong powers of the central executive. Although all nine member states of the Ethiopian federation have executive, legislative, and judicial powers, the exercise of these powers is severely restricted by the fact that the federal government controls the lion’s share of revenues in the country, and the regional states rely on federal grants to perform their duties (Eshetu Chole 1994). Another factor restricting regional autonomy is that the regional governments must follow national standards on health, education, and development, which are formulated by the federal government (Article 51(3)). The Ethiopian system is formally parliamentary, but it also has elements of presidential systems. The highest authority of the federal state is the House of Peoples’ Representatives (HPR), whose members are elected by a plurality of votes cast in general elections every five years (Article 54(1)). But 20 of the seats are exempted from the system of majority-based, one-member constituencies and are reserved for officially recognised ethnic groups with less than 100,000 people, in order to ensure minority representation. The relationship between the House of Peoples’ Representatives and the executive is regulated by parliamentary principles, and this minimises the separation of powers and the checks and balances that are seen, for example, in the U.S. Constitution (Brietzke 1997). The prime minister has more power than is common in parliamentary systems because he controls the army and because the council of ministers is accountable to him and not to the HPR. All this means that the central executive’s powers are largely unrestrained by other institutions. The House of Federation (HF) is the second or upper chamber of the parliament. In conventional federal systems, the second chamber serves as the representative institution for the regional units. In the Ethiopian system, the HF has essentially the same function, but its makeup is formulated slightly differently in the Constitution: the HF is composed not of representatives from the federal units but of “representatives of Nations, Nationalities and Peoples” (Article 61(1)). All officially recognised ethnic groups have special representation in the House of Federation. Each nationality has one representative plus one additional per million population. The number of nationalities in the House continues to grow as new groups claim representation. For example, the Silte group gained local administration and representation in the HF in 2000 after successfully separating from the larger Gurage group in the Southern region of the country. federalism the ethiopian way 45

The House of Federation has the power to interpret the Constitution, a power which normally is given to a constitutional court. The stated reason for giving the HF this power is that the new regime wanted the nationalities to have direct influence on their Constitution in order to compensate for the lack of recognition of nationalities’ rights in the past. Thus the Constitution “should not be interpreted academically, but by the nationalities themselves, in order to prevent the return of domination of one group over the others” (interview with member of Constitutional Committee, House of Federation, Addis Ababa, Octo- ber 2006, nb 10:13). This attempted solution, however, meant leaving constitutional interpretation in the hands of a political body that has been dominated by a single party since the fall of the Derg in 1991. The impartiality and fairness of the process should therefore be questioned. A common view held by students of comparative federalism is that “an independent dispute settlement mechanism is essential to the long term success [of federal systems]” (Ghai 2000, 20). This function is normally exercised by the courts, which interpret the Constitu- tion and solve constitutional disputes. Ethiopian Prime Minister Meles Zenawi has nevertheless defended the political nature of the House of Federation: With regard to an independent Constitutional Court, the interpretation of the Constitution is an inherently political issue. [. . .] At a political level, we do not see any reason why our process of Constitutional order would be inferior to any other and as a result we have no plans to change what we have, and we do not believe it is a problem as far as respect of the Constitutional rights of the people is concerned. Giving it [the responsibility of constitutional interpretation] to a few judges does not make it more democratic in my view than what we have now. What we do not have in this country is a court which decides whether laws passed are consistent with the Constitution or not. That is left to a political body composed of representatives of the nationalities of Ethiopia. And we feel that this is the right approach and we feel it is a democratic approach. (Prime minister and EPRDF leader Meles Zenawi, quoted in the Ethiopian English-language weekly newspaper The Reporter, 7 October 2006) The House of Federation is also responsible for dealing with issues pertaining to the nationalities and federal-regional relations, but unlike the arrangement in other parliamentary systems, the second chamber has no power to check the first chamber or the executive or to propose laws for the federation. With only two sessions annually (Article 67), the HF has little influence on the conduct of daily federal affairs. This implies that the regions, through the House of Federation, do not have 46 chapter two any voice in debating general policies and legislative initiatives at the federal level. All in all, the institutional framework of the Ethiopian federation provides broad space for action by a strong central executive led by the prime minister. He is subject to minimal controls and checks by the other institutions of the federation, such as the House of Peoples’ Representatives and the House of Federation. This essentially allows the party in power to implement its policies and pass legislation without consulting the regional governments, other political parties, or the citizenry at large.

The centralised organisation of the ruling party The EPRDF maintains an internal organisation which sustains its control of the formal institutional framework, political opponents, and the electorate at large. It contributes to a concentration of power in the hands of the central leadership in Addis Ababa and enables the leadership to intervene in regional party organisations and regional government bodies. As mentioned, the TPLF was instrumental in creating all the other members of the EPRDF coalition: the Oromo’s OPDO, the Amhara’s ANDM, and the southerners’ SEPDM. Parties affiliated to the EPRDF, and in most cases created or co-opted by them, run the remaining five regions. In this sense, the network of member and affiliate parties controls the governments in all the regional states of the federation. The centralised party system in Ethiopia thus differs from many other federal systems in which there may be no connection between national parties and regional parties and national parties often lack viable affiliates in particular locations (Ghai 2000, 13). This is seen in Canada and India, for example, where parties in power at the regional level often challenge the national parties, and this contributes to decentralisation, not centralisation, of the federal system. Reflecting the Marxist legacy of the liberation struggle, the EPRDF functions according to the principle of democratic centralism, in which party officials at all levels are accountable to higher levels of the hierarchy. This means that the EPRDF members and affiliates that govern the regions cannot take decisions on party matters without the approval of the central leadership. To reinforce this hierarchical structure, the EPRDF has informally deployed party cadres from the central party apparatus in all the regions throughout the post-Derg period. Officially known as ‘advisors’, they monitor and assist the EPRDF member parties or affiliates in the regions but do not hold any formal federalism the ethiopian way 47 positions or portfolios. Regional officials in the regular and formal administration are to a large extent accountable to these assigned party cadres and depend on them to remain in their positions (Aalen 2002a; Abbink 1997b; J. Young 1998). Another factor contributing to the strong position of the EPRDF is that the boundary between the party and the state bureaucracy is blurred. This enables the ruling party to utilise the state administration, from the federal level down to the local level, for its own purposes. During the last 10 to 15 years, a new system of sub-kebele structures has evolved throughout the country. Through this system, local administrators, who are all part of the party hierarchy, are able to control the rural population all the way down to five-household units (information obtained from interviews conducted in Addis Ababa, March 2005). The court system is also under severe pressure from the ruling party and has a hard time defending decisions which go against the interests of the EPRDF. Well-established perceptions about the state among ordinary Ethi- opians further support this purposeful blurring of the line between party and state. In the Amharic language, there is no distinction between ‘the ruler’, ‘the government’, and ‘the state’—all of them are described as ye mengist. This is a legacy of the imperial regimes, in which the emperor was the state and could not be held accountable by anyone, least of all his subjects. The conflation of state and rulers was maintained during the Derg regime, although in this period it was the state and the Workers’ Party that were considered one and the same. While it can be argued that the EPRDF is not to blame for this common misperception, the party and its leaders at all government levels have made use of it to sustain their power. This is seen at election time, when voters understand that if they do not vote for the ruling party, they could lose the public benefits and services to which they are entitled. Party agents, through their propaganda and actions, inform voters that the EPRDF and the state are one and the same and that failure to support the party/state will lead to exclusion from essential state benefits (Tronvoll and Aadland 1995; Aalen 2002b). The rule of a dominant party, with its centralised party structures and the blurred borders between state and party, undermines the federal division of power. It promotes upward accountability to the party organs rather than downward accountability to the people, organised by region, woreda (county), and kebele (lowest administrative unit). 48 chapter two

Regional and local self-rule is severely compromised, and ‘self- determination for the nationalities’ is more a paper provision than an operating principle of government practice. Scholars have compared this situation with those that prevailed in Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union: in each case the existence of an all-powerful socialist party deprived the federal subunits of democratic representation at the federal level and prevented them from exercising real self-government in their respective units (Clapham 2002, 2006). The situation in Ethiopia also provides evidence for the argument that the unofficial and informal aspects of politics matter more than formal institutions (Bayart 1993; Chabal and Daloz 1999; Helmke and Levitsky 2006), since the uninstitutionalised power politics of the centralised party apparatus appears to have more influence upon political outcomes than the formal institutional framework and constitutional provisions.

Authoritarianism, elections, and ethnicity

In my earlier writings on the Ethiopian federal system, I described the Ethiopian regime as a ‘dominant party state’ (Aalen 2002a), a ‘semi- authoritarian state’ (Aalen 2006), or an ‘electoral authoritarian state’ (Aalen and Tronvoll 2009). Although these labels may have different connotations for different people, they all underscore the hybrid nature of the Ethiopian state under the EPRDF. Ethiopia has adopted a democratic constitution and a form of multiparty elections normally associated with liberal democracies, but the government uses practices that are highly authoritarian, undermining basic human rights and using multiparty elections largely as a means to sustain its own power. These features are common to what political scientists call ‘hybrid regimes’ (Diamond 2002) or ‘electoral authoritarian states’ (Schedler 2002). Central to the understanding of Ethiopia’s hybrid nature is the role played by the ruling coalition, the EPRDF.

The 2005 elections: A liberalisation intermezzo In all elections held since the power shift in 1991, the EPRDF has emerged as the winner, taking a large majority of the votes despite the fact that other parties also have been invited to compete. In the first four elections (for local assemblies in 1992 and 2001 and for regional and general assemblies in 1995 and 2000), the opposition parties were initially willing to stand. But after serious intimidation, imprison- federalism the ethiopian way 49 ment of opposition candidates and voters, and unfair privileges for the ruling party in the campaigns and on voting day, most of them either chose to boycott the vote or withdrew from the process in the aftermath. The elections for the regional and national parliaments in 2005 initially diverged from this pattern. In the run-up to these elections, the opposition parties were able to campaign through the government- owned media for the first time, and two broad opposition coalitions took part in the election process, remaining on the ballot on polling day. One of them, the Coalition for Unity and Democracy (CUD), made unprecedented gains, winning a large majority in Addis Ababa and other major towns as well as one-third of the vote in the Amhara region. But the aftermath of the elections confirmed past patterns. The EPRDF was accused by the opposition, largely supported by international election monitors, of rigging the elections (European Union Election Observer Mission 2005), and the CUD accordingly decided to boycott parliament. The EPRDF thus emerged as the winner again, although with a much weaker endorsement than it had managed to manufacture in the previous elections. Protests against the alleged fraud broke out in Addis Ababa and other towns in June and November 2005, when more than 200 protesters were killed and tens of thousands of opposition members and supporters were detained. The government confirmed that 3,000 people were arrested in Addis Ababa in June (Information Minister Bereket Simon in Addis Tribune, 24 June 2005). Human Rights Watch and the Ethiopian Human Rights Council, among others, claimed that the numbers were much higher countrywide, with mass arrests in at least nine towns outside Addis Ababa (Human Rights Watch 2005). The government did not publish exact numbers of detainees after the November protests, but other sources reported more than 20,000 detainees in only one of the detention camps, the Dedesa camp in Oromiya (Sub-Saharan Informer, English-language biweekly, 18 November 2005). In the wake of the November protests, the government detained the CUD leadership, together with a number of independent journalists and civil society leaders. The charges against them included treason, inciting violence, and planning to commit genocide. The CUD leaders were finally released in September 2007 after signing a letter of confession in which they admitted, in part, to provoking the post-election turmoil. When one of the leaders, Birtukan Mediksa, later repudiated 50 chapter two this confession, she was rearrested. Since November 2005, most independent newspapers in the country have stopped publishing as their editors are imprisoned or have gone into hiding.

The CUD: A pan-Ethiopian challenger The issue of self-determination for national groups and the ethnically based federal system has been a major point of contention in Ethiopian politics in the post-Derg period. It was at the centre of the debates in the 2005 election campaign. The Coalition for Unity and Democracy is based on some of the same constituencies as the first strong opponent of the ethnic federal system, the All Amhara People’s Organisation (AAPO), established in 1992. One of the CUD’s original member parties, the All Ethiopia Unity Party (AEUP), was the direct successor of AAPO (the AAPO renamed itself AEUP in 2002). The AEUP was the largest party in the coalition, and its first chairman, Hailu Shawel, was also the chairman of the CUD. The CUD claims to favour a federal system, but not a federation structured on ethnic grounds; it therefore wants to abolish Article 39 of the Constitution. The other opposition coalition, the United Ethiopian Democratic Forces (UEDF), which consists of five domestic and nine diaspora parties, has taken a middle position on the question of nationalities’ rights. While favouring a political system based on ethnic distinctions, it opposes the right to secession. In the elections, the UEDF failed to capture as many votes as the CUD, and one of the explanations for this may be its stand on the issue of nationalities. In a polarised political environment, intermediate positions are always hard to communicate to voters, and the electorate may fail to see that a third policy alternative has something to offer. The emergence of a strong pan-Ethiopian party in the 2005 elections contributed to a revival of the EPRDF’s defence of ethnic federalism. Because of the CUD’s focus on a united Ethiopia, the EPRDF returned to its slogan of ‘liberation of nationalities’ that it had used just after taking power in 1991. This contrasts with the party’s practical policies of ‘national integration’ and containment of ‘narrow nationalism’ that we have seen since the mid-1990s. The campaigns and debates in the last weeks before the 2005 elections were marked by aggressive propaganda and hate speech, particularly from the ruling party in defence of nationalities’ rights and the ethnically based federal system. federalism the ethiopian way 51

The CUD became the main target of the propaganda. The EPRDF considered the CUD its strongest enemy because of the latter’s refusal to accept Article 39 of the Constitution. By taking this position, the CUD had attacked the raison d’être of the EPRDF’s political system— the rights of nationalities to self-determination, up to and including secession. When it became clear that the ‘anti-nationality’ CUD also had managed to mobilise people to vote for it, the party was no longer merely an ideological enemy but emerged as a real threat to the persistence of EPRDF rule. The EPRDF’s verbal attack on the CUD was twofold. First, CUD policies were described as a direct continuation of the oppressive policies of the previous Amhara-dominated regimes of Haile Selassie and the Derg. The EPRDF’s campaign on Ethiopian television featured examples of such rhetoric: CUD is not different from the mere Derg’s Workers’ Party. Thus they oppose Article 39 of the Constitution . . . CUD has planned to destroy this constitutional system and abolish the Constitution. (2 April 2005) War is their zeal and the Derg regime is the state that they want to reestablish. (15 April 2005) Second, and even more radically, the EPRDF depicted the CUD’s policy on the rights of national groups as an attempt to introduce to Ethiopia the genocidal policies of the Rwandan Interahamwe. This was the Hutu extremist militia that carried out the genocide of 800,000 Tutsi and moderate Hutu in Rwanda in 1994. Another EPRDF television spot asserted that the opposition parties, which are proponents of the Interahamwe, want to destroy differences and form mixtures. They raise conflicts between people. Voting for the opposition brings a worse genocide than that of Rwanda . . . If Interahamwe is voted in urban centres, cities will become arenas of chaos, development will stagnate, and genocide will take place. (22 April 2005) Amid these verbal attacks, members and supporters of the CUD and other opposition parties were harassed and detained, particularly in rural areas and in urban centres outside the capital. The ruling party’s use of the rhetoric of Interahamwe and genocide was an attempt to vilify the opposition, but it was also a move to wake up the ruling group’s own constituency in the Tigray region. As such, it strengthened anti-Tigrayan sentiments by reinforcing the image of 52 chapter two the Tigray group as standing alone against the rest of the Ethiopian people. There were also a few attempts to promote anti-Tigrayan feelings from the opposition side. Some statements by CUD representatives were interpreted as anti-Tigrayan, even though it was not clear whether the speakers intended them that way or not. An example of this was CUD representative Bedru Adem’s speech to a CUD mass rally one week before the elections in Addis Ababa. In front of a cheer- ing crowd of around two million people at the largest public square in the capital, he declared, “The ruling group should return to where they came from and be knocked out!” (Asqual, Amharic-language newspaper, 10 May 2005). In a context where anti-Tigrayan emotions ran high, this statement was easily interpreted as meaning that the TPLF and Tigrayans should give up national power, leave Addis Ababa, and go back to Tigray. As the increasing support for the CUD in most urban parts of Ethiopia became evident in the run-up to the election, the incumbent party tried to mobilise Tigrayans in order to contain the progress of the CUD and stay in power. So the TPLF sought to rally the people of Tigray by instilling a collective fear of losing ground if another party came to power: if you do not vote for us, you are doomed. The rhetoric painting the opposition as the Interahamwe of Ethiopia served to substantiate this logic: the Tigrayans, like the Tutsi of Rwanda, would be eradicated if the opposition came to power. Considering the incumbent’s clampdown on the leaders, members, and supporters of the CUD in the aftermath of the November protests, its rhetoric against the opposition in the pre-election period can be seen in yet another light. It seems that the harsh language in the pre- election campaign was intended not only to scare the electorate into voting for the ruling party, but also to legitimise a possible crackdown on the opposition after the elections. After election day, the government issued frequent warnings that it would not tolerate any attempts to foment chaos or anarchy or undermine the constitutional order. Some of the statements depicted the CUD and its members as extrem- ists plotting illegal acts, and the pre-election rhetoric portraying the CUD as the Interahamwe of Ethiopia reappeared. This verbal assault laid the groundwork for the arrests of CUD leaders and the charges of treason, violence, and genocide against them. In the government’s view, the proponents of anti-ethnic policies had to be restrained in order to save the country from descending into ethnic warfare. The aftermath of the 2005 elections confirms in many ways the EPRDF’s lack of will to permit genuine democracy in Ethiopia. It federalism the ethiopian way 53 demonstrates that the ruling party is willing to allow opposition only up to a certain point, that is, only as long as it does not pose a real danger to the EPRDF’s dominant position. “When you tie a hen with a long rope, she may think that she is released,” said Prime Minister Meles Zenawi in an interview on national television before the elections, quoting a traditional Amharic proverb (5 May 2005). He implied that the EPRDF had liberalised the conditions for the opposition ahead of the 2005 polls, allowing more room for movement but not opening up completely. Like other electoral authoritarian regimes, the EPRDF is determined to maintain the appearance of democracy without expos- ing itself to the political risks that free competition would entail. But in the polls, the opposition exploited the opening that was created, and contrary to the EPRDF’s expectations, the people followed, at least in urban areas, voting for the CUD. When the CUD leaders were released from prison in 2007, their party organisation was in disarray. The coalition soon split up, and some of the leaders went into exile. Remnants of the CUD joined parts of the UEDF in the Forum for Democracy and Justice (Medrek in Amharic) to contest the 2010 general elections. But the opposition again fell victim to government intimidation. The new coalition was not able to compete with the ruling party, and the EPRDF won all seats in parliament but one. The incumbent rulers thereby reestablished the complete hegemony that they lost temporarily in 2005. The hot debates and harsh crackdown surrounding the 2005 elections show that the issues of ethnic federalism and the survival of the EPRDF as a ruling party are closely linked. Federalism in Ethiopia is not a set of neutral institutions; rather, it is the EPRDF’s own system, which the party has used to legitimise both its capture of power and its attacks on enemies since taking power. Given the EPRDF’s ideological background, the post-election clampdown on the opposition should not come as a surprise. While giving lip service to democracy and human rights, the party remains committed to democratic centralism and convinced of its own rightful role as the engine of transformation in a multiethnic society. Following the logic of the institutional approach, which holds that institutions are the main determinants of political behaviour, one would expect the ethnic federal system of Ethiopia to produce the same political behaviour and outcome in all its communities. The interplay between a centralised, powerful party apparatus and the constitutional and formal institutional arrangements should lead to equally disempowered 54 chapter two regional and local political actors all over the country. Findings from the Southern region, however, indicate that this is not the case. Politi- cal actors in this region have attempted to use the constitutional all- inclusive right of national self-determination to fight for their rights. Although the ruling party has intervened to prevent some groups from exercising their rights, regional and local actors have shown through their actions that they are not passive recipients of directions from above; rather, they are active agents who attempt to create spaces for independent action that may go against the established institutions and power structures. My findings from Wolayta and Sidama, analysed in the following chapters, support this argument. Although these two communities exist under the same institutional and power regime of ethnic federalism, the actors in Sidama and Wolayta have created two fundamentally different expressions of ethnic political mobilisation. In Sidama, the mobilisation is divided between subgroups, while in Wolayta it has a unified and cohesive character. Much of the explanation can be found in the historical, social, and economic contexts of each group. Actors use these contexts purposefully when they engage in politics at the local and regional levels and in their interactions with actors at the national political level. CHAPTER THREE

THE HISTORICAL TRAJECTORIES OF LOCAL ETHNIC POLITIES: THE SIDAMA AND THE WOLAYTA

Local histories were never simply determined by the centre. What happened was also influenced by the organization of local societies and cultures, even the presence of local personalities. (Donham 1986, 44) As we have seen in chapter 2, the indigenous process of state building in Ethiopia differs from the common African pattern, in which creation of the state and nation was the result of colonial imposition. Ethiopian state building was nevertheless an exclusive and margin- alising process. It involved the forceful incorporation of peripheral peoples into the core Amhara culture, with the suppression of their own languages and cultures. As a result, the modern Ethiopian state has suffered from problems of integration and from the lack of an all- inclusive national identity. This chapter looks at the historical background of two of these peripheral peoples, the Sidama and the Wolayta. By analysing their traditional political organisations, their understanding of authority and leadership, and their experiences with central government during the previous regimes, we will come to a better understanding of how the current politics of ethnicity is created and implemented. With the constructivist approach to ethnicity as an analytical frame, I explore the cultural and historical basis for the development of ethnic consciousness in the two communities. Identifying the ‘cultural repertoire’ available to each group allows us to analyse how the actors in Sidama and Wolayta reinterpret the past in contemporary society. Like all peoples, the Sidama and the Wolayta construct their identities not strictly on the basis of historical fact, but by selecting and highlight- ing certain elements of their histories. Still, it is important to examine actual events in the two groups’ historical backgrounds in order to understand the range of experiences from which they can choose in the continuing construction of their identities. This chapter sketches out the major historical lines of the Wolayta and the Sidama and then looks at how they have reinvented or reinterpreted these histories to suit their present needs. While the two communities have had unique 56 chapter three trajectories, their many shared experiences underline the importance of understanding ‘ethnic groups’ as part of a wider regional context, and not as entities existing in isolation. The chapter is divided into four parts. The first part deals with the social and political organisation of the traditional polities of Sidama and Wolayta before their incorporation into the Ethiopian empire at the end of the nineteenth century. The second part discusses the impact on the traditional polities of three key historical events: the northern invasion by Emperor Menelik’s forces, the Italian occupation, and the return of the Amhara rulers after the Italians departed. The third part looks at what can be described as the ‘modernisation’ period in the two communities, when emerging Protestantism, economic change, and the socialist revolution all contributed to weakening traditional structures. The concluding part analyses how these historical events and cultural influences are interpreted and expressed in contemporary society by the actors in Sidama and Wolayta.

The Sidama and Wolayta polities: Decentralised unity versus divine kingship

The Sidama land and people are located in the central part of southern Ethiopia, and the current administrative centre of Sidama zone, Awassa, is 250 kilometres south of Addis Ababa. Situated between the Rift Valley lakes of Awassa and Abaya, the Sidama adjoin the Arsi Oromo to the north, the Guji-Oromo and Gedeo to the south, and the Jamjam to the east. The Wolayta land and people are located west of Sidama, and the current administrative centre of Wolayta zone is 470 kilometres from Addis Ababa. In addition to the Sidama in the east, neighbours of the Wolayta include the Gamo and Gofa to the south, the Dawro to the west, and the Hadiya and Kambata to the north.

The peoples and the areas: Myths of origin Both the Sidama and the Wolayta have contentious early histories, and different versions have been used for different political purposes. Adherents of the Greater Ethiopia tradition in history stress the medieval links between the south and the north, and they support Emperor Menelik’s justification for southward expansion by claiming that it was an attempt to restore old historical bonds between the Abyssinian kings and the southern kingdoms and tributaries. They also claim that the local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 57

5 SNNPRS administrative 17 6 subunits 10 7 1. Dawro 2. Wolayta 20 8 3. Gamo Gofa 9 19 4. Sidama 1 5. Gurage 2 6. Silte 4 7. Hadiya 8. Kembata Tembaro 13 9. Keffa 21 3 10. Sheka 11 11. Gedeo 12. South Omo 16 13. Bench Maji 15 14. Konso 12 18 15. Dirashe 14 16. Amaro 17. Yem 18. Burji 19. Hadiya 20. Alaba 21. Basketo

Map 3.1 Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional State (SNNPRS) and the Locations of Sidama and Wolayta early civilisations in Wolayta and Sidama were the result of northern initiative and did not arise from internal cultures and traditions: “The kingship, the state as well as the general principle of differentiated ruling hierarchy [. . .], were in the Ethiopian south, at least, no ‘ancient’ African institution, but the result of a relatively recent historical development initiated from the Ethiopian north” (Haberland 1974, 10). This narrative evokes the ‘Hamitic myth’ in African ethnography and history, which includes the beliefs that African civilisation was formed through outside influence and that the Ethiopians/Abyssin- ians were ‘more European-looking’ and ‘less African’ than other Afri- can societies, and thus more civilised (Donham 1986). The ‘northern origin’ myth is partly supported by oral sources from the two areas, but these should essentially be understood as a means of lending prestige to cultures that were treated as backward and uncivilised by the northern rulers. It is, however, apparent that the traditional polities of Sidama and Wolayta have their indigenous sources and institutions, which make up separate trajectories leading up to the current political order. 58 chapter three

In historical writings on the Sidama, there is a certain confusion about who the Sidama were and which areas should be defined as theirs. The Sidama belong to the East Cushitic language group. This group has been called the Sidamo cluster in early writings, and Sidamo therefore has been used as a collective name for all Cushitic peoples of southwest Ethiopia, including the Sidama, Hadiya, and Omotic peoples (the latter group includes the Wolayta) (Braukämper 1977; Stanley 1967). In Ethiopian written sources, Sidama first occurs in the sixteenth century as a name that the Oromo used for all peoples whose origin differed from theirs, including the Christian Amhara and all other strangers or enemies. The Oromo of southern Ethiopia still use Sidama as a general term meaning ‘enemy’. Some scholars argue that the Sidama also are mentioned in sources dating to the early Chris- tian Ethiopian empire of Axum and that the name disappeared from historical sources between the tenth and fourteenth centuries (Tolo 1998). One possible reason it is not found in historical sources before the sixteenth century is that the ancestors of the Sidama may have lived in the shadow of, or may have been part of, larger political entities such as the Bali and Hadiya states/sultanates. Another possible reason is that the current Sidama areas were located away from the historical migratory routes mentioned in the sources (Braukämper 2002). The name Wolayta walaheta( ) means ‘to become mixed or assimilated’ and refers to the diverse origins of the Wolayta people (Altaye Alaro 1993). The history is characterised by waves of migration from nearby areas, particularly from areas bordering Wolayta. The myth of origin tells of the first man on earth, who had seven sons: Wolayta, Dawro, Gofa, Gamo, Kullo, Konta, and Borrodda. They settled in a cave in Kindo-Didaye, in the heartland of present-day Wolayta (Bal- isky 1997). After Wolayta received a vision that he would dominate his brothers one day, his brothers left and settled in adjacent areas. The brothers’ names today refer both to those areas and to the ethnic groups that inhabit them, the first four recognised officially as nationalities and the last three considered subgroups of the Gamo. This origin myth, according to Data Dea (2005), emphasizes both the claimed seniority of the Wolayta over their neighbours and the interconnectedness of all the peoples in the area around the northern part of the Omo River, who share the same language and rituals and have close links through trade and intermarriage. Several ethnographic studies of the ‘Omotic-speaking’ peoples have pointed out that they share fundamental traits, such as the belief that fertility of the land and people depends on the presence of a divine king (Data Dea 2005). local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 59

The Sidama people settled in the present-day Sidama land after the campaigns of the Muslim war leader Ahmed Gragn and the Oromo migrations in the sixteenth century (Brøgger 1986, 26). According to mythology, the Sidama settlers found the area inhabited by indigenous Hofa, but later drove them out. One version of the Sidama myth of origin claims that the Sidama came from northern Ethiopia, from Anko- ber or other areas linked to the Amhara rulers of imperial Ethiopia (Hamer 1987). Historical and ethnographic studies, however, suggest that the Sidama probably migrated from neighbouring Oromo areas (Bale), or from Gedeo or Hadiya (Braukämper 1977), or from the nearby area around the Dawa River, immediately before they moved to the current area (Haileyesus Seba 2003). The early history of the Wolayta kingdom is also riddled with controversy. Some sources state that Wolayta society was composed of various clans governed by ‘petty chiefs’ and became a centralised kingdom as late as 1700 or so, when a dynasty of northern origin took power (Haberland 1974). Early historians and ethnographers, often associated with the Greater Ethiopia tradition, have doubted the indigenous origin of the Wolayta kingdom based on a general misconception about state structures in Africa being imported from outside. Other sources claim that the Wolayta kingdom was equivalent to the Damot kingdom, with its seat north of today’s Wolayta, and that the most influential Damot king, Motolomi, was from the indigenous Wolayta Malla dynasty and ruled from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century. Following the Oromo incursions in the sixteenth century, the kingdom disintegrated, but it rose again by the mid-1700s, led by the Tigre Malla dynasty (Chiatti 1984). Oral traditions, in accordance with the myth of the seven brothers, say that the medieval kingdom also ruled over the neighbouring groups of Gamo, Gofa, Konta, Kullo, and Borrodda. When the Oromo came, these tributary states broke away, and the next Wolayta dynasty ruled over a smaller area around Kindo, the original settlement place of the Wolayta (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1973). It is at this time that Wolayta is first mentioned in written history. But because the Wolayta were cut off from the influence of the Christian kingdoms after the Oromo migrations, there exist few written sources on Wolayta history and location. From then on, successive kings expanded and contracted their areas of domination until the time before Menelik’s invasion, when King Tona controlled the land equivalent to today’s Wolayta. 60 chapter three

The traditional polities of Sidama and Wolayta The traditional polities of Sidama and Wolayta represent two radically different models of governance: Sidama as a decentralised agglomera- tion of clans and Wolayta as a highly centralised kingdom. In Sidama, each clan was governed by a separate and independent clan leader, the mote, and there was no overall political body to coordinate political affairs for the whole group. In Wolayta, however, political powers were concentrated in the hands of the Wolayta king, the kawo, and other political bodies were subordinated in the hierarchy below him. The Sidama clan leaders who led the more or less territorially concentrated clans were not African chiefs in a conventional sense (Hamer 1987). Their powers were more spiritual than secular, as they had no militia or other means of exerting physical control. Themote ’s power in administrative matters also depended on the decisions of elders (chimesa) in the various councils in the clan area. These councils of elders, called songo, were formal organisations for settling disputes and setting policies at four different levels: the whole clan, a lineage, a hamlet, or a neighbourhood. Members of the lineages (boselo) have a recognised common ancestor and known genealogical links; lineage relations have therefore tended to be much stronger than clan relations. Only circumcised men were allowed to take part in the councils, and women and children were excluded. An administrative and political structure parallel to the songo was the luwa, a leadership system that included men of all clans in specific local areas. Certain scholars have argued that the luwa might be a local variation of the gada system, which came to Sidama with the Oromo expansion during the sixteenth century (Freeman and Pankhurst 2003). Unlike the gada, however, the luwa is not an age-set system (Stanley 1969). It is, rather, a generational system in which individuals are assigned to classes based on sequence, not age: a man will be placed in the class that follows the class his father belongs to, independent of age. Luwa members remain in the same class for life, rather than being promoted through a series of grades with differing obligations and rights, as in the gada. Each class therefore includes people of different ages, but elders of the class still dominate, since elderhood is a source of authority. People belonging to the same class are considered to be as close as kin, and marriages between children of members of the same class or the class above are therefore considered inappropriate. There are five luwa classes, and one of them is active and in power at any given time, rotating at seven-year intervals. The active class, local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 61 led by the gadana, has traditionally had the responsibility to provide labour, organise defence, and conduct cattle raids on neighbouring ethnic groups. Compared to the gada age-set system, however, the luwa is less hierarchical and specialised. Thegadana has religious and magical powers similar to those of the mote, and both the gadana and the mote depend on the powers of the councils of elders and must comply with their decisions. Ethnographers have disagreed about the luwa’s importance in Sidama society. Brøgger (1986) argues that it has little relevance in everyday life and is mainly for ritual purposes, while Hamer (1987) claims that it has concrete practical functions in resolving conflicts and organising daily activities such as community labour. Unlike the mote, the king of Wolayta had strong secular powers in addition to the religious ones. The kingdom of Wolayta shares many characteristics with similar kingdoms in the Omotic-speaking area, but it appears to be the most centralised and complex of them (Data Dea 2005). Before the northern conquest at the end of the nineteenth century, the Tigre Malla had a highly developed system of governance, which some scholars describe as a constitutional monarchy (Altaye Alaro 1982). The underlying belief was that the king’s authority was not boundless, but had to be shared in order to benefit the society (Bureau 1990). The king governed with the help of a national council, the balimola, and power was divided between executive, legislative, and judicial branches. During the reign of King Amado (1800–35), the area was subdivided into administrative districts called dana, and the king appointed administrators who were also called dana (Tsehai Ber- hane Selassie 1973). These districts correspond roughly to the seven woreda of the present-day Wolayta zone, and they were subdivided in turn into counties and markets (Chiatti 1984). The appointment of the dana should not be seen as a decentralising measure; it was done to stop the continuous competition and fights between local chiefs who had challenged the king’s authority and control in the past. So the dana were first and foremost representatives of the central government in the local areas, but they also worked as judges and were responsible for conflict resolution, tax collection, and coordination of compulsory community work. Both the Sidama clan leaders and the Wolayta king had to legitimate their authority by showing great ritual and spiritual powers in addition to their political power. In Sidama society, the principal role of the mote was to serve as an intermediary between members of the clan and 62 chapter three the clan deities and to ensure intra-clan unity. In addition to regarding clan ancestors as deities, the Sidama believe in an almighty creator god, Magano. This creator god is the source of the central moral code in Sidama, halale, which means ‘the true way of life’ (Hamer 1987). In the songo’s conflict resolution activities, the main aim was to find halale and issue decisions in accordance with it. If a conflict could not be resolved, or if a crime had been committed, the elders had the right to impose sera, ostracising the disobedient person from the community by refusing to share work, food, and conversation with him. In other cases of crime or immorality, the guilty person could also become a victim of gomame, punishment by spirits, causing sudden illness or death (interview with Sidama zone Cultural Bureau official, May 2006, nb 7:101). A similar phenomenon found in Wolayta is called gome (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1994). Wolayta traditional religion also includes a belief in a supreme god, Tossa, in addition to various spirits called ayana. Each clan and each family had their own deity/spirit. Tossa was considered to be far away from human life and was not the object of ceremonies or sacrifices. Sacrifices were instead offered to the spirits of ancestors and of various natural phenomena. The Wolayta king kawo( ) was the highest of all diviners and clan priests and had important ritual functions such as sacrificing and rainmaking (Chiatti 1984, 343). From the time of Amado, the seventh king of the Tigre Malla dynasty, the Wolayta monarch was called ‘god king’ or tossa kawo, indicating that he was the master of all vassal kings and local clan leaders, just as Tossa was the master of both the spiritual and material world. When King Tona lost the battle against Menelik in 1894, it was clear to everyone that the tossa kawo was no longer a divine and immortal monarch, and he thus lost much of his prestige and legitimacy (Chiatti 1984).

Hierarchies of clans Although Sidama and Wolayta represent very different types of polities, decentralised and centralised respectively, clans have played an important social and political role in both communities throughout their histories. The clans have been the primary unit of organisation, have provided the main source of identity, and have defined the rights and duties of citizenship. In Wolayta, all clans were ranked according to their degree of royalty and links to the divine kingship of the Wolayta king, or according to their presumed northern descent. In local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 63

Table 3.1 The clan systems of Sidama and Wolayta CLAN SIDAMA WOLAYTA CHARACTERISTIC Hierarchy Based on ritual purity Based on degree of roy- and purity of descent alty or links to the king. (anga) and continuous The kawona (royal lin- land occupation. The eage clan) are above the purest clan cluster, the goqa (commoners/ Yemericho, competes farmers). Among the with the Aletta for goqa, the malla (free power. men/king’s advisors) are above the dogola (middle/lower clans). Origin Common, through Distinction between the mythical ancestral clans of northern descent brothers of Bushe and (prestigious) and indig- Maldea. enous clans, including those who share a common origin with clans in the neighbouring groups. Settlement patterns Concentrated, with Interspersed, with no demarcated clan land. clearly demarcated clan land. Organisation and Each clan is led by The power of clan assem- functions a clan leader (mote) blies (dabusha) and and a council of elders elders (dabua chima) is (songo) with political, restricted by the king: administrative, and they perform social religious powers. rather than political and administrative roles.

Sidama, the clans did not have a clear rank or hierarchy, but the principle of anga—ritual purity or purity of descent—played an important role in deciding the ranking of the clans. Although the Sidama did not have a unified system of governance like that of the Wolayta, the Sidama today have a clear conception of Sidama society as one unit, which historically has been easily distinguished from neighbouring societies. One reason for this is the belief that all the Sidama clans have a common origin in two mythical brothers, Maldea and Bushe. Members of each clan also believe in a common ancestor only for their clan, and the burial places of these clan 64 chapter three ancestors are centres for religious clan cults. Because of the assumed common genealogy within each clan, clan members are recognised as distant relatives and are thus prohibited from marrying each other (clan exogamy). This has led to compulsory intermarriages between clans, contributing to intermingling and integration of the various Sidama clans. Throughout Sidama history, two clusters of clans have competed for political power. The first cluster is the Yemericho, which includes eight clans who were the first settlers in the area. They have occupied large, contiguous segments of land and have therefore been considered to have the highest degree of purity of descent. All the Yemericho clans claim descent from Bushe (Hamer 1987, 32). The second cluster is the Aletta, which includes 12 territorially scattered clans who were late- comers to the area but who together make up the numerical majority in Sidama. Eight of the Aletta clans see themselves as descendants of Maldea, and four claim descent from Bushe (Brøgger 1986, 28). The principle ofanga , or ritual purity, has been the basis of authority claimed by the Yemericho. The literal meaning of anga is ‘hand’, connoting avoidance of the hands of the ritually impure. In the legends of clan creation, the Yemericho are said to have avoided eating meat from wild animals or animals that have died a natural death, and they also avoided those who have eaten such impure foods. In this way they have managed to stay pure and have maintained a sense of superiority over those who lack anga (Hamer 1987, 24). But within the Yemericho cluster, even clans who lost the concept of anga through the course of history have managed to maintain high status in Sidama. Although the Hollo-Garbicho clan does not possess anga, its ancestor, Abo, is seen as “the most noble in the pantheon of apical ancestors” (Hamer 1987, 55). Abo’s grave is the most sacred site and inspires elaborate rituals performed by members of many of the clans in Sidama. The descendants of Abo are considered to be more religiously and politically powerful than people from other clans. Although Protestant religion and the Derg’s campaigns against traditional beliefs undermined some of the ritual and spiritual power of these clans, clan deities and rituals still play a role in Sidama today. During my field research in 2006, it was apparent that cults around Abo remain meaningful, and Sidama from many different clans made pilgrimages to the Abo grave site in the vicinity of Yirgalem town to make sacrifices, seek solutions to personal problems, or take a court case to the council of religious leaders. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 65

During the Wolayta Malla kingdom, the society was divided into three tiers according to strictly hierarchical principles. The first two tiers were composed of 130 clans (qomo).The highest tier included the clans of the ruling groups (kawona, literally ‘the king’s children’), and the second included the clans of commoners or farmers (goqa). Below and outside the clan system were the slaves (ayle), followed by the occupational groups of artisans and craftsmen hillancha( ). To belong to a clan gave a person ‘citizenship’ in society, with all the rights and duties it entailed, while people belonging to the ayle and the hillancha were excluded from the citizenry and were treated as subjects rather than as free human beings. The Wolayta Malla and Tigre Malla dynasties gave their names to the two highest-ranked clans in Wolayta. Other clans who claim northern origin have also been viewed as prestigious. Chiatti (1984) argues that the Wolayta aristocracy was divided into two: the red (arsa) and the black (garetta). The red were those clans who claimed to originate in the north of Ethiopia; they were considered more civilised and more able to rule than the black. The names of the Wolayta clans are normally derived from the social group or clan they belonged to before they immigrated to the area, from their place or ethnic group of origin, or from the occupational specialisation of the first immigrants of the group. Many of the Wolayta clans are also found in neighbouring groups, again indicating the interconnectedness of peoples living close to each other, and two of them even trace their origin to the Sidama (Balisky 1997). Data Dea (2005) points out that similar clans are found in different areas around Omo and that members of most clans thus are not confined to one political territory. This means in practice that people maintain concrete relations with members of their clans (who are considered as relatives, or dabo) beyond the geographic limits of the political units. But the clan members’ common descent has always been assumed and is not traceable, and common ancestors have been unnamed or forgotten (Haileyesus Seba 1996). Generally, the clans whose names end with malla (literally, ‘free man’) have historically been important as advisors to the king and were prestigious in the communities. They were distinguished from the middle and lower clans, called dogola. Thedogola traditionally were not entitled to be advisors to the king, but they could obtain power through wealth and land ownership (interview with elder, Soddo, October 2005, nb 3:26). Both the malla and the dogola belong to the goqa tier. 66 chapter three

As mentioned, the clans in Sidama served as the main political and administrative units, and the clan leaders (mote) and clan councils (songo) had important religious and political roles in society. In Wolayta, by contrast, the centralisation of the kingship prevented clans and clan leaders from playing such prominent roles. But before Emperor Menelik’s conquest of Wolayta, the clans were bases for political units, and clan assemblies (dabusha) also existed here. The members were elders elected by the clan at the lineage and county levels. Although these assemblies excluded women, slaves, and artisan groups, they were more inclusive and democratic than the king’s council, which only included the noble and royal clans. The clan and lineage elders (dabua chima) were responsible for supervising all members of the clan. They handled land transactions, presided over marriages and divorces, settled disputes, and had the authority to expel disobedient members from the clan (Chiatti 1984). While the clans in Sidama had their own territories defined as clan land, and remained in relatively concentrated settlements despite intermarriages and migration, the clans in Wolayta became territorially dispersed through the course of Wolayta expansion. The king gave land to people on the basis of deeds on the battlefield and as a reward for loyalty to the crown. Therefore, the clans did not maintain territories defined as their clan land, nor were they separate economic units. This also reduced the clans’ significance as political units. Moreover, the king’s administrative dana system replaced the clan assemblies as the most important political organisation in the early nineteenth century. But the clans remained as strong social units that provided the primary basis for establishing and maintaining their members’ social status and identity. It was only by reference to membership in a recognised clan that a person could distinguish himself from the despised slaves and artisans: “One can be recognised by the Wolayta as a Wolayta only through one’s clan” (Haileyesus Seba 1996, 17).

Marginalised groups In addition to clan systems, the two groups also share a social stratification system in which groups of artisans (and descendants of slaves in Wolayta) have been excluded from mainstream society. As Free- man and Pankhurst (2003) point out, such marginalisation of minority groups is found not only in the southern parts of the country, but throughout Ethiopia; it has thus been described as a “pan-Ethiopian local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 67

Table 3.2 Differences between marginalised groups in Sidama and Wolayta GROUP SIDAMA WOLAYTA CHARACTERISTIC Categories Artisans: potters Artisans (hillancha): (hadicho) and smiths potters (chinasha), and tanners (awacho). tanners (degela), and smiths (wogache). Slaves, former slaves, and their descendants (ayle). Relation to the general Partly included, as the Excluded, but most of the clan system hadicho claim common slaves know which clans descent with other they belonged to before Sidama clans and have they were enslaved (and their own clan leader hence excluded from the and assembly. clans). Land ownership Thehadicho have their Marginalised groups have own clan land, but out- no rights to own land. side this area, the hadi- The artisans in particular cho as well as the other were forced to live in seg- artisans have had no regated settlements. land entitlement and are segregated from commoners’ land. cultural trait” (Levine 1974). This marginalisation, which was an important part of traditional societies across Ethiopia, persists today. In Sidama, the social stratification features a division between free farmers (wollabicho) and stigmatised artisans, including smiths and tanners (awacho) and potters (hadicho). The smiths also have their own name, tunticha, but since many of the smiths also work with skins, they are in practice grouped together with the tanners and simply called awacho (literally, ‘those who work with skins’) (Haileyesus Seba 2003). In the category of farmers, some scholars have distinguished between the Yemericho and the common wollabicho by arguing that the Yemericho have been a landowning elite, while the wollabicho’s forefathers did not own land and were therefore dependent on the Yemericho landowners (Brøgger 1986; Haileyesus Seba 1996). This tripolar classification between the Yemericho, thewollabicho , and the artisans is not common in Sidama today, and elders who retell the history of Sidama mostly talk about the distinction between the farmers 68 chapter three on one side and the artisans on the other side. In Wolayta, segregated artisans—today called by the more politically correct name hillancha, or ‘skilled workmen’—include potters (chinasha), tanners (degela), and smiths (wogache). The slaves and their descendants, popularly calledayle , have also been clearly distinguished and excluded from clan membership in Wolayta, but they still have a higher position than the hillancha. The hillancha and the ayle as a group are called godabishu, meaning ‘the enslaved’. Slaves were also found in Sidama but were not defined as a separate group in the social hierarchy. In historical sources, they are described either as servants of the Amhara who came to Sidama after Menelik’s invasion (McClellan 1979), or as people brought by the Wolayta to the local markets and sold as an additional labour force for gardening, house building, and herding (Hamer 1987). Across Ethiopia, a paradoxical aspect of the marginalisation of artisans is that the products made by these groups are highly valued by society, but the producers are stigmatised (Freeman and Pankhurst 2003). Artisans have had limited access to land and livestock and have been subject to corvée labour and obligations to pay tribute. Politi- cally, they were excluded from traditional political organisations and leadership, like the age-set systems and assemblies. This marginalisation generally persists in Wolayta and Sidama as well. The Sidama potters, thehadicho , represent an exception to this pattern. Just before the Amhara conquest, a majority of the hadicho managed to establish themselves on their own land in Dara in the southern part of Sidama, and this became the hadicho clan land, equivalent to the common wollabicho clan territories. As a result, it has been claimed that the hadicho occupy a much more respected position than other low-ranking groups in southern Ethiopia, who generally are landless and excluded from the clan system of the commoners (Braukämper 1977, 11; Haberland 1979). Outside Dara, however, the hadicho have traditionally been treated like the other marginalised groups—segregated into separate settlements in the villages and not allowed to bury their dead in the commoners’ graveyards, own cattle or land, or hold political positions. Despite economic and spatial discrimination, artisan groups have played an important role in social life, particularly in relation to life- cycle events. Thechinasha (potters) in Wolayta were particularly esteemed for their skills in this regard. At funerals and weddings, the local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 69 men played musical instruments while the women sang and danced. They performed circumcisions, attended births, and provided medical help, and it was their job to blow the horn in the village to announce someone’s death (Balisky 1997). They also performed as announcers and executors of new laws for the king during the Wolayta kingdom (interview with male member of the chinasha, Soddo Zuria woreda, February 2006). The potters therefore claim to occupy a higher position than the other hillancha. In other aspects of social life, however, all the artisan groups in Wolayta and Sidama have been singled out through negative stereo- typing and prohibited from intermarrying with other groups. Various mythological justifications have been offered for this discrimination: generally, the artisans were despised for their presumed impurity because of claims that they eat impure foods. Any contact with the artisans is said to lead to pollution and must be cleansed with the blood of a sacrificed animal. In Sidama, meat from animals slaughtered by the hadicho or awacho could not be shared with any of the wollabicho clans. The chinasha in Wolayta were seen as subhuman and inferior to all other groups because of a myth that their ancestors ate meat from animals that were not properly slaughtered or had died a natural death. Even the slaves and smiths despised them. Thechinasha were also believed to possess harmful supernatural powers, akin to the evil eye (goromote in the Wolayta language, buda in Amharic). Through this presumed malicious influence, thechinasha could ‘eat’ people, causing sudden illness or death (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1994). Although the marginalised groups of Ethiopia share many traits with the outcastes or low castes of Asia, there is no religiously sanctioned hierarchy or explicit, elaborate mythical justification for their marginalisation, as is found in the Hindu caste system. The Ethiopian groups therefore should not be defined as castes in the conventional sense of the word (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1991). Still, in the traditional Sidama and Wolayta belief systems, the justification for social stratification is linked to a higher moral code, called tumma (Wolayta) or sera/halale (Sidama), and to the spirit of prohibition, called gome (Wolayta) or gomame (Sidama). Similar to halale in Sidama, tumma clearly spells out what is right and wrong, and the gome prescribes judgement and punishment for those who fail to conform to the moral and social norms of the tumma. Transgressions include challenging the hierarchy itself. If a person receives gome, he has violated the proper values and 70 chapter three will therefore endure a ‘deserved’ suffering, a supernatural penalty for breaking religious and social rules (Deressa Debu 1999). These two concepts are thus essential in understanding the social stratification and politico-legal patterns of both societies. Common to all the stigmatised groups in Ethiopia is their ambigu- ous origin. Some scholars have claimed that the groups are remnants of indigenous peoples who lived in the area before the current dominant groups arrived and occupied the land; this implies that the marginalised groups are ethnically different from the rest of society (Cerulli 1956). The Norwegian anthropologist Jan Brøgger (1986, 57) claims that the hadicho, with their ‘negroid resemblance’, may be ethnically different from the rest of the Sidama and “probably originate from the ancient negro population which brought agriculture to Africa”. A similar belief in hadicho ethnic difference is found in the popular mythology of the wollabicho clans, who claim that the hadicho were ‘born from a donkey’. It is worth noting that Brøgger’s research assistant and translator during his fieldwork in Sidama in the 1970s was a known representative of the wollabicho, who later was sued by a hadicho political party for using derogatory terms to describe the hadicho in his own book on Sidama history and traditions (in Amharic). Countering this stereotype is the fact that there is no evidence of physical, linguistic, or racial differences between the dominant communities and the marginalised groups in Ethiopia. Freeman and Pankhurst (2003) claim that the marginalisation is instead a product of particular relations produced by social change and development in each of the communities where these systems of social stratification are found. The hadicho, for instance, claim to be descendants of Nea, the son of Bushe, and to have the same origin as the prestigious Yemericho clans (interview with mote of the hadicho in Dara woreda, May 2006, nb 7:176). Thehadicho therefore claim to have a higher status than the other artisan groups, and traditionally there has been no intermarriage between the hadicho and the awacho. Their relationship has been what the Sidama call k’ako—characterised by inherited enmity—and the hadicho consider the awacho untouchable (Haileyesus Seba 2003, 223). The fact that thehadicho have the same clan organisation as the wollabicho clans, with the same mote and songo, indicates that they share origins with the rest of the Sidama. Certain historical events and struggles between clans over control of land are likely to have created a hierarchy. Thehadicho themselves say today that “the land was consid- local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 71 ered to belong to the wollabicho and only those with land were allowed to hold political office. On the basis of this, superiority and inferiority were created” (interview with hadicho woreda official, Yirgalem, May 2006, nb 7:98). Representatives of the ‘commoners’ support this view: “There was no distinction between thehadicho and the wollabicho in the beginning. But because of quarrelling, differences were created” (interview with wollabicho elder, Aposto, May 2006, nb 7:11). The slaves and their descendants in Wolayta have not been victims of the same impurity stereotype as the artisan groups, but they nevertheless have been stigmatised because of their uncertain origin. Because most of the ayle came to Wolayta as war captives or refugees, they had no place-specific origin as clans and therefore no identity and no right to citizenship in the area. Apart from being enslaved through war, they became slaves by being born into a slave family or after being put on trial for a crime, witchcraft, or inability to pay debt: If I had no money or land, I was going to be a slave under someone who gave me shelter and food. I may be given a piece of land, but I am working day and night for the landowner. He is the chawa, a noble or a slave owner, and he will say that I am his slave. The slave may kill his master and run away to another place and be free if no one knows his background. (Interview with person of slave origin, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:92) Descendants of slaves today claim to know the clan identity of their forefathers before they were enslaved. But independent of background, the ayle were generally excluded from owning land or holding political office. After the occupation of Wolayta in 1894, however, some former slaves obtained prominent positions in the administration, like the administrative leader Fitawrari Bakalu. Fitawrari, literally ‘front leader’, was a title given to administrators during imperial rule. Even after slavery was prohibited and eradicated, the descendants of slaves were singled out from the other groups and socially stigmatised, in part by prohibiting intermarriages with non-ayle. Although the state under Haile Selassie prohibited slavery, missionaries reported its existence in Wolayta up until 1931 (Balisky 1997). The Italian occupation brought a formal end to slavery by abolishing the neftegna system of armed settlers, introducing wage labour, and controlling the traffic in slaves on the Red Sea. But after the Italians left in 1941, the peasants were again caught in the neftegna-gabber relationship, and domestic slavery, or serfdom, remained in force. 72 chapter three

Incorporation into imperial Ethiopia

The incorporation of Wolayta and Sidama into the Ethiopian empire at the end of the nineteenth century entailed two different patterns of submission. In Wolayta, Emperor Menelik’s forces met with strong resistance from a united front, while in Sidama, most of the clans submitted to the invaders without attempting to fight. The difference is partly due to the different nature of the two traditional polities: Wolayta was a centralised kingdom controlling a joint armed force, while Sidama was divided along clan lines with no common political body or system of defence. Although the Sidama clans of Hollo- Garbicho and Sawola in the north and the Aletta and the hadicho in the south made attempts to defend their territories, the lack of trust between them and the other clans prevented them from coordinating their resistance and forming a united front. Other clans, like Yanase, decided to submit and pay the requested tribute to the invaders before any shots were fired. They probably realised the superiority of Menelik’s army: the Sidama warriors had little chance of defeating the northern soldiers with their traditional weapons against the modern arms of the Amhara (Tolo 1998). In Wolayta, Menelik’s army had to fight seven years (1887–94) before the emperor managed to take control of the kingdom. From 1893 on, Menelik personally led the war, an indication of the challenges the northern forces faced in the encounter with Wolayta warriors.

Indirect versus direct rule The different patterns of submission also created two different models of imperial rule in the two societies. Wolayta was brought under direct rule, while the northern presence in Sidama could be described as indirect rule. After conquering Wolayta, the northern forces deposed the king and placed Wolayta under direct control of the crown. The area was made into a madbet (literally, ‘personal fief’) directly under Menelik (Cerulli 1956). The centralised indigenous system of governance by and large collapsed and was replaced by armed settlers and the Orthodox Church. After a period of purely northern rule, the king regained some of his formal authority by becoming a balabat, or local administrator. But his political power was based on authority strictly delegated by the Abyssinian ruler. In 1903, after attempting to rearm and retake direct control, he was deposed as balabat and sent to Addis local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 73

Ababa (Chiatti 1984). Twelve governors ruled Wolayta from 1894 to 1957, and only two of them were from the area (Altaye Alaro 1982). Menelik’s conquest and the emergence of Orthodox Christianity in Wolayta did not challenge the hierarchy of the traditional clan system. The high clans sought to maintain their positions by competing for protection from the Amhara leaders while also trying to manipulate the invaders. Desta, the son of Tona, appointed people only from the Tigre Malla clan, with the exception of two wealthy officials from the Hizea, who had protection from the Amhara. From the 1930s to 1950s, the Tigre Malla and Hizea clans competed fiercely for dominance (Chiatti 1984). This competition is reflected in today’s politics in Wolayta. In Sidama, on the other hand, the clan leaders/mote largely maintained their old power bases. They were appointed as local administrators (balabat), gaining administrative responsibilities in addition to their traditional politico-ritual powers. Most of the mote-turned- balabat who continued to respect the usufruct land rights of clan members also continued to enjoy the respect of the people, while those who used their positions to grab land were considered traitors and collaborators with the invaders. It was nevertheless a challenge to combine a personalised, ritual position with one that was impersonal and administrative. The contradiction between the roles of traditional leader and state administrator brought succession disputes and quarrels over the process of selecting the mote and luwa class leaders (Hamer 1987). Although Menelik’s forces imposed two different systems of administration in Sidama and Wolayta, both societies came under the same exploitative landlord system of neftegna-gabber, which they shared with other southern areas. As described in chapter 2, Menelik’s soldiers who settled in the local areas were given gult—a grant of power to dominate a tract of land and all the people living on it—in return for military service. These soldier-settlers, calledneftegna , acquired the right to collect taxes from the peasants, called gabber. Each neftegna controlled between 15 and 20 households, which had to pay tribute in cash or in kind. The peasants thus found themselves obliged to work on the occupiers’ land or give up part of their agricultural production to their overlords. Theneftegna were mostly of Amhara origin from Shewa, but many of them were also Amharised Oromo, Gurage, and Tigray, or Amhara from Gojjam or Wollo. They built garrison towns where they lived a life generally apart from the Wolayta and Sidama populations. 74 chapter three

Little land was alienated initially, so the farmers generally kept ownership of their land and were left largely undisturbed as long as they fulfilled their obligations to theneftegna . Generally in the south, one- third or one-fourth of the land was given to the local balabat and the rest to the settlers as gult. While the farmers did not lose formal ownership of the land, they had to pay most of their produce as tax to the administrators (Donham 1986). This burden motivated many Sidama peasants to escape from Amhara control by moving to the peripheries of Sidama, to the areas of Bensa, Aroresa, and Arbegona (Hamer 1987, 132). Many Wolayta who failed to pay tribute were turned into slaves, and Chiatti estimates that around 40 percent of the population was enslaved at that time (Chiatti 1984, 203). Although the exact numbers are uncertain, it is clear that slavery was widespread in Wolayta society, not only under the indigenous rule, but also after the northern invasion. As described in chapter 2, the landlord system of Ethiopia was not completely feudal. Peasants in most cases kept formal possession of the land they worked; moreover, the personal fiefs of the landlords were not always hereditary, but depended on personal appointment and recognition by the emperor. This ensured that the emperor had loyal appointees all over the country and enabled him to depose governors if they disobeyed. In some instances, however, the local governor managed to acquire so much power in his area that he was able to defy the central government’s attempts to displace him. One example was Dejazmach Balcha, a governor of Sidama. Described as an “excellent administrator and soldier” (McClellan 1979), Balcha built a strong power base in Sidama in the 1920s. A person from a poor background, with no inherited advantage, he rose as a result of Menelik’s promotion of loyal officials. His loyalty to the throne nevertheless ended when his personal enemy, Ras Teferi, gradually gained control of the imperial seat in Addis Ababa. Crown prince Teferi, who became Emperor Haile Selassie in 1931, attempted to gain control of the revenues from emerging coffee production in Sidama. Balcha answered by creating a new capital in the province (Agere Selam) to make sure that coffee producers had go through the Sidama government before the coffee was sent to Addis Ababa. The confrontations between Balcha and the central government ended in 1928, when Balcha and his troops on their way to Addis Ababa were defeated by imperial forces. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 75

The Italian occupation and the return of the Amhara Both the Wolayta and the Sidama initially welcomed the Italian occupation of Ethiopia, which began in 1936. The colonisers abolished the hated landlord system and did not expropriate the land, and they thus appeared as liberators from the Amhara oppressors. In Sidama, people rose up against their lords and collaborated with the Italians when they realised that the Amhara lords could not stand against the foreign invasion. When the colonisers left in 1941, the Sidama tried to organise militarily to prevent the return of the Amhara rulers. This led to retaliation from the Amhara: people who had taken the Italian side were imprisoned, their cattle were confiscated, and their land was seized. The Sidama today talk of this period as the second terror hulettegna( sheber) and recall that it renewed the suffering of what they call the first terror, which occurred when the Amhara came to Sidama for the first time during the reign of Menelik (interview with elder, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:43). The reaction was apparently much milder in Wolayta, where little general retaliation was reported. Members of the local aristocracy who had cooperated with the Italians had to leave their positions but received only mild punishments. In Sidama, the northern-based administration reintroduced the neftegna-gabber system and even increased the burden of tribute in many areas. The system was also reintroduced in Wolayta (Data Dea 1998), but the scarce historical sources do not say whether the tribute payment was increased or not. In both cases, it appeared that the government led by Haile Selassie wanted to strengthen its presence in the periphery, and many of the local balabat were replaced by centrally appointed provincial governors. As a part of this offensive, the Orthodox Church changed its strategy: whereas previously it had been a church only for the neftegna, it now also baptised the indigenous population (Tolo 1998, 88). When Christianity came to Wolayta and Sidama with the Orthodox Church of the Amhara settlers, only a few of the elite converted. Orthodox priests did little or nothing to change the moral order and did not interfere with traditional religious practices. But those few Wolayta and Sidama who converted to the Orthodox faith were urged to abandon much of their identity, taking a Christian name, adopting the northern lifestyle and dress, and speaking Amharic (Balisky 1997). In Sidama, the traditional institutions of songo and luwa continued their activities, although the development of modern courts undermined the elders’ functions as conflict mediators. Administrators also 76 chapter three attempted to stop the traditional initiation ceremonies of the luwa and to prevent the traditional cattle raids and conflicts with other ethnic groups. Some of the governors understood that the traditional system might have some ‘ethnic solidarity implications’ and sought to prevent the development of ethno-nationalism (Hamer 1970). Most administrators nevertheless saw the old traditions as harmless, some “even going as far as contributing an animal for sacrificial purposes” (Hamer 1987, 135). Despite expansion of the formal education system, very few indigenous people had access to modern education, and only a handful of ethnic Sidama or Wolayta became government officials. One of the few educated Sidama was Wolde Emmanuel Dubale, a judge and member of the Haile Selassie parliament; he later became leader of the Sidama Liberation Movement, which fought against the Derg. In Wolayta, Mulu Meja became the first indigenous representative to the parliament. He is one of the founders of the first opposition party in Wolayta during the EPRDF. As a part of Haile Selassie’s modernisation campaign, the town of Awassa, with large mechanised farms, was established on Sidama land. But this had little positive impact on the Sidama, as the farm workers came from outside and Sidama farmers themselves were evicted from their land. In Wolayta, the same modernisation efforts led to the establishment in 1970 of the large, mechanised Wolayta Agricul- tural Development Unit (WADU), funded by the World Bank. The WADU was initiated by the centrally appointed governor of Wolayta, Wolde Semayat. He was active in building schools and infrastructure in the area, and his work is still appreciated by the Wolayta today. The WADU, however, did little to benefit the local population. The project required highly skilled manpower from outside, and the high salaries of these employees drove up prices for local foodstuffs and imported goods, putting them out of reach of the Wolayta farmers. The project also introduced fertilizers and made farmers dependent on it. As prices rose, farmers ended up unable to repay their debts, and some of them were then imprisoned (Dessalegn Rahmato 1992).

Protestantism, economic change, and the revolution

Donham, in his description of the Ethiopian revolution in Maale in southwest Ethiopia, points out that there were two ideological forces local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 77 of ‘modernisation’ in the local community at the time when the Derg took power: one was the gospel of the Protestant Church and the other was the revolutionary doctrine of the Derg officials (Donham 1999). Both forces challenged the traditional power of indigenous clan elders and the dominance of the Amhara rulers. In Sidama and Wolayta, these ideological forces were coupled with crucial changes in the economic sphere. The traditional reliance on subsistence agriculture was replaced or complemented by the development of cash crop production in Sidama and labour migration in Wolayta, both of which contributed to the ‘modernisation’ process.

Missionary-driven versus indigenous church building Before the appearance of the socialist party cadres in the south in 1974– 75, Protestantism had already provided the people with a new set of beliefs that challenged the Amhara-dominated Orthodox Church and contributed to “re-establish[ing] their identities vis-à-vis the northerners” (Donham 1986, 45). The first foreign missionaries came to Sidama in 1928 and to Wolayta in 1929; in both places, the American Sudan Interim Mission (SIM) played a large role in church building and recruitment. However, during the Italian occupation all missionaries had to leave Ethiopia. In Wolayta, this did not stop the gospel from spreading, but stimulated the growth of indigenous churches (Kale Hiwot and Mekane Yesus) presided over by a relatively large group of home-grown priests. During the Italian occupation, the number of Protestant converts in Wolayta grew from around 50 in 1937 to 15,000 in 1944 (Donham 1999, 98, quoting SIM sources). Wolayta evangelists therefore played an important role in church building and missionary activities among many southern groups. In Sidama, by contrast, no such indigenous revival took place, and only a few people clung to Protestantism during the Italian rule (Tolo 1998, 115). Due to the indirect nature of northern rule in Sidama, traditional beliefs had a stronger position there than in Wolayta, and along with the traditional luwa and songo, they were left largely untouched by the Amhara. Churches started to grow again in Sidama in the 1940s and 1950s, but only with the help of foreign missionaries from the SIM and the Norwegian Lutheran Mission. Protestant ideas about equality challenged not only Amhara rule but also the traditional hierarchy, especially the distinction between commoners and artisan groups. In Wolayta, it was the well-to-do farmers 78 chapter three and landowners from the highlands, mostly from the Wolayta Malla and Tigre Malla clans, who converted to the Orthodox faith after the northern invasion. Protestantism, therefore, was viewed in the beginning as a religion for lowlanders and the poor (Haileyesus Seba 1996). In both communities, evangelists preached disregard for the traditional social stratification: potters, smiths, and tanners as well as the descendants of slaves were included in the church and were allowed in principle to join the members of higher clans in the same mahiber (prayer groups) and Protestant idir (funeral associations) (Balisky 1997). But the egalitarian message of the churches did not manage to break the taboo against marriages between persons of higher and lower strata, even among Protestants, and church leaders from the despised groups did not enjoy the same respect and recognition as leaders from the higher clans (Solberg 2002). One clear impact of Protestantism was that the churches introduced modern education through their missionary schools. In addition to increasing access to book learning, the teaching also made people more aware and self-conscious. In this way the schools indirectly stimulated the growth of ethnic-based resistance against the Amhara, as stated by the founder of the Sidama Liberation Movement, Wolde Emman- uel Dubale (cited in Tolo 1998, 240). In Gedeo, an area adjacent to Sidama, Protestants led an uprising against the Amhara landlords in 1959 (McClellan 1979; Tolo 1998). Although the Gedeo leaders made no explicit reference to ethnicity as a source of mobilisation, they used Protestantism as a resource against their ethnically and religiously different superiors, the Amhara.

Cash crops versus labour migration After World War II, people in Sidama began producing coffee for sale on the market. This facilitated the shift to a cash economy, which in turn had a great impact on social values. Coffee production was concentrated in the Aletta and hadicho clan areas, but the middlemen were mostly descendants of northern settlers. Aletta was also the area where Protestantism first took root (Stanley 1969) and where the first missionary schools were established (Tolo 1998). Hamer (1987) argues that the introduction of a cash economy together with Protestant- ism had a much greater impact on Sidama society than the northern invasion: the stress on individualism undermined communal values local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 79 and social organisations and led to community disharmony, making it difficult to achieve compromise and consensus. But cash cropping also made land more important than ever, and kinship bonds providing land tenure rights remained vital. The traditional mechanisms in which elders settled disputes and enforced customary protection of rights were seen as a more reliable and less expensive means of getting justice than the modern courts. So despite the modernising influences of Protestantism and cash cropping, Sidama traditional institutions were left largely intact until the mid-1970s, when the revolution over- turned the landlord system in Sidama (Brøgger 1986). In Wolayta, population growth along with the degradation and alienation of land by the neftegna contributed to deepening land scarcity during the reign of Haile Selassie. Land scarcity in turn contributed indirectly to a weakening of the clan system. Traditionally, clans and kinship groups were strengthened by the patrilineal inheritance of land. But with the land shortage, peasants did not have enough land to redistribute to their sons. Instead of giving plots to their sons, therefore, some peasants chose to let nonkin sharecroppers work on their land. Under this arrangement, known as kotta, the peasants were free to suspend the sharing if it turned out to be disadvantageous, and they had no obligations to take care of sharecroppers beyond what was strictly defined by the economic arrangement (Berhanu Bibiso 1995). Many Wolayta also migrated to other areas to seek land or sought work on commercial farms in Awassa, the present-day capital of the Southern region. Nonetheless, the clans continued to be the “identity card of the Wolayta” (Haileyesus Seba 1996, 17), even for labour migrants residing in areas outside their ‘motherland’. One expression of the continuing social function of clans under Haile Selassie was the strong position of the clan-based idir, or informal burial associations. Originally groups for sharing the costs of funerals, the idir gradually developed into multipurpose bodies with wider social responsibilities. Today, the idir is a “general welfare society” and a “proto-political body” that holds open dialogues on current issues (Dessalegn Rahmato 1992). Theidir exist all over Ethiopia and have most commonly been organised around church membership, neighbourhood, or gender. The clan idir of Wolayta (dabo idir), however, is specifically based on clan membership and is aiming at strengthening kin relations that have been weakened. 80 chapter three

Land reform and the role of peasant associations After the Derg took power and replaced the imperial regime in Addis Ababa in 1974, it took time before the revolutionary change was felt in Sidama and Wolayta. In peripheral areas of the Ethiopian state, events that took place during the first year of the revolution had important symbolic meaning but did little to change the realities on the ground. It was the land reform, which began in March 1975, that really made the Sidama and Wolayta believe that the new power holders represented new ideas and policies. The state confiscated both rural and urban lands and set up peasant associations and urban dwellers’ associations (both called kebele in Amharic) to redistribute the properties. This move abolished the landlord system, which had been hated by the peasantry in both areas. The new peasant associations soon became the key local administrative bodies, taking over many of the roles formerly held by the neighbourhood and hamlet assemblies. The new leaders of the associations, the kebele officials, undermined in many ways the traditional elders’ role as community leaders in Sidama and Wolayta. Other agents of revolutionary change were urban secondary school and university students sent to the villages through the zemacha (‘development through cooperation’) campaign. The students participated in various developmental and literacy activities and helped with organisation of the peasant associations. They preached Marxist ideas to the people, trying to induce them to abandon traditional religious and social practices, which the students viewed as backward and coun- terrevolutionary. In Sidama, the zemacha students went so far as to cut down the holy trees around the sacred shrines of clan deities, actions that still evoke horror today. Thezemacha students and the kebele officials thus represented a contradiction for the people of Wolayta and Sidama: on the one hand, they had helped get rid of the Amhara- dominated neftegna-gabber system, but on the other hand, they disap- proved of and even actively damaged indigenous social, political, and religious organisations. A long-term effect of the land reform under the Derg was to create insecurity with respect to holdings and production (Dessalegn Rah- mato 1992). Access to land became dependent on the peasants’ relationships to local party and government agents, who were eager to push the farmers into socialist agricultural schemes characterised by increased taxes, contributions of food grain to the state, and sale of produce to state agencies at below-market prices. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 81

In Sidama, the land reform did not radically change land ownership structures, as most of the Sidama already were smallholders. But it relieved farmers of the burden of paying tribute to the landlords, making the reforms highly popular (Hamer 1996). However, initial praise for the revolutionary regime gave way to anger in 1980, when cooperative farming was introduced. In some areas, peasants’ small- holdings were confiscated, and coffee producers all over Sidama were forced to sell coffee through the cooperatives for a lower price than they could get on the free market. The resistance to cooperative farming bolstered a growing anti-government movement, which earlier had been organised through the Sidama Liberation Movement. In Wolayta, the land reform reinforced the existing problems of land holding and cultivation. Farmers who before the revolution already had too little land to redistribute to their sons now had to maintain a good relationship to the kebele officials to ensure access to land. This added more insecurity to an already fragile situation. Dessalegn Rah- mato (1992) claims that Wolayta went through an ‘agrarian involution’ in the last years of the Derg regime: growing population and increasing land shortage led to overcultivation and soil exhaustion, making Wolayta a famine-prone, semidesert area. Given the lack of alternative income and employment opportunities, this spurred more Wolayta to leave their land and become migrant workers in other southern areas.

The revolution: Challenging or maintaining hierarchies? The land reform eradicated the main material barrier to full social acceptance for the lower strata, the exclusion from land ownership. But there was still no full equality of clans and social strata in regard to land. Some clans gained more land because they had more members and held a dominant position in the peasant associations, which were responsible for the distribution of plots. This gave a strong advantage to the numerically dominant and historically powerful clans, and they maintained their privileged status to a large extent. Moreover, it has been reported that artisan groups who received land during the land reform in 1975 had their land snatched back in 1991, when the EPRDF came to power (Freeman and Pankhurst 2003). Although the land reform did less than anticipated to change traditional clan privileges, the new authorities in Sidama and Wolayta promoted clear-cut norms that ran counter to the traditional hierarchies 82 chapter three of clans and social strata. In accord with the egalitarian ideology of the Derg, the socialist cadres classified the higher clans of Wolayta and Sidama as ‘reactionary’, while the artisans and descendants of slaves were seen as ‘oppressed’. A number of slave descendants in Wolayta and hadicho in Sidama were promoted to lower administrative positions. However, the other despised groups remained marginalised from political and social life during the socialist regime. In recognition of this new role, the ayle in Wolayta were given a new nickname during the Derg: wodia kawona, the current children of the king (interview with elder, Soddo Zuria, March 2006, nb 3:105). Some of these officials used their newly won power to attack members of the traditionally privileged clans. This reinforced the hostile attitude towards the slave descendants and artisans. As we will see in chapter 6, sentiments of distrust and revenge have followed the traditionally marginalised into the post-revolutionary regime and have influenced major political struggles in Wolayta and Sidama under the EPRDF.

Organised and unorganised resistance to the Derg In many parts of Ethiopia, the Derg’s policies of land reform and the imposition of a socialist ideology and administration provoked resistance. This ranged from spontaneous, ephemeral protests to long- lasting organised armed struggles. Wolayta and Sidama represent these two extremes: in Wolayta, an immediate revolt was put down and gave way to passivity, while in Sidama, the resistance steadily mounted into the organisation of an armed liberation front. In Wolayta, local people initially interpreted the land reform as a chance to reestablish local autonomy and expel the northerners. A young Wolayta, Solomon Wadda, who had been part of the Ethiopian student movement in North America in the 1960s, was appointed to administer the land reform after he returned to Ethiopia in the 1970s. The old elite of Wolaytabalabat and Amhara landlords, however, mounted resistance to the new governors, and violent confrontations took place with the young zemacha campaigners from urban areas. This led to a temporary breakdown of law and order in the administrative town of Soddo, and the Derg accused the Wolayta administrators of trying to disrupt the revolutionary programme. Solomon Wadda was deposed and arrested and was later executed in Addis Ababa (Donham 1999, 32). From then on, representatives of the central government replaced Wolayta officials in the administration of Wolayta. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 83

While resistance to the Derg was largely unorganised and spontaneous in Wolayta in the first year after the revolution, the opposition in Sidama became organised into a political movement as early as 1975. Its leader, Wolde Emmanuel Dubale, son of an old Amharised local leader, was one of the few educated Sidama under Haile Selassie. When the Derg came to power in 1974, he was a member of the radical organisation MEISON (the Amharic abbreviation for All-Ethiopia Socialist Movement), a party that initially supported the Derg regime. He was appointed as administrator of Sidama, one of the awraja (administrative districts) in Sidamo province. But in 1975, he and a group of other radical Sidama turned against the Derg and founded the Sidama Liberation Movement (SLM). The SLM started a guerrilla war against the government from bases in the peripheral areas of Arbegona, Aroresa, and Benza, and later from Somalia. From 1975 to 1977, most local government agencies were run by Sidama. But after the SLM started its offensive, the Derg lost confi- dence in the Sidama officials. Gradually, military representatives of the central government took control, and eventually no Sidama were allowed to occupy leading positions. The anti-government movement stepped up its activities from 1981 onward in response to the Derg’s preemptive counterinsurgency policies, which included extreme measures such as use of phosphorous and ethylene in air raids, burning of crops, and confiscation of livestock (Hamer 1996). Even so, the war between the liberation fighters and the government was hardly noticed by the outside world. Beginning in 1984, the government recaptured most of the areas previously held by the SLM and forcibly relocated the civilian population to protected villages and relief shelters, a policy officially known as villagisation (Human Rights Watch 1991). The SLM leaders and many of the fighters left for exile in Somalia. Most Sidama remained, and their suffering continued; people com- plained that “they [the SLM] left us alone”. The movement meanwhile trained approximately 5,000 soldiers in Somalia with the intention of returning them to Sidama. This did not include the soldiers operating on Sidama soil only, roughly estimated at 6,000. Sources in the SLM claim that today there are still about 700 Sidama inside Somalia, where they have settled and formed their own community (interview with Yilma Chamola, SLM chairman of Sidama zone, August 2006, nb 8:8). The movement had problems of discipline, with reports of SLM fighters looting and raping in Sidama villages during the struggle. These incidents are confirmed by the current SLM leadership. They argue, 84 chapter three however, that this did not harm the organisation because people managed to distinguish between the movement’s mission and the misdeeds of some of the fighters (interview with Yilma Chamola, SLM chairman of Sidama zone, August 2006, nb 8:8). The execution of the Wolayta revolutionary Solomon Wadda marked the start of almost a decade in which people of Wolayta nationality were excluded from prominent administrative posts in Wolayta and in southern Ethiopia generally. But the Derg’s new Constitution of 1987, which stressed the rights of the nationalities to self-determination and greater self-government by the national groups, changed this. Sidamo province, which was created under Haile Selassie, included four awraja (districts): Wolayta, Gamo-Gofa, Sidama, and Kullo-Konta. The constitutional changes allowed officials from both Sidama and Wolayta to take over the administration of the various awraja and the local party organisations in Sidamo province. This gave the Wolayta in particular a prominent position in the administration of the south. A Wolayta, Simon Galore, was appointed as vice administrator of Sidamo province; during the last days of the Derg regime, he was also the Workers’ Party secretary in Sidamo province, after having held the same position in Gamo-Gofa and Illubabor provinces. The map of Ethiopia was also redrawn in 1987. On the basis of research by the Institute for the Study of Ethiopian Nationalities (ISEN), the Wolayta were regrouped with peoples considered to be closer to them, culturally and linguistically. The Wolaytaawraja in Sidamo province was abandoned, and the areas inhabited by Wolayta people were folded into the North Omo administrative area, together with Dawro, Gamo, and Gofa. North Omo was led by a Wolayta, Fekadu Sebene. But this move, while it may have been meant as an administrative gesture to contain ethnic-based political sentiments, did not please nationalists in Wolayta. When the Wolayta awraja was abandoned, the historical name Wolayta was erased from the map. Although the elites in Wolayta were gratified that many people of Wolayta origin had prominent posts in the new administrative structures, the loss of the ancient kingdom’s name was more than they could take. This was one of the factors that led to the underground establishment of the Wolayta People’s Democratic Front (WPDF) in 1989 (interview with founder of the WPDF, Addis Ababa, November 2006, nb 10:16). The first opposition political party in Wolayta, it continued to be active after the EPRDF took power in 1991. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 85

Seeing the past through the prism of current ethnic identities

As outlined in chapter 1, the constructivist approach to ethnicity posits that people construct ethnic identities on the basis of deliberately selected cultural and ethnic markers. This selection is based on what people feel are real and plausible experiences and is linked to a history that actually happened. In this process of ‘ethnogenesis’, historical ambiguities are dealt with in a way that creates or maintains boundaries between groups and their neighbours (Barth 1969; Peel 1989; Yeros 1999). The reinterpretation of the past is also an outcome of internal competition between subgroups and may result from enforcement of a moral order based on established hierarchies (Lonsdale 2004). In out- lining the historical trajectories of Sidama and Wolayta, I have been able to identify a range of cultural and historical experiences that are available for use in the construction of these ethnic identities. I will now attempt to describe these histories as they are seen through the lenses of today’s ethnic identities. Some elements of the past have been emphasised, while others have been downplayed. Current expressions of ethnic identities in Wolayta and Sidama are coloured by a history that extends from the Middle Ages up to the present, but they are also continuously shaped by experiences taking place today. Contemporary experiences determine in part how the past is represented and which elements of this past will be high- lighted. The introduction of the ethnic federal system in 1991 provided an important impetus to the continuous construction of identities, since the political system entails the establishment of fixed and easily distinguishable ethnic political units that greatly diminish the fluidity and flexibility of ethnic groups. This will be covered in chapter 4, which deals with the Sidama and Wolayta under the system of ethnic federalism.

The northern invasion: A triggering event in the creation of identities? Social scientists who take the inventionist approach to ethnicity point to one specific historical event that has stimulated the creation of distinctive ethnic identities in Africa, namely European colonisation and introduction of indirect rule on the African continent from the end of the nineteenth century (Ranger 1983). According to this approach, indigenous elites invented or reinvented their traditions and cultures in order to fit the colonial administrators’ view of African societies as 86 chapter three

Table 3.3 The historical trajectories of Sidama and Wolayta SIDAMA WOLAYTA Traditional political Clans, each led by a ritual One independent, organisation leader (mote); councils of centralised kingdom led elders (songo); and an by a divine king (kawo). inter-clan generational class system (luwa). Clan structure Territorially concentrated Territorially inter- clans, in which hierarchical spersed clans, in which order was based on ritual hierarchical order purity and continuous land was based on royalty/ occupation. divinity and northern descent. Marginalised Artisans, including potters Slaves and their groups (hadicho) and smiths and descendants (ayle) tanners (awacho). Thehadi- and artisans, includ- cho were part of the coming potters (chinasha) mon clan structure. and smiths and tanners (degela). They were excluded from the clan structure and considered noncitizens. Menelik’s invasion 1893: Due to lack of unity 1887–94: It took seven and common defence, there years of resistance to was no effective resistance Menelik’s forces before to Menelik’s forces. the king was forced to give up Wolayta’s independence. Central Indirect rule through clan Wolayta was made a government leaders appointed as admin- personal fief (madbet) presence istrators (balabat) and a directly under the con- small number of soldiers trol of Menelik. The who settled in garrison king was deposed but towns. was later appointed a balabat. Italian occupation The Italians were welcomed The Italians were wel- as liberators. Serious retali- comed as liberators. ation occurred when the There was no general Amhara returned in 1941. retaliation when the Amhara returned in 1941, but collaborators with the Italians were forced out of their positions. local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 87

Table 3.3 (cont.)

SIDAMA WOLAYTA Protestantism First missionaries arrived Indigenous churches in 1928; Protestantism took were established early root in the 1950s. (1930s); Wolayta evangelists were sent all over southern Ethiopia. Economy Agriculture and cattle rear- Sedentary agriculture ing (semi-pastoralism). (ensete, cereals). Labour Coffee as a cash crop was migration took place to introduced after World neighbouring areas War II. and Awassa from the 1950s on. The 1974 Land reform was initially Land reform was ini- revolution popular, but there was tially popular, but there resistance to cooperative was unhappiness with farming and villagisation. centralised rule. Still, The SLM was established in no organised resistance 1975 to fight the Derg.Had- emerged against the icho took lower political/ Derg. Artisans remained administrative positions. marginalised, but ayle took lower political/ administrative positions. composed of clearly distinguishable and fixed ethnic groups. Although Ethiopia was never colonised by overseas powers, apart from the brief Italian occupation, we may ask whether there are similar historical events which triggered the ‘ethnogenesis’ of the Wolayta and Sidama. Many scholars have asserted that the expansion of the northern- based imperial regime to the east, west, and south of modern Ethiopia at the end of the nineteenth century can be equated to the colonisation of other African countries by overseas powers. The so-called colonial paradigm within Ethiopian history, as set forth by the nationalist and radical left, claims that Ethiopia includes many independent nations that were conquered and occupied by various Abyssinian kingdoms (Holkomb and Sisay Ibssa 1990). In the cases of Sidama and Wolayta, many aspects of Menelik’s invasion and rule resemble a colonisation process. Both Wolayta and Sidama were considered to be independent and separate units before the northern forces invaded. Menelik’s soldiers, who became the administrators of the conquered areas, were seen as foreign intruders, bringing a culture, language, and lifestyle 88 chapter three unfamiliar to the indigenous people. The system of appointing local traditional leaders as balabat bears resemblance to the system of colonial indirect rule. When we view this historical era through the prism of contemporary ethnic identities, it is clear that Menelik’s invasion represents a turning point. Today, both the Wolayta and the Sidama continue to portray the invasion as a source of collective humiliation and oppression. As an example, Wolayta often cite the derogatory name for their group, ‘Wollamu’, that was imposed under imperial rule. This name carries connotations of being uncivilised and backward; it derives from the Amharic wey lam oo, which means ‘oh what cows you are’ (Balisky 1997). Equally important, the invasion is seen as an assault on traditional values by an external enemy. In Wolayta, it is the tradition of divine kingship that had to be defended against the destruction wrought by the northerners. Thus the Wolayta kingship became the foundation and central marker of Wolayta identity, and Wolayta today continue to refer to it to explain what distinguishes them from other ethnic groups. Although Sidama traditional organisation and leadership survived the invasion, the tradition of the luwa and the clan organisation are still regarded as distinguishing features of Sidama identity. But these values do not seem to have created an ethnic marker as potent as the tradition of independent kingship. In Wolayta today, the heritage of King Tona, the last king before Menelik’s invasion, is highly visible. In the new cultural hall in Soddo town, for example, a large mosaic depicts the monarch. In Sidama, one can observe interesting attempts to invent or recreate traditions to compensate for the lack of a kingship. For example, during the annual Sidama cultural symposium in Awassa in 2006, I noticed a large painting of a Sidama warrior. The painting, which showed one of the clan leaders who was active in resisting Menelik’s soldiers, was entitled ‘The Sidama King’. Nonetheless, Menelik’s invasion has also been a source of ambiguity in the Wolayta and Sidama identities. On the one hand, the Amhara served as a unifying external enemy, a foil against which to contrast the goodness of the indigenous cultures and pride in home-grown institutions and traditions. On the other hand, ‘Amhara culture’ has been seen as representing ‘civilisation’, and both the Sidama and the Wolayta have sought to demonstrate their links to it in order to emphasise their own civilised status. This points back to the paradox of Ethiopian nationhood discussed in chapter 2: assimilation into the highland core local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 89 culture meant subordination of one’s own origin, culture, and religion, but it also allowed participation in the national political system and inclusion in a purportedly higher civilisation marked by the Amharic language and Orthodox Christianity. The ambivalent attitude towards northern culture is seen in versions of the origin myths of the two groups, which stress a northern descent. It is also reflected in the claim of Wolayta’s higher clans to a northern ancestry, which they present as a basis for their superiority over other indigenous clans. In a context where Amharisation—assimilation into Amhara culture—has been the aim, helping individuals gain access to administrative positions and education during the Haile Selassie regime, such assumed northern links have also been useful. The different models of administration in Wolayta and Sidama during imperial rule may also have contributed to the later political expressions of ethnic identity in the two communities. In Wolayta, the kingship and its centralised structures were crushed. By deposing the single most important symbol of Wolayta pride—the king—the Amhara successfully prevented a political mobilisation based on Wolayta identity. It paid off for the Wolayta elite to Amharise and become a part of the national culture instead of stressing their indigenousness. In Sidama, by contrast, indirect rule permitted traditional structures to survive. Themote, songo, and luwa continued to play a role, and local administrators used their indigenous identity as a tool to maintain their power base. Ethnographic studies suggest that because of the small number of settlers and the ethnocentrism of the invaders, the occupation had minimal impact on the cultural aspects of Sidama society, such as kinship, ideology, and social control. Elders continued to play an important role in settling disputes, particularly disputes over land, an increasing problem in land-hungry Sidama (Brøgger 1986; Hamer 1987). There was little Amharisation among the Sidama, as few adopted the Amharic language and Orthodox Christianity. There may have been exceptions among the balabat and their families, but even they were said to continue the practice of traditional religion, adopting Orthodox Christianity and observing its rules (such as those about fasting) only superficially. Two Sidama proverbs illustrate how they continued their traditional practices in secret or out of sight of the Amhara: “If they order fasting, we will accept what they are saying. But there is still no road to our house” and “In daytime we fast, but at night we eat” (interview with woreda official in Dale, May 2006, nb 7:144). 90 chapter three

In the end, these different models may also explain the different reac- tions to the return of the Amhara after the Italian occupation, when the Sidama reacted violently and the Wolayta did not. The Sidama leaders had their power base quite intact and could therefore mobilise against the Amhara. The Wolayta were largely deprived of this opportunity, as most of the local leaders either were Amharised Wolayta or were centrally appointed administrators from outside. The different experiences in Sidama and Wolayta during Amhara rule also created legacies that affected ethnic political mobilisation during the Derg regime: in Sidama an armed, ethnic-based liberation movement emerged, while in Wolayta ethnic sentiments among the people remained largely unarticulated and did not lead to an organised movement.

Dealing with ambiguities: Ethnic political mobilisation in the ‘modernisation period’ In both Wolayta and Sidama, ambiguities surrounding definition of the group itself complicate the selection of markers for the construction of ethnic identities. The lack of clear-cut boundaries between Wolayta and its neighbours has created the largest challenge to the development of a distinct Wolayta identity. In Sidama, the presence of intra-ethnic contestation has constituted the most fundamental challenge. These ambiguities have been part of both communities from their early histories, but they were intensified by the experiences of the ‘modernisation’ process—the introduction of Protestantism, a modern economy, and the socialist revolution. The term ‘modernisation’ is put in quotation marks in order to show the awkward nature of the concept. Modernisation in the conventional understanding implies a strict dichotomy between traditional and modern. In reality, however, a society does not leave all its traditional aspects behind when modernisation occurs; rather, traditions and modern practices coexist and become difficult to separate from each other. The ambiguity in Wolayta history in essence stems from the contradiction between, on the one hand, the ideal of Wolayta as a separate and independent kingdom, and on the other hand, a strong sense of interconnectedness between the Wolayta and their neighbours in the northern Omotic-speaking areas, with economic and political linkages to a wider southern Ethiopia. This contradiction is already evident in the Wolayta myth of origin, in which seven brothers represent Wolayta and its neighbours; Wolayta, the senior brother, remains in the birth local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 91 place, while the others have to leave and settle in adjacent areas. Even though the Wolayta today emphasize their pride in divine kingship, the myth and maintenance of individual and clan-based links between the Wolayta and their neighbours in Gamo-Gofa and Dawro are no less a part of Wolayta identity. In addition, historical experiences from the time of the northern invasion up to the socialist revolution have also fostered a national orientation among the Wolayta. As mentioned, the direct rule of Menelik and the destruction of the traditional power structures impeded the development of an ethnic-based elite and encouraged the Wolayta leaders to Amharise in order to maintain their privileges. Although the early Protestant conversion in Wolayta led to a strong indigenous church and a large group of home-grown priests, Protes- tantism also further undermined traditional values, and the spread of Wolayta evangelists across southern Ethiopia led the educated elite in Wolayta to look to wider fields of influence. The acute land scarcity and resulting labour migration also made it advantageous for the Wolayta to maintain open access to other areas and cultivate a regional or national rather than strictly ethnic identity. The establishment of North Omo by the Derg in 1987 provided an institutional framework for the interconnections between the Wolayta and their neighbours, and officials from Wolayta played a prominent role in administration of the zone, as well as in other parts of southern Ethiopia. When the EPRDF came to power in 1991 and launched a political mobilisation based on ethnic identity, the Wolayta thus had two different sources of identity from which to choose: their distinctive history as an independent kingdom, and the web of cultural, economic, and political linkages to their neighbours and a wider southern area. The policies of the EPRDF towards the Wolayta, and local political actors’ responses to these policies, were influenced by the tension between these two sources of identity. As we will see in the next chapter, specific political events, notably the attempt to forcefully introduce a unified North Omo language called Wogagoda, encouraged the Wolayta to mobilise on the basis of a distinctive Wolayta identity and de- emphasize their connections to the wider area. This again demonstrates the relational and contextual nature of identity and the fact that political actors choose from a range of cultural and historical experiences according to situation. In Sidama, the ambiguity inherent in the society’s historical and cultural experiences derives from the tension between a myth of common 92 chapter three origin, underlining a unified Sidama identity, and the divisions between the various clans and social strata. According to the origin myth, all the clans share the same ancestors, the brothers Bushe and Maldea. This common origin also includes the marginalised artisan groups, and the hadicho (potters) have been part of the common clan system by virtue of having their own clan land, leader, and assembly, similar to the other clans. Working counter to this unified Sidama identity is the competition between the clans and the stigmatisation of the artisan groups. As noted, the Wolayta share the element of clan division and social stratification. But under the centralised kingship of pre-Menelik time, the clans did not attain the same political influence as in Sidama. Similarly, although social stratification of commoners, artisans, and slaves was also a part of Wolayta society, the marginalised groups did not take up the struggle for recognition in the same way as did the hadicho in Sidama, and the issue thus remained dormant rather than a focus of political mobilisation. As in Wolayta, the ‘modernisation process’ in Sidama gave an impetus to the development of an ethnic identity. In both places, the emergence of Protestantism became a determining factor. But instead of creating a regionally oriented educated elite as in Wolayta, the introduction of missionary schools in Sidama produced an indigenous elite who became active in a political mobilisation confined to the ‘ethnic territory’ under the banner of the Sidama Liberation Movement. While land scarcity led to labour migration from Wolayta, the Sidama had sufficient land and revenues from coffee as a cash crop, enabling people to stay within the ‘ethnic’ boundaries of Sidama. Hence, there was no need for a broader regional and national orientation, as in Wolayta. Together with the traditional institutions of the luwa and songo, largely maintained intact, this provided the basis for an ethnic- based nationalism to develop. The struggle of the Sidama Liberation Movement and the sufferings of the Sidama people during the war with the Derg became another important part of the historical experience that could be used in the construction of a Sidama identity. The suffering created an external enemy in addition to theneftegna , posing a stark contrast to the ‘good’ Sidama values. Countering the experiences of commonality and unity among the Sidama is the fact that Sidama society comprises several powerful clusters of clans and a stigmatised artisan group which has been powerful enough to take up its own struggle against marginalisation. Viewing the Sidama past through the lenses of the various subgroups, it is clear local ethnic polities: the sidama and the wolayta 93 that internal contestation is a continuing theme. The failure of the clans to mount a coordinated defence against the northern invasion at the end of the nineteenth century, as well as to the return of the Amhara after the Italian occupation, is one source of contestation. The continuing discrimination against the hadicho, despite their partial inclusion in the common clan system, is another source of division. Even the struggle of the SLM, which on the surface appears to be an expression of the Sidama people collectively rising up against the oppressive Derg regime, reflects competition between subgroups. The leader of the SLM, Wolde Emmanuel Dubale, is the first Sidama intellectual who received modern education and was appointed to positions during the Haile Selassie regime and the Derg. He is also from the prominent Hollo-Garbicho clan, whose ancestor, Abo, is considered particularly powerful in Sidama traditional belief. In addition, Dubale is the son of a local balabat, representing the indigenous nobility. Throughout the struggle against the Derg, the SLM has been perceived as a party of the traditionally privileged, and recruitment to the movement has to some extent reflected clan patterns. Thehadicho have stamped the SLM as a ‘wollabicho party’, one that represents only the commoners and excludes artisans. When the EPRDF took power and introduced the new order based on ethnic politics, the Sidama, like the Wolayta, could look to a cultural and historical heritage that provided two sources of identity. The political actors of Sidama could choose from experiences which underlined the cohesiveness and unity of the Sidama against an external enemy, or they could pick the incidents which expressed the internal contestation between various subgroups in the society. In Sidama, as in Wolayta, specific political events and policies during the EPRDF regime and the response by local political actors have shaped the contemporary selection of ethnic markers and the expression of ethnic political mobilisation. This is the topic of the next chapter, which analyses how and why Sidama was divided by different political currents, with one of the parties exclusively representing the marginalised hadicho group.

CHAPTER FOUR

ETHNIC POLITICS IN PLAY: IMPLEMENTING SELFDETERMINATION IN A SOUTH ETHIOPIAN CONTEXT

Chapter 2 of this book focused on the national macro level, where Ethi- opian state policies and ideologies are formulated. Due to the federal nature of the Ethiopian polity, the macro level encompasses another arena as well, that of the regional states. According to the Ethiopian Constitution, regional states have autonomy to prepare and implement their own state policies and to conduct their own affairs independent of the actors at the national level. The constitutional right to regional autonomy in Ethiopia is nevertheless severely restricted by national institutional, financial, and central party constraints. The regional state actors are therefore heavily dependent on decisions made by political actors at the national level, and the regional implementation of state policies is coloured by national ideological and pragmatic concerns. Hence, the policies in the regions are also shaped by the EPRDF’s inherently contradictory idea about ethnicity: the notion that although ethnic identities are primordially defined, ethnic political mobilisation is not an aim in itself, but essentially an instrument that the ruling party can use to reach the end goal of controlling the state. Still, the context of each region strongly influences how ethnic federalism operates, as we will see with respect to the Southern region, the SNNPRS. Although the national political actor, the EPRDF, came to the area intending to ‘liberate’ the nationalities of the south, new southern elites, created and instructed by the EPRDF, gradually adapted the concepts of national self-determination to fit their own contexts. The analysis of the national political framework in the Southern region therefore needs a wider scope than suggested by the institutional approach to ethnic diversity management presented in chapter 1. It is not sufficient to focus on the design and functions of institutions: the wider context of history, informal institutions, and power politics must be taken into account. 96 chapter four

The EPRDF’s arrival in the south

When the EPRDF moved southward from Addis Ababa with its forces in 1991, its main message to the southern peoples was that it came to liberate the nationalities from the oppressive Derg regime. Its leaders proclaimed that all ethnically defined communities should be allowed to govern themselves, use their own languages, and promote their own cultural practices. Although it took some time before the new leadership managed to gain complete control of the vast territory of the Southern region, they managed relatively quickly to fill the power vacuum left by the Derg. Within the first few years, the initial peace and security committees of local elders and community leaders were replaced by political parties based on nationality (ethnic group), created by and allied with the EPRDF. Most of these parties were led by former soldiers of the Derg from the south, who had been captured and trained by the Tig- ray People’s Liberation Front in the north in the last years of the war against the Derg (J. Young 1998). They had arrived together with the EPRDF forces and worked to open doors in their respective communities with their knowledge of the language and politics of each nationality. Because of these connections, the EPRDF managed to win the trust of the local population to some extent. But the presence of Tigrayan cadres in almost every zone and in some woreda in the first years of the new regime, and the fact that many of the new local cadres were young, uneducated, and inexperienced, made it difficult for the ruling party to gain legitimacy among the traditional and educated elites.

Changes and continuities As pointed out by Donham, the emergence of the EPRDF in the peripheries of Ethiopia represented both changes from and continuities with the previous regimes. An apparent, but perhaps not deep or genuine, difference between the old and new regimes was that the EPRDF abandoned Marxism and socialism as ideological guides and adopted the modern rhetoric of democracy and human rights to legitimise its actions. But this did not prevent the EPRDF from continuing one of the Derg’s main projects for the Ethiopian state: ‘capturing the citizens’, or encadrement, incorporating every member of the community into its structures of control (Donham 2002, 154). The EPRDF’s execution of this project was even more comprehensive than the Derg’s self-determination in a south ethiopian context 97 because the new rulers went into every ethnically defined community, identified possible local allies or created their own, and used the indigenous language and culture as tools to ‘capture’ the population. The Derg’s party cadres, who had spoken Amharic and represented the grand Workers’ Party, were now replaced by the local people’s own children, but the latter were also loyal agents of the national regime. In this way, the EPRDF underlined the importance of the primordial aspects of ethnic groups but also made a conscious effort to use these aspects as instruments to serve their own political agenda. The first years after the fall of the Derg have been described as a honeymoon for the people of many previously marginalised ethnic groups in southern Ethiopia (Watson 2002). Groups whose existence was hardly recognised in the past gained administrative status as a zone or special woreda; their language was used in education and administration and their own sons and daughters were appointed as local administrators. Appreciation for the new system was particularly strong in smaller ethnic communities that had not been allotted administrative and budgetary resources by the previous regimes. An example is the Konso, a small ethnic group in southwest Ethiopia: the new local administration “reclaimed Konso linguistically and spatially, at the same time distancing itself from its colonial history” (Watson 2002, 200). But for larger nationalities, which had been separate entities or dominant parts of larger administrative units under Haile Selassie and the Derg, and which already had an educated elite and a group of experienced administrators, the appearance of the EPRDF and its creation of new elites was more difficult to swallow. This was the situation for both the Sidama and the Wolayta, which had been relatively prominent groups in the south during the two past regimes.

Co-opting or creating the elite? Although the Amhara were dominant in both the neftegna system under imperial rule and in the Workers’ Party of the Derg, officials from Sidama and Wolayta, often from the traditional ruling clans, had occupied some civilian positions in the past. The exposure to Protes- tant religion and modern education had further stimulated the growth of a small elite. It was a challenge for the EPRDF to ‘capture’ this local elite and make them loyal tools of the new regime. The first members of the nationality-based parties in these communities were therefore 98 chapter four mostly young men who gained their experience, legitimacy, and status solely from being the new party cadres. The parties also attracted members of the traditionally marginalised groups, such as the hadicho in Sidama and the descendants of slaves in Wolayta. The line between those inside and outside the party thus became a reflection of traditional hierarchies, with the lower levels acting as representatives of the new regime and the higher levels observing the affairs from a distance. From the mid-1990s on, as the advantages of national self-rule in terms of budgets and positions became more apparent and early scep- ticism of the ‘Tigrayan invaders’ waned, the local elite also joined the ranks of the party. From then on, the EPRDF in many ways reinforced or reproduced the historical hierarchies and stratification of the two communities, often in the name of ‘ethnic revival’ or ‘promotion of national cultures and traditions’. This, in combination with other factors, produced two quite different political situations. In Sidama, it led to a political mobilisation of the hadicho against the traditionally dominant clans, while in Wolayta, the dominant clans managed to maintain their positions without being challenged by the marginalised groups.

The merger of the southern regions

Initially, the area now constituting the Southern Nations, Nationali- ties and Peoples Regional State was organised in five different regional units (regions 7 to 11). Many of them were more or less the same as the administrative units that had been established after the Derg’s and ISEN’s reorganisation of the southern area in 1987. In addition, ethnically defined groups within these units gained status as zones or special woreda. The initial administrative organisation of the south thus managed to satisfy the basic aspirations of both the larger ethnic groups, which had been administrative units in the past, and the smaller ethnic groups, which achieved administrative status at zone and special woreda level for the first time. So it appeared that the administrative organisation of the first years of the new regime fit well with the EPRDF’s rhetoric of ‘liberating the oppressed nationalities’. The regional administration was relatively open to claims from groups which argued that their distinct identities entitled them to separate administrative units. Many smaller groups gained special self-determination in a south ethiopian context 99 woreda status within established zones, and a few groups also managed to achieve separate zones carved out of larger zones. An example of the latter is the Silte, who campaigned for recognition as a separate ethnic group, apart from the larger Gurage group, and received their own ethnic zone in 2000 (Markakis 1998; Zerihun Abebe Woldese- lassie 2004). But other concerns soon came to the fore, and the EPRDF shifted its focus from ‘national liberation’ to stopping what they saw as a process of administrative disintegration and the development of ‘narrow nationalism’. This led in turn to a range of mergers and amal- gamations of zones, regions, and parties.

‘Transforming the power of ethnicity’ Looking back, the current leaders of the EPRDF from the south now claim that it was part of a natural evolution to shift the focus from national liberation to administrative integration. They stress that mobilising on the basis of ethnicity was more a means than an end, thus echoing the central EPRDF leaders’ idea about ethnic political mobilisation, as described in chapter 3. By the time the EPRDF came to power, ethnicity was highly politicised and the most burning issue on the national agenda, and it could not be overlooked. But it could be transformed, as expressed by one of the southern party leaders: We did not press the button of ethnicity. That was already done. You cannot hide or forget about ethnicity—then it will explode as it did during the Derg. What you can do is to transform it gradually. (Interview with Haile Mariam Dessalegn, of Wolayta nationality, former president of SNNPRS, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:160) In other words, ethnicity as a social phenomenon should be transformed and moulded to suit national political needs, which by and large are defined by the ruling party organisation. Southern Ethiopia, with its multitude of ethnic groups, was considered to be an interesting testing ground for such ethnic engineering. The first step in the transformation of this area was to merge the five southern regions into one region in 1992. The official reasoning was that since the peoples of the south share similar social and cultural backgrounds and have many language commonalities, it makes sense to have a single regional administration. Also, given the very different development levels of the communities in the south, it was argued that a merger would facilitate a better exploitation of intellectual resources. Skilled workers from areas with many educated people could be deployed to so-called 100 chapter four backward areas. This could save manpower and speed up development of the entire southern area. Current EPRDF leaders present the merger as an initiative which came from the southerners themselves. They say that the issue went through rounds of thorough discussion in the EPRDF-affiliated parties in the south before a final decision was made (interview with Te- shome Toga, of Wolayta nationality, speaker of the House of Peoples’ Representatives, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 10:62). On the other hand, some who took part in the process but are no longer in the party leadership argue that the merger of the southern regions and parties was the initiative of the central party leadership. The southerners accepted it, but they would never have suggested it if the EPRDF had not done so (interview with Abate Kisho, of Sidama nationality, former president of SNNPRS, Awassa, December 2006, nb 10:192). Testimonies from a number of ex-EPRDF officials tell of a strong but largely quiet and hidden opposition to the regional merger. As a result of the EPRDF’s commitment to the principle of democratic centralism, southerners within the party could not resist the decision when it was first made by the central party leadership.

A continuance of northern domination? Almost two decades since the merger, the opposition to it has come into clearer focus. Party officials seem to be under less pressure from the party leadership to defend the position, and officials who have left office are more willing discuss their views. The abolition of the five separate regional entities remains of the main grievances against the central government in southern Ethiopia today. In Sidama and Wolayta, people in positions at different levels of the party and the government, as well as individuals who have left office, put forward this grievance. A party cadre and official in Wolayta zone expresses some of this anger: When it comes to implementation of self-determination in the south, how dare they group over 56 nationalities into one region—is it the will of the people, really? If they were consistent, they would have created a northern region too, then. How could Harar become a region with its small population, when the southern nationalities with their mil- lions have been merged into one? (Interview with Wolayta municipality leader, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:117) self-determination in a south ethiopian context 101

Implicit in the anger about the southern merger is the belief that the EPRDF government continues the pattern of northern domination seen under previous regimes, albeit in a different fashion: The Tigrayans give priority to development in the north, so the south loses in the competition for resources. There is still a clear division between the south and the north in the country, and in this way the Tigrayans are the new Amhara. (Interview with Wolayta municipality leader, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:119) The southern merger in 1992 meant that many ethnic groups which had been dominant in the five previous regional units were downgraded to the less prestigious and influential status of zone. This was the case for the Sidama, who had been a leading group within their region, largely dominating the other groups. In the new structure, Sidama became a separate zone within the SNNPRS. The Wolayta continued to be grouped together with their neighbours in North Omo, but their administrative status changed from region to zone.

Institutional adjustments: Establishment of the Council of Nationalities

As a sort of compensation for the heavy-handed integration of administrative units in the south at the beginning of the 1990s, the Coun- cil of Nationalities was established at the regional level in 1993. This Council is equivalent to the House of Federation at the national level and is responsible, in principle, for similar tasks, but in a southern regional context. The rationale for its establishment was to create an institution that could help promote unity in the diverse SNNPRS region. The Council was empowered to interpret the regional constitution, organise constitutional enquiries, and take part in the constitutional amendment process. Apart from these legal assignments, it was intended to play a leading role in regulating the relationships between the numerous ethnic groups in the region and in finding solutions to conflicts between different government levels and institutions. In concrete terms, this meant that the Council was empowered to decide on issues regarding the right to have administrative units such as zones and woreda for nationalities; initiate efforts to study and preserve the languages, histories, cultures, and traditions of the various nationalities; and finally, deal with border issues that might arise with 102 chapter four neighbouring regions and between administrative units and groups within the SNNPRS.

Wanting independence Although the powers and duties of the Council of Nationalities are defined in the Constitution, it remains a challenge for the institution to find its place in between the lawmaking and executive bodies of the regional administration. As seen in the Ethiopian political system in general, the executive and the ruling party tend to impose their will on other institutions, and there is little space for making independent decisions that go against them. Officials in the permanent committees of the Council of Nationalities took note: The executive is a very powerful body, which controls the police and indirectly the courts. So we are not really independent, and the executive tries to intervene in our work and tell us what to do. The principles of the Constitution are not well understood, and as the executive is reshuf- fled often, we have to teach the new executives the Constitution again and again. We have no power to execute our decisions, so if the executive is not willing to implement the decisions, we have no power to make them do it. (Interview with legal expert at the Council of Nationalities, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:63) Thus the Council of Nationalities, for all practical purposes, has to follow directions issued by the office of the regional president and the state parliament in conducting its activities. Because the political leadership in the region is determined to prevent further administrative disintegration of the SNNPRS, it is hard for the Council to make independent decisions on ethnic groups’ requests for separate administrative units. As noted in chapter 3, this is also the situation for the House of Federation at the national level. Although the House is constitutionally independent, its autonomy is challenged by the strong executive and the largely unrestrained power of the prime minister. This means that both the Council of Nationalities and the House of Federation play a symbolic role first and foremost. The power politics of the party and the executive largely determines the government’s approach to conflict regulation and its interpretation of the constitutional right to self-determination for ethnic groups. self-determination in a south ethiopian context 103

The merger of the southern parties

After the merger of the five regions in 1992, the next step in the transformation of ethnic politics in southern Ethiopia was to consolidate many of the 21 nationality-based parties into a smaller number of organisations in 1997. This was a clear follow-up to the administrative merger of the southern regions, the rationale being that the party structures had to parallel the administrative ones. In North Omo zone, for example, the four nationality-based parties of Wolayta, Gamo, Gofa, and Dawro were merged into one party, the Wogagoda party (the name is fashioned from the names of the four nationalities). As we will see below, the EPRDF government led the amalgamation process even further in North Omo with the construction of a common language, also called Wogagoda, for the four ethnic groups. In 2001, both the single nationality-based parties and the merged ones were abandoned, representing a further step in the amalgamation process. All the members of the EPRDF organisations in the south were directly incorporated into the already established Southern Ethi- opian People’s Democratic Front, which has since been renamed the South Ethiopian Peoples Democratic Movement (SEPDM) (Vaughan 2003; J. Young 1997).

Fostering further resentment The SEPDM’s history goes back to the time when the former Derg soldiers from the south who were trained by the TPLF organised in a loose association while they were still in the north (interview with one of the founders from Wolayta, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:99). When the cadres returned to their home areas with the EPRDF, most of them organised nationality-based parties. But they also remained in the southern association, which became one of the four member parties of the EPRDF coalition in 1994. Still, the incorporation of the national parties into SEPDM in 2001 created the same resentment that the administrative merger had done a decade before. Politicians both within and outside SEPDM claim that the amalgamation was not for the sake of the people of the south, but for the convenience of the central party apparatus. With one region and one party, it was easier for the EPRDF government in Addis Ababa to control the south. This was seen as yet another insult to the southern peoples and as continuing the mentality of northern 104 chapter four domination of the periphery (interview with Harka Haroye, former justice minister in the national cabinet from Sidama, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 9:155).

Central interference in southern party affairs

It is not only the mergers of the administrative and party organisations in the south that have created resentment against the current political order in the SNNPRS. Another accusation is that the central party apparatus in Addis Ababa has not created enough space for the regional government to act independently of direction from the EPRDF leadership in the running of daily affairs in the region. Several academic studies of the federalisation process in Ethiopia support this argument, showing that the centralised party system has prevented the regions from implementing their constitutional right to autonomy from the centre (Abbink 1998; Turton 2006; Aalen 2002a). Although the Con- stitution gives wide powers to the member states of the federation, the ruling party’s principle of democratic centralism and accountability upwards to the central leadership prevents a genuine empowerment of regional political leaders, who in all regions are part and parcel of the same party organisation.

Bitew Belay: The embodiment of undue intervention The central party’s interference in southern regional affairs is in many ways personified by Bitew Belay, a central committee member of the TPLF and advisor to the prime minister who was stationed in Awassa throughout the 1990s. He was formally assigned by the central party apparatus to help build up party organisations in the south, but he soon took over many of the administrative tasks of the regional government and became the de facto head of the region. The elected leadership, including the executive president and the state council, could not take decisions without his approval. Higher officials who worked with him but are now outside the circles of power claim that his intervention was on the direct order of the central party apparatus and reflected a deliberate policy of interference (interview with Abate Kisho, of Sidama nationality, former president of SNNPRS, Awassa, December 2006, nb 9:191). In support of this argument, it should be pointed out that the stationing of Bitew in the SNNPRS was not a unique case but reflected a nationwide practice of the EPRDF. The self-determination in a south ethiopian context 105 central leadership assigned advisors to all the regional states of the federation; in most cases these individuals acted informally as the actual regional leaders in the first decade after the Derg fell (Abbink 1995; Merera Gudina 2003). Current SEPDM leaders recognise the abuse of power by Bitew, but they argue that it was not the party’s fault. Rather, they say, Bitew personally exceeded his authority: “Bitew’s dominant role was not the party’s line—but we should have stopped him from exceeding his mandate” (interview with Teshome Toga, of Wolayta nationality, speaker of the House of Peoples’ Representatives, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 10:64). In 1999 Bitew Belay moved from Awassa back to the central government in Addis Ababa and became a minister in the central cabinet. But in an internal split within the TPLF over issues of ideology and the stand against neighbouring Eritrea in 2001 (Medhane Tadesse and Young 2003; Tronvoll 2009), Bitew sided with the dissenters against Prime Minister Meles Zenawi. As a result, he was expelled from the party and imprisoned on charges of corruption. In the wake of this, the president of the SNNPRS, Abate Kisho from Sidama, who had been working closely with Bitew in Awassa, was also deposed, charged with corruption, and imprisoned.

Containing ‘narrow nationalism’

After the internal cracks in the TPLF and EPRDF in 2001 and the ousting of the dissenters, the party leadership led by the prime minister started the process of renewing the party’s ideas, organisational structures, and rhetoric, the so-called tehaddso (renewal) movement (Medhane Tadesse and Young 2003). The party leadership classified their opponents in the internal struggle as ‘rent seekers’ who used ideological issues as a pretext for gaining personal benefits in the struggle for power and resources. In the south, the tehaddso brought a renewed focus on preventing the use of ‘narrow nationalism’ as a tool in the struggle for resources among the political leadership. It was argued that political leaders in various ethnic groups in the region had mobilised the people to demand separate administrative units in the name of national self-determination when the leaders were really only seeking personal benefits through positions and separate budgets: Parties in the beginning did not talk about this [narrow nationalism]. They talked only about the rights of the nationalities. We did not come 106 chapter four

up with this idea before the tehaddso process after the internal crack in the EPRDF in 2001. Then we realised that political leadership is the clue—and that we have to make leaders committed to value creation instead of rent collection. (Interview with Haile Mariam Dessalegn, of Wolayta nationality, former president of SNNPRS, now advisor to the prime minister, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:160)

Separating identity and administrative concerns This rhetoric supported the EPRDF’s earlier actions to amalgamate separate ethnic organisations and administrations in the south. The ruling party could now argue that the existence of separate ethnic administrations and parties was not only an administrative inconve- nience but an invitation to rent seeking. The merger of the regions and parties and the continued containment of ethnic claims in the south were presented as a way of preventing selfish political leaders from seeking their own advantage at the expense of the people and thwart- ing the development of a democratic system of governance. In the SEPDM’s congress in 2006, the party decided in principle to separate ‘identity issues’ from ‘administrative issues’. It stated that the requests for new zone or special woreda administrations would from now on be considered from a purely administrative perspective, which was clearly separated from the right of the nationalities to self-determination. Groups could no longer simply argue that recognition of a separate ethnic identity automatically gave them the right to a separate administration (interview with head of political affairs, of Dawro nationality, SEPDM, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:184).

‘Revolutionary democracy’ and ‘democratic nationalism’ The SEPDM leadership argued that instead of giving each ethnic group its own administration, ethnic diversity in the south could be accommodated through representation of the people in ‘democratic’ and nonethnic organs such as the local administration of the kebele. The right to self-determination should be ensured through the development of a true ‘revolutionary democracy’, as stated by the chairman of the SEPDM: Our democracy is representative and participatory. In our political system, the kebele is the most democratic centre. If the kebele is not active, our democratic process is in danger. Every ethnic group has a kebele, and the kebele is represented at the woreda level. So in that sense all self-determination in a south ethiopian context 107

groups are represented in our political system. We also stress the principle of revolutionary democracy, fighting for all ethnic groups equally. This is in itself a guarantee for accommodating all ethnic groups in the country. (Interview with Haile Mariam Dessalegn, of Wolayta nationality, former president of SNNPRS, now advisor to the prime minister, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:163) As Vaughan (2003) points out, the EPRDF moved from an “ethnic free for all” policy at the beginning of its reign to a policy of “ethnic containment” at the end of the 1990s. While Vaughan argues that this move was motivated by conscious ideological considerations, Tron- voll, in his description of EPRDF policies at this time, claims that there were pragmatic reasons for the change, unrelated to ideology. The policy shift coincided with the eruption of the Ethiopian-Eritrean war (1998–2000). In order to strengthen its war-making capacity, Tronvoll says, the EPRDF needed to mobilise the whole ‘Ethiopian nation’ for a unified defence against the ‘Eritrean aggressor’. The party therefore focused on national integration instead of liberation (Tronvoll 2009). In the south, party leaders started the containment process by stating concerns for budgetary and administrative efficiency and later added expressions of ‘ideological concerns’: ethnic claims had to be stopped in order to safeguard the development towards ‘democratic nationalism’ as opposed to ‘narrow nationalism’. This was again linked to the difference between those who were committed to ‘value creation’, the democratic nationalists, and those who were engaged in personal ‘rent seeking’, the narrow nationalists (interview with Haile Mariam Des- salegn, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:163). This rhetoric appeared to be a powerful tool for internal discipline in the SEPDM, portraying political opponents in general, and ‘ethnic entrepreneurs’ in particular, as the enemies of democracy, development, and economic progress. The continued emergence of conflicts between neighbouring ethnic groups and claims of rearrangements of administrative borders in the region after 2000 indicate that the policy of ‘ethnic containment’ has not succeeded. On the contrary, it is argued that the regional political leaders themselves may have contributed to the escalation of conflicts by mobilising one side in the conflicts. And as the studies of Wolayta and Sidama will show, one of the greatest deficiencies of this policy is that it overlooks the identity element of ethnic politics. As pointed out in the constructivist approach to the study of ethnicity, ethnic mobilisation cannot be reduced to the pursuit of material gain; it has to be linked to the perceptions that ethnic groups and subgroups hold of 108 chapter four themselves and others. The analysis of the development of party politics in Sidama and Wolayta under the EPRDF in the next chapter also shows how the power politics of the EPRDF, combined with and later at odds with the mobilisation of ethnic politics on the ground, has created a potential for resentment and conflict. CHAPTER FIVE

CRAFTING ETHNIC POLITICS: THE FORMATION OF PARTIES IN SIDAMA AND WOLAYTA

A major argument of this book is that the analysis and understanding of ethnic political mobilisation must have a wide scope, transcending the traditional political science focus on institutions and formal structures of political power. I have argued in chapter 1 that the main assumption of the institutional approach, that the introduction of a certain institutional framework is the key determinant of political behaviour, is too simplistic and cannot explain the complexity of multiethnic societies and ethnicity as a political phenomenon. In this chapter, I will demonstrate how my findings in the multiethnic region of southern Ethiopia support this argument. The case studies of Sidama and Wolayta show that the two communities have produced two different patterns of ethnic political mobilisation under the same order of ethnic federalism, underlining the need to find additional explanations of political behaviour to supplement the institutional one. Drawing on the historical outlines in chapter 3 as well as on discussions of the national and regional political systems in chapters 2 and 4 respectively, I explore the political trajectories of Sidama and Wolayta after the fall of the Derg. I look at how the EPRDF’s strategy of forming ethnic- based parties either related to or disregarded the cultural, social, and historical context of the two communities, and I attempt to explain why political mobilisation has turned divisive in Sidama and cohesive in Wolayta.

Creating a new elite: Establishment of the Sidama People’s Democratic Organisation

The EPRDF was received with a mixture of appreciation and scepti- cism when it first arrived in the south. People welcomed liberation from the repressive rule of the Derg and noted that people of their own ethnic group had followed the forces as they moved southward. But they were also sceptical because the new Tigrayan-led rulers represented yet another invasion from the north. 110 chapter five

The EPRDF itself also faced a dilemma: how to consolidate its control of the south in a way that both ensured its legitimacy among the local populations and provided a cadre of loyal and submissive agents. Two different strategies were possible. On the one hand, the party could enhance its legitimacy by seeking a closer alliance with already established local elites not attached to the Derg. All over the country, the EPRDF avoided the so-called nekiki, those who had ‘touched’ power or who had relatives who had ‘touched’ power during the Derg (Poluha and Rosendahl 2002). On the other hand, if the party were to prioritise the search for submissive agents, they would have to create their own leaders who gained their standing in the community solely from being cadres. The elite in many communities had already been absorbed by established opposition parties and movements or had a traditional power base of their own, and they were therefore antago- nistic towards membership in the EPRDF. However, the younger generations and the groups which traditionally had been excluded from political participation were eager to join. This led the EPRDF to follow the second strategy of party building: recruiting the young and the marginalised and creating an entirely new elite of loyal party agents— but at the cost of legitimacy. This was the backdrop to the process of EPRDF party building in Sidama and Wolayta from 1991 on.

Hostility between the EPRDF and the SLM In Sidama, there was no party active on the ground when the EPRDF arrived from the north. But the Sidama Liberation Movement, in exile in Somalia, had already co-opted some of the traditional and educated elites since its founding in 1975. Considering the ideological similarities between the SLM and the TPLF, the two should have been natural allies in post-Derg Sidama. Both were nationalist movements that had fought for self-determination for their respective ethnic groups against the Derg, and both had links to the Ethiopian radical student movement of the 1960s and 1970s. In the last days of the Derg, they met for negotiations in Mogadishu. No cooperation or alliance was agreed upon, but the negotiations facilitated the return of the SLM leader Wolde Emmanuel Dubale from Somalia after Mengistu Haile Mariam was out of office in Addis Ababa. The SLM took part in the transitional government, providing two of the 19 representatives from Sidama in the parliament. But the transitional government broke up in March 1992 after many of the non-EPRDF parties attended a conference in Paris organised by formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 111 the Coalition of Alternative Forces, led by Beyene Petros. The SLM, together with the prominent Oromo Liberation Front, left the government. After that, members and supporters of the SLM were persecuted by the EPRDF, and it became clear to both movements that further cooperation would be difficult. The SLM was not willing to submit and abandon its independent organisation to become a part of the EPRDF coalition. As a result, the TPLF realised that creating a new and loyal Sidama party was the way to go. In addition to these pragmatic considerations, the EPRDF leadership also claimed that the SLM was too narrow in its approach to Sidama nationalism, a claim that reflected the EPRDF’s own move from the focus on national liberation to a strategy of administrative consolidation in the Southern region: It is not only a matter of agreeing on the principle of national self- determination. SLM is fundamentalist and narrow nationalist. We want to exercise national rights within the framework of respecting the interests of other nationalities. The SLM looks out only for the interests of the Sidama, as if they were living alone on the planet. We want democratic nationalism, brotherhood among nationalities, while they want to cut the relationship to others. (Interview with head of political affairs, of Dawro nationality, SEPDM, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:184) The hostility between the two was also aggravated by the SLM’s resistance to the merger of the five southern regions and the downgrading of Sidama from regional to zone status (interviews with SLM leader, Aletta Wondo, May 2006, nb 7:125, and former vice chair of the SPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:124). In the aftermath of the break, the SLM leader, his brother, and other prominent leaders of the movement were charged with participation in the Red Terror during the Derg, and the SLM leader went into exile in Britain. Woreda and kebele leaders of the movement were arrested and many were taken to detention camps in 1993–94. The local SLM organisations continued to exist but were largely inactive, as many of the former SLM fighters either were imprisoned or joined the new EPRDF-created Sidama party. The charges against SLM leader Wolde Emmanuel Dubale were, however, dismissed just before the 2005 elections. It was rumoured that the leader had made a truce with the EPRDF; this was confirmed by the announcement of a formal agreement of cooperation between the two parties in December 2006. Fractions of the SLM disagreeing with Wolde Emmanuel continued to operate in opposition, and after the SLM leader’s death in 2007, the whole SLM was again within the opposition camp. 112 chapter five

A new Sidama leader The Sidama People’s Democratic Organisation (SPDO) was founded in 1992, just after the split in the transitional government. It was merged with other southern parties in SEPDM in 1994. In the beginning, the party was challenged by the SLM, and it had difficulty attracting recruits because it was essentially viewed as a creation and puppet of the TPLF. But gradually, as it became apparent that the Sidama benefited from the new political arrangements, the SPDO gained support. Although the Sidama lost their regional status, they appreciated being allowed to govern their own areas: a majority of offices including courts, municipalities, and police were staffed by Sidama people, and the Sidama language was used in education and administration in the zone. The popularity of the SPDO also increased when the party’s first chairman, Abate Kisho, was made president of the Southern region. Abate Kisho was a typical representative of the new EPRDF-created leadership in the south. He was a teacher in Aroresa, a remote area of Sidama, and had no political background or experience when the EPRDF arrived. Although Aroresa was a stronghold of the SLM, Abate Kisho did not consider joining the movement; it was seen as a party for the older generations and was dominated by the Hollo-Garbicho clan, which traditionally has competed for power with Abate’s clan, the Yemericho (interview with Abate Kisho, of Sidama nationality, former president of SNNPRS, Awassa, December 2006, nb 9:190). The EPRDF, on the other hand, attracted younger people by providing opportunities for employment and was a source of power that enabled them to compete with the traditional and educated leaders of Sidama. After a short career in the party, Abate was appointed as regional president of the SNNPRS after the merger of the regions in 1992. Given his lack of political experience it was a surprise to everyone, including himself, that he was appointed to such a prominent position. For critics, Abate Kisho’s appointment was further proof of the EPRDF’s desire to keep complete control in its hands. They argued that the ruling party’s choice of a regional executive from the Sidama was deliberate, as it would garner support from the largest ethnic group in the region. Moreover, they predicted, Abate Kisho as a person would not be strong enough to stand up against the ruling party’s intervention in regional affairs. In retrospect, these critics seem to have got it right. Southern EPRDF leaders in power at that time confirm today that although Abate Kisho was popular among the Sidama, he was first formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 113 and foremost an obedient cadre, largely controlled by the representative of the central party apparatus in Awassa, Bitew Belay.

The encadrement of the hadicho In the EPRDF’s continuing efforts atencadrement of the Sidama population, the first subgroup that accepted its call for mobilisation was the hadicho, the traditionally marginalised potter group. After the EPRDF came to power, the hadicho clan land, Dara, was recognised as a separate woreda in 1992–93, and hadicho leaders became some of the first Sidama to join the recently established SPDO. During the previous regimes, Dara had been divided between three different administrative units. One part belonged to Gedeo awraja, while the two others were separated between Aletta Wondo and Hola woreda in Sidama. In addition to appreciating their woreda status, the hadicho had never been captured by the already established political party in Sidama and were therefore ready to join a party which could provide them with an alternative to the SLM. The SLM was never an option for the traditionally impure hadicho, as it was founded and led by members of the traditionally dominant, ritually pure clans in Sidama—the wollabicho—and became a party essentially for them: Wolde Emmanuel is the son of a garo [deputy mote]. So people say that if the SLM won, the previous landlord system would be revived. So people hate him. I support the TPLF to defeat the ‘mote class’. They were the indigenous landlords and considered themselves to be superior. (Interview with hadicho woreda official, Yirgalem, May 2006, nb 7:98) This obviously excluded thehadicho from becoming prominent in the liberation movement, making them natural allies of the new rulers. “We accepted the EPRDF from the start and saw it as a government for the poor and the inferior. So we organised in the SPDO, while the wollabicho remained in the SLM,” explains one of the early hadicho leaders during the EPRDF (interview with SHPDO leader, Dale woreda, May 2006, nb 7:164). But the hadicho soon felt that those wollabicho who were organised in the SPDO were dominating them, and they appealed to the regional government to acknowledge their problems in the party. After rounds of meetings and consultations, Bitew Belay, the EPRDF delegate in Awassa, finally gave his blessing in 2000 to the establishment of a separate political party for the hadicho, the Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic Organisation (SHPDO). 114 chapter five

SPDO leaders from the wollabicho clan cluster later argued that Bitew Belay had a very direct role and a specific interest in mobilising the hadicho. According to this view, the ruling party aimed to use the party of the marginalised group as a tool for undermining the unity and strength of the Sidama nation (interview with former vice chairman of the SPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:127). The hadicho naturally deny this, arguing that their cause is genuine: a separate hadicho party is needed to fight discrimination against the stigmatised groups in Sidama and should be considered independent of the EPRDF’s power politics. In 2006 the SHPDO decided to include other marginalised groups in its struggle, such as the traditional tanners and smiths, the awacho, and other groups which have been traditionally excluded from owning land, like the Fardano clan (interview with SHPDO chairman, Dale woreda, December 2006, nb 9:128–37).

Separation or unification in North Omo? From the Wolayta People’s Democratic Organisation to Wogagoda

As described in chapter 4, the Wolayta people had two different sources of identity that they could choose from in the mobilisation under the new political order in 1991: their distinctive history as an independent kingdom, or their cultural, economic, and political links to their neighbours and a wider southern area. There were no active political parties in Wolayta when the EPRDF arrived in 1991. But some members of the educated elite were engaged in the Wolayta People’s Demo- cratic Front, a party established underground in 1989. A forerunner to this party was the Wolayta Self-Help Association, established in 1982, which under the cover of development activities worked to promote Wolayta nationalism and counter Amhara oppression (interview with Tekle Borena, former president of the Wolayta Self-Help Associa- tion, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 10:16). But despite references to Wolayta nationalism, the association relied on a regional rather than nationality-based interpretation of Wolayta identity and emphasised the need for a wider southern orientation of Wolayta politics. Much as they had done in Sidama, the EPRDF chose to establish an entirely new party organisation when they arrived in Wolayta in 1991. This was the Wolayta People’s Democratic Organisation (WPDO). Compared to the opposition WPDF, the new party chose a narrower interpretation of Wolayta identity as the basis for its work. The party formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 115 initially claimed there was a need for a separate organisation working for the liberation of the Wolayta people only. From the mid-1990s, however, these positions started to change. Instead of defending separation of the Wolayta from the rest of North Omo, WPDO cadres became the strongest advocates of integration, while the opposition campaigned for Wolayta nationalism. A major reason for this reversal was the power politics of the EPRDF and its strategic turn from national liberation to administrative integration in southern Ethiopia.

The opposition’s southern orientation Compared to the nationalists in Sidama, where an ethnic-based movement had been fighting for Sidama liberation, the Wolayta nationalists were few and unorganised and had a southern rather than ethnic orientation. Both the Self-Help Association and the first Wolayta party, the Wolayta People’s Democratic Front, were elite organisations without a mass base; they were founded by urban Wolayta mostly living in Addis Ababa, and the party essentially operated from the capital. One of the founders of the Front was Mulu Meja, a member of parliament during Haile Selassie’s regime and the son of a prominent balabat and later Protestant evangelist from a renowned clan in Wolayta. He became one of two representatives of the Front in the transitional parliament. He was also a founder and later the vice chair of the first regionally based opposition coalition in the region, the Southern Ethiopian Peoples’ Democratic Coalition, or Southern Coalition, led by Beyene Petros from the neighbouring Hadiya group. After the Paris meeting and the Southern Coalition’s exit from the transitional government, the Front split, and a new party, the Wolayta People’s Party (Wolayta Deriyaa Yamiyaa), was established. Some cadres remained in the Front and some remained as Southern Coalition (Mulu Meja). So today, there are three different parties with roots in the original Front. The divisions between them reflect personal rather than ideological differences. Another party, the United Southern Ethiopia Democratic Force (Debub Democraciawi Hailoch Andenet in Amharic), including Gamo, Gofa, Dawro, and Wolayta, was established in 2004–5. It split from the Southern Coalition because of claims that Beyene Petros was dominating the latter organisation and that as a Hadiya, he could not represent the interests of the Wolayta people. 116 chapter five

The Front held talks with the EPRDF and found the programme of the new rulers interesting. But the common focus on national self- determination was not enough to convince the Front to accept the invitation to become a member of the EPRDF. It was thus classified as an opposition party, and it took part in the first local elections in 1992 under the umbrella of the Southern Coalition. Later, the EPRDF itself denied that it had invited the Front to join its organisation, claiming that the two parties could never have worked together because of the Front’s narrow approach to the nationality question in Wolayta and Ethiopia in general. This again was a sign of the EPRDF’s strategic shift from promoting national liberation to preventing narrow nationalism, as well as its strategy of creating its own parties and elites instead of trying to co-opt the established ones. But to label the Wolayta Front as ‘narrow nationalist’ was not accurate. On the contrary, the first opposition party in Wolayta acknowledged early that a political struggle confined only to its ethnic group would be futile and that a larger union within the Southern Coalition would be necessary in order to reach its goals. Another party which was established at the beginning of the 1990s, the Omo People’s Party (Uma Hizboch in Amharic), based in the centre of North Omo, Arbaminch, also recognised this interconnectedness and included members from all the North Omo nationalities (Gamo, Gofa, Dawro, and Wolayta).

The EPRDF’s initial policy: One nationality—one party The strongest political trend in Wolayta at the time of the Derg’s fall was thus integration of Wolayta within a larger regional context, rather than separation from its neighbours. But the organisation in 1991 of the EPRDF’s own party in Wolayta, the Wolayta People’s Democratic Organisation, did not take into account this interconnectedness. It was instead based on a narrow interpretation of the Wolayta as a separate group with their own identity and in need of their own organisation. The establishment of a separate Wolayta party at that time can therefore be seen as a misreading of the political landscape and an indication of the new rulers’ lack of knowledge about local conditions and sentiments in the south of the country. However, when the EPRDF later attempted to amalgamate the nationalities in North Omo in the mid-1990s through the Wogagoda process, described in chapter 8, they were not able to profit from the Wolayta’s desire for integration into a larger regional context. Quite to the contrary, the formation of the formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 117

Wogagoda became one of the most contested issues in the post-Derg SNNPRS. Party development in Wolayta thus illustrates the ruling party’s ignorance of local politics, the clumsy timing of its initiatives, and its underestimation of the power of ethnic political mobilisation.

Fusion of parties and peoples: The Wogagoda project Local WPDO cadres had campaigned since the early 1990s for a separate Wolayta zone, singled out from North Omo, and not for further cooperation between the neighbouring nationalities. They argued that Wolayta was disadvantaged in the distribution of resources within North Omo and the Southern region as a whole, and that the budgets assigned to the seven woreda in Wolayta were too small in compari- son to those given to other groups with similar population numbers in the south. The campaign for a separate Wolayta administration was understood to be in line with the EPRDF’s first policy of ‘liberation of the nationalities’. But when the party changed to a policy of administrative integration in the south, the Wolayta cadres’ struggle became at odds with the party line. Disciplinary measures by the party organisation in Awassa made the Wolayta party leaders change their minds. Hence, the WPDO turned into a submissive agent of the EPRDF in its efforts to amalgamate North Omo, first through the merger of the four North Omo parties, later through the hazardous policy of language unification. The four nationality-based parties were merged into one party, the Wogagoda, in 1994. The name Wogagoda combines abbreviations for the names of the four groups: Wolayta (‘Wo’), Gamo (‘ga’), Gofa (‘go’), and Dawro (‘da’). It was argued that since the parties had the same programme and the same ideological aims and represented peoples under the same administration with very similar languages, cultures, and histories, one party organisation could serve the people in North Omo more efficiently than four separate ones (interview with Haile Mariam Dessalegn, first Wogagoda chairman and former president of SNNPRS, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:158). Although the party leaders supported the merger, it provoked resistance internally, as some individuals in each of the nationality-based parties lost their positions. There was also competition between the four nationalities to snag the most prominent positions in the amalgamated party, and accusations that one nationality was dominating the others were rife. Naturally, the merger hampered the efforts to bring about a separate 118 chapter five

Wolayta zone. After pressure from the party organisation in Awassa, the WPDO cadres who had raised the issue were branded as narrow nationalists and expelled from the party in 1997 (interview with Tefera Meskele, founder of WPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:107). The merger of the four parties was only the first step in the EPRDF’s and SEPDM’s political engineering in North Omo. Soon after the merger, the Wogagoda leaders received signals from the regional SEPDM leadership that practical steps should be taken to strengthen the integration of the North Omo peoples (interview with Tefera Meskele, founder of WPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:107). This speeded up the process of developing a common language for the four nationalities, which had started earlier with the fusion of the languages of instruction at the Teacher Training Institute in Arba- minch, the capital of North Omo. At that time, individuals involved in construction of the new language had not been able to agree on a name for it, and this had stopped the process. Now, the party merger added political pressure to the unification process, and it was finally decided that the language should have the same name as the merged party, Wogagoda. Against the expectations of the ruling party, the introduction of the new language provoked unprecedented levels of resistance. It mobilised the Wolayta people and the opposition to defend Wolayta identity by appeals to Wolayta nationalism. This marked a new stage in the political development in the area: the political sentiments turned from sympathy for a unified North Omo to a sharp demand for a separate Wolayta.

The new Wolayta elite The first leader of the WPDO was Tefera Meskele, a high school graduate and former Derg soldier who had been captured and trained by the TPLF in the north. Similar to the SPDO in Sidama, the WPDO had problems recruiting those who were already politically active and aware. This reflected both the bad experiences of politics during the Derg and the low local profile and status of the early leaders of the WPDO (interview with Tefera Meskele, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:99). The early EPRDF party attracted members of the traditionally marginalised groups who were outside the already established political parties. While in Sidama, it was the hadicho potters who joined, in Wolayta it was the descendants of slaves, the ayle. The following formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 119 statement from a self-critical party cadre summarises a common understanding of the main political developments in Wolayta in the EPRDF era with respect to the situation of the marginalised: When the EPRDF moved southwards, people perceived it as a Tigrayan invasion. So in order to gain ground, the EPRDF used a strategy of organising the inferior groups, the chiqun [those who are exploited]. When they entered Wolayta, they were joined by Wolayta who had been Derg soldiers and were captured by the TPLF. They were brainwashed and accepted all the ideas of the EPRDF. From this time on, the party tried to politicise the chiqun groups—so unknowingly, the ayle were the ones who joined the party in the beginning and took positions in the administration. (Interview with municipality leader, of Wolayta nationality, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:110–11) The early inclusion of theayle offered a short-term solution to the EPRDF’s need for popular mobilisation, but it turned out to be an obstacle to its efforts atencadrement of the larger Wolayta population. Because the traditionally impure were included, many members of the prestigious clans and former royal lineages kept away and refused to be involved in the party organisation. Even though Tefera Meskele, the first chairman of the WPDO, was appointed secretary general of the SEPDM in 1994 and had the third most influential position in the Southern region at that time, he did not manage to win much local support. Tefera Meskele was, however, dismissed from his position and imprisoned in 1998 on charges of corruption. He never came back to party politics at a high level and is today a low-profile employee in one of the regional offices in Awassa. A Wolayta in such a prominent position might have been expected to produce increased support for the WPDO locally and to harmonise internal struggles within the party, as the appointment of Abate Kisho as SNNPRS president had done in Sidama. One of the reasons for the lack of local enthusiasm was the WPDO’s failure to co-opt the established elite, particularly local leaders from the traditionally powerful clans of Wolayta Malla and Tigre Malla who are still influential in the communities. It was only by making concessions later, withdrawing the Wogagoda language and granting the Wolayta a separate zone in 2000, that the EPRDF succeeded in capturing the traditional Wolayta elite. In the aftermath of the Wogagoda debacle, the traditional elite managed to monopolise the political mobilisation in Wolayta, largely pushing out the traditionally impure. Theayle became scapegoats for the failed language policy and were identified as the enemy of a 120 chapter five strong and unified Wolayta. This reinforced political marginalisation of the traditionally stigmatised, and their voices were silenced in what appeared to be a unified front of Wolayta interests in southern politics.

The contested 2005 elections in Wolayta: Traditions revived

As described in chapter 2, the elections to the national and regional assemblies in 2005 were the first seriously contested polls in Ethiopian history. The EPRDF was challenged for the first time by two opposition coalitions, the pan-Ethiopian Coalition for Unity and Democ- racy (CUD) and the multiethnic but ethnic-based United Ethiopian Democratic Forces (UEDF), which included the Southern Coalition. The election campaign was relatively open, and the voting took place peacefully. Afterward, however, protests against the announced election results, which had the EPRDF the winner, led to demonstrations that left at least 200 people dead, tens of thousands of young men in short-term detention, and the whole CUD leadership imprisoned on serious charges. How did this electoral drama play out in the Southern context? The EPRDF was the big but disputed winner in both Sidama and Wolayta. In Sidama, several of the EPRDF’s prominent candidates lost to the SLM in the first rounds of polling, but the National Election Board allowed the polls to be rerun in most of the constituencies where the EPRDF had lost, thereby ensuring a final victory for the ruling party. The CUD won some constituencies in urban and multiethnic Awassa. The SHPDO also competed in selected constituencies, but its unclear relationship to the EPRDF prevented the party from attracting the hadicho vote. In Wolayta, the CUD won two constituencies in Damot Gale woreda. The UEDF, popularly known as Hibret (‘union’ in Amharic), had candidates in all constituencies but did not win any seats. In both Sidama and Wolayta, the elections were a good illustra- tion of how party agents still use the traditional hierarchies to promote their interests. This was especially clear in Wolayta zone.

The opposition as ‘neftegna’ On the national political stage, the election campaign included harsh attacks and counterattacks between the ruling party, the CUD, and the UEDF, particularly in the last weeks before the vote. Echoing its anti- opposition rhetoric on national television, the ruling party accused formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 121 both opposition parties in Wolayta of being the new neftegna, who supposedly wanted to reimpose the old Amhara rule. The EPRDF warned the people that the opposition, if elected, would take the land and give it back to the landlords. The CUD was the main target of this propaganda because it was seen as the main challenger to the ruling party. The UEDF was weaker and less convincing to voters. Why did the CUD and not the Hibret emerge as an alternative to the EPRDF, even though the Hibret, through the Southern Coalition, has a long history in the Southern region? The UEDF leader, Beyene Petros, has been active in Ethiopian politics since the beginning of the 1990s. But people are aware of the fact that he is from Hadiya, the zone adjacent to Wolayta, and there is a history of tensions between the two peoples. The EPRDF appears to have exploited this fact in the campaign, and it was reported that the ruling party spread rumours that Dr. Beyene would divide the Wolayta land to benefit the Hadiya people (interview with zone official, Soddo town, February 2006). The CUD apparently ran a much more efficient campaign than the UEDF: they printed up their programme in pamphlets and employed students to distribute them to peasants door-to-door. The UEDF, however, accused the CUD of unethical campaigning and even used the issue of social stratification to emphasise this: “The CUD bribed people, particularly those from the lower clans and strata. As a result of this, many people who had been active in Hibret turned to the CUD” (interview with UEDF officials, Boditi town, October 2006).

Traditional hierarchies exploited What did the traditional hierarchies of Wolayta have to do with the political games of the 2005 elections? Do people see any links between the modern elections and the traditional divisions between clans and social strata? When these questions were posed to informants in Wolayta after the elections, a relatively clear picture came forward: the political parties, and the EPRDF in particular, were understood to be directly or indirectly using the traditional hierarchy to boost their power and legitimacy, and dominant clans were perceived as using their members in political positions to gain benefits. Two of the traditionally most powerful clans in Wolayta, the Hizea and the Tigre Malla, are seen as dominating the ruling party and the zone administration, and members of these clans are said to be privileged in their access to positions and resources. 122 chapter five

One occasion where clans traditionally have mattered is in the appointment of chiefs and local leaders. According to Chiatti (1984, 160), families of the same clan cooperate to provide the help, popular support, and prestige that a man needs for political achievement. If people from the same clan compete for the same office, the issue is settled by the dabo idir, the assembly of the clan. Chiatti is referring to the political situation in Wolayta before the Derg came to power in 1974. At that time, people expected that having one of their clan fellows in a powerful position would ensure rewards for the clan as a whole. This attitude appears to persist in contemporary Wolayta. There is still a widespread perception that powerful individuals provide members of their own clans with access to resources and positions. Just as in the pre-Derg era, the Tigre Malla and Hizea are regarded as the most powerful clans. A common claim is that the majority of the heads in the zone administration are from these two clans. This favouritism was also evident in the nomination of candidates to stand for election: the nominees were selected without popular consultation, and this was understood to be a way of ensuring that these clans maintained their dominant positions. Representatives of the UEDF and the CUD have continuously argued that the EPRDF exploits the clan system to its own advantage. They cite the example of the president of the Southern region, Haile Mariam Dessalegn, who allegedly has used his family and clan, the Hizea, to gain support in the election. The opposition claimed that before the 2005 election, the president appointed his nephew as the administrator of his home woreda, Boloso Sore, and as a result the whole woreda became staffed with Haile Mariam’s relatives. But Hibret was also accused of using clan ties in the election campaigns. In Soddo Zuria woreda, voters reported that representatives of the UEDF’s member of parliament, Mulu Meja, called all members of his clan for meetings and made campaign visits to their homes (interviews in Soddo Zuria woreda, February 2006). The official rhetoric of the EPRDF is that the traditional social stratification is not a good and appropriate basis for modern politics. EPRDF officials also argue that the Wolayta people have rejected the principle of clan-based politics and prefer to vote for candidates who offer something more than clan power: There are 115 clans in this area, but only two or three of them have dominated historically. So to base politics on clan lines is not good. The formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 123

most prominent Hibret candidate here is from the dominant clan, the Tigre Malla. But still, he was not elected. So people do not want this. They want to elect leaders on the basis of merit and education. If I want to benefit my clan members, I cannot do so. It would be very unpopular with the people. Commitment to the right political attitude is what matters in the appointment of political leaders. (Interview with the chairman of Boditi municipality, October 2005) According to Wolayta traditions, political leaders from the prestigious clans are still preferred. But due to the influence of the Derg’s socialist ideology, the Protestant churches, and EPRDF’s own rhetoric of democracy, a candidate from the higher clans is not always seen as social capital for the party. In some instances, the EPRDF tried to dis- qualify CUD candidates because they came from higher clans: In our village, the EPRDF campaigned against the CUD by pointing to the fact that the CUD candidate is a kawona. They claimed that the candidate would take the land and give it to her own clan. So the fact that she comes from a higher clan was used against her. (Interview with teacher, Soddo Zuria woreda, February 2006) Despite the EPRDF’s anti-clan rhetoric, many informants who supported the opposition stated that if they wanted to eradicate the EPRDF, they had to replace the people of the dominant clans. The victory of the CUD in Boditi town, for example, was interpreted by some as resulting from the mobilisation of competing clans against the dominant clan: The most powerful clan in thisworeda is the Tigre Malla. They are dominant and wealthy. The Tigre try to impose their will on other clans through control of the EPRDF. Most of the opposition supporters are from the competing clan, the Wolayta Malla. Their intention is to weaken the Tigre. The Wolayta Malla, in collaboration with other clans, voted the EPRDF and the Tigre out of office. (Interview with CUD official, Boditi town, October 2006)

Hizea and Tigre Malla against the ayle In the mutual accusations between the ruling party and the opposition in the election campaign regarding the exploitation of clan power, the principal issue was the role of the higher and historically privileged clans. The role and exclusion of the despised groups of former slaves and occupational minorities were not on the agenda of any of the political parties. One reason may be that the marginalised groups lack formal organisations that can represent their interests. Another reason 124 chapter five may be that these groups are still affected by such strong social stigma that members are reluctant to advertise their status and stand up for the rights of their groups. In the aftermath of the elections, however, in January 2006, a pamphlet was twice distributed secretly in Soddo, claiming that the Hizea and Tigre Malla clans dominated the society and urging people to mobilise against them. It appeared that the objective of those who wrote this tract was to call the goqa majority (the peasants) to struggle against the kawona (Tigre) and Hizea minorities. There was no sig- nature or organisational stamp on the paper, but according to many informants it seemed to originate from an informal organisation of the ayle. In addition to attacking the Hizea and the kawona, the pamphlet also accused the ruling party and the Amhara of monopolising political power in Wolayta. It asked for the revision of Wolayta history in order to expose the misdeeds of the Hizea and Tigre Malla clans and presented a list of areas in society where the goqa are oppressed by this minority, including in education, in the court system, and in the assignment of political and administrative posts. The pamphlet also accused the Hizea and kawona of having a disrespectful attitude towards the goqa majority. It was not only the despised groups that put forward this criticism of a revived traditional hierarchy in Wolayta, but also parts of the educated elite in Soddo. In the election aftermath, the EPRDF tried to reclaim the support and legitimacy it had apparently lost in the elections by organising ‘democracy’ conferences for development agents, health workers, and teachers. During a two-week conference for teachers in the zone, the concepts of democracy and other issues were discussed, with videotaped introductions by EPRDF ministers. The leaders of the group discussions were all party cadres who had been trained in the regional capital, Awassa. The issue of clan power in Wolayta was one of the most debated issues in the conference. It was claimed that the clan mentality was much stronger now than during the Derg and that this served to safeguard the power of the ruling party. The clan mentality was also linked to the political order of the EPRDF regime, the ethnically based federal system. Teachers at the conference argued that the principle of self-determination for nationalities not only had stimulated a stronger focus on ethnic identities, but also had revived the traditional hierarchies of Wolayta: formation of parties in sidama and wolayta 125

EPRDF’s policy focuses on nationality, which means that every person has to know his ethnicity. In Wolayta, the logical step from this is to look at clans. (Interview with teacher, Soddo town, February 2006)

Sidama and Wolayta: Two patterns of political mobilisation

The analysis of party development in Sidama and Wolayta has exposed two different patterns of political mobilisation under ethnic federalism. In Sidama, the traditional elite failed to monopolise the process of political mobilisation, and the marginalised themselves have taken up a political struggle through organised political activities. In Wolayta, on the other hand, the traditional elite has managed to seize control of the political mobilisation, largely excluding the already marginalised groups. The contrast between Sidama and Wolayta in this respect is due to a combination of factors. They include the particular conditions of the clans and social strata, the actions taken by local political actors, and the intervention of the ruling party from the central and regional levels. Also important is how the EPRDF’s strategy of forming ethnic-based parties related to (or disregarded) the cultural, social, and historical contexts of the two communities. In Sidama, the hadicho were relatively advantaged for a low-ranking group, with their own clan land and clan assembly; it was therefore easier for them to organise, compared to the ayle and chinasha in Wolayta. The already established nationalist party, the Sidama Libera- tion Movement, was perceived as a wollabicho party organising the privileged, so it was natural for the hadicho to search for an organisation of their own, first through the EPRDF-created SPDO and later through the independent SHPDO. The central intervention of Bitew Belay and the EPRDF facilitated the establishment of the SHPDO, as the EPRDF had an interest in fostering a strong hadicho party that could undermine a strong and united Sidama front in the south. In Wolayta, the traditionally marginalised descendants of slaves (ayle) were the first to be included in the EPRDF, similar to thehadicho in Sidama. This delegitimised the EPRDF in the eyes of the traditional elite. The ayle were made the scapegoats in the controversial attempt to introduce a unified language and amalgamate the four North Omo nationalities. When the EPRDF made concessions by withdrawing the language and granting the Wolayta their own zone, the ayle were finally thrown out of important political circles and the historically 126 chapter five strong clans returned to the centre of politics, occupying key positions in the administration of Wolayta once again. The contested 2005 elections in Wolayta confirmed this pattern by reasserting the power of the prestigious clans. Theayle remained as scapegoats for all bad things in Wolayta politics, but unlike the hadicho, they did not have the strength to organise in their own defence. They were not internally united, and the strong prejudices against them as a group prevented them from openly asserting their identities as the hadicho had done. In this way, the powerful and prestigious clans managed to seize control of the political mobilisation in Wolayta and shape it in their own image, maintaining exclusion of the traditionally marginalised. CHAPTER SIX

DEALING WITH LOCAL MINORITIES: THE PERSISTENCE OF DISCRIMINATORY PRACTICES UNDER ETHNIC FEDERALISM

One of the challenges facing the ethnic-based federal system of Ethiopia, as pointed out in chapter 3, is that the politics of ethnicity takes for granted that every ethnic group is homogeneous and unified and speaks with one voice. Although the Ethiopian Constitution includes a wide range of rights, subgroups within the ethnic groups have not received any particular consideration in the constitutional framework. Consequently, historically marginalised minorities within the various ethno-linguistic units of Ethiopia still do not have rights to special representation under the ethnic federal system introduced by the EPRDF. The analysis of party development in Wolayta and Sidama has also shown that the ruling party, in crafting ethnic politics, has approached the nationalities as uniform groups, largely disregarding subethnic varieties, with the exception of the hadicho organisation in Sidama. The constructivist approach to ethnicity, however, underlines that we should not take for granted that ethnic groups are cohesive and that members or subgroups of the ethnic group always act in the same way. Every ethnic group is a collection of different subgroups with different opinions and allegiances. Moreover, identities other than ethnic, notably class, gender, and generation, shape the political mobilisation in a given community. In Wolayta and Sidama, as in southern Ethiopia in general, it is the traditional marginalisation of artisans and the division between clans which do most to create internal friction. Another source of subethnic contestation is the division between genders. Since the introduction of the ethnic federal system, ethnic markers have been sharpened, and this has led in many instances to a revival of traditional cultural practices which have proved harmful or disempower- ing for women (Vaughan and Tronvoll 2003). This chapter analyses the internal contestations within Sidama and Wolayta by delving into the social and political conditions of marginalised groups, including the stigmatised artisans, former slaves, and women, under the order of ethnic federalism. 128 chapter six

Prejudice and discrimination in social life

As we have seen, both the Sidama and the Wolayta have a hierarchical clan system and a stratification of society between free commoners and artisans (and slave descendants in Wolayta). Although the protag- onists of Protestantism and the socialist revolution spoke against the traditional divisions, these divisions continued to be a central aspect of social, political, and economic life during the previous regimes. Many of the practices that discriminate against the marginalised groups are still alive in Wolayta and Sidama today. These include, among others, the taboo against marriages between members of artisan groups or slave descendants and members of the common clan system, and the continued discrimination against the marginalised groups in day-today social interaction.

Marriage restrictions A large majority of the informants during my fieldwork in Wolayta and Sidama in 2005 and 2006, independent of age, gender, education level, religious orientation, and social status, stated that the most important social function of the clans today is to impose restrictions on marriages. In addition to the prohibition against marrying within one’s own clan, the rank of the clans is also seen as important in the choice of spouse. A person from what is perceived as a higher clan would not marry a person from a clan at the bottom of the hierarchy. Marriages between members of the clans and members of the artisan or slave descendant groups are likely to lead to social isolation and exclusion from the community. An elder in Wolayta Soddo told of his personal experience: I belong to one of the higher clans, while my wife is a kawona, a relative of the last Wolayta king, Tona. Still, I gave my daughter to an ayle. I want to interlink with them since I believe in human equality. For my daughter’s wedding ceremony, I distributed many invitation cards, but people refused to come, even my relatives. (Interview with elder, Soddo, March 2006, nb 3:140) Reluctance to break the marriage taboo goes both ways: representatives of the chinasha argued that they would not give away their children to members of the higher clans. “If I gave my daughter to a kawona, they would degrade her and undermine her dignity, so I would never accept this kind of marriage” (interview with member of the chinasha dealing with local minorities 129 group, Soddo Zuria, March 2006, nb 3:152). In Sidama, the situation is the same between the wollabicho (farmers, commoners) and the hadicho (potters). As expected, a leader of the luwa, the traditional generational class system, spoke out strongly against marriages across traditional categories: I would never allow my child to get married to a hadicho, and my children would never dare ask about it. Even a hadicho would never dare to get a wollabicho daughter. This is from our culture or the rules of our ancestors. (Interview with a gadana, or luwa class leader, Aposto, May 2006, nb 7:47) Even educated and ‘modern’ individuals, who might be expected to feel less strictly bound by traditional values than the traditional leaders, said that they would be subject to stigma if they violated the marriage taboo. A higher official of the Sidama Zone Women’s Affairs Department told about experiences in her family: “My sister married a hadicho. After that my father did not talk to her” (interview, May 2006, nb 7:71). In everyday life, the traditional rules of stratification affect even the smallest interactions between people from higher and lower levels of the hierarchy. A violation of these rules is still likely to lead to social sanctions and even personal misfortune: “If I abandon the clan principle or if I change the way my forefathers did it, that is something shameful and I will be ostracised,” explains one elder in Soddo town (interview, Soddo Zuria woreda, October 2006, nb 3:119). Informants in rural areas around Soddo, the zone capital of Wolayta, explained that as a sign of respect they will always stand when a person from a higher clan arrives, and members of higher clans will be served first when a meal is shared between people of different clans. In many rural areas of Wolayta, and particularly in Dalbo, the old seat of the Wolayta king, people reported that they still give special deference to members of the Tigre Malla clan. Several informants, including younger ones, said that if they met a man from the Tigre Malla clan, they would greet him as goddo (king’s son) or getoch (our lord); a Tigre woman would be kawona bie (king’s daughter). An official from the zone administration said that whenever they have meetings in the local communities, they have to let the kawona talk first. And if anything important is going to be done in the communities, they have to get consent from members of the royal clans first. So the government is deliberately using the descendants of the Wolayta king’s dynasties to get communal support (interview with zone official, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:105). 130 chapter six

The revival of clan-based funeral associations in Wolayta An expression of the revival of traditional categories in Wolayta is the emergence of the clan-based funeral associations, the dabo idir. Haileyesus Seba (1996) argues that they are a recent phenomenon, established towards the end of the Derg regime as a reaction to the Derg’s anti-clan policy. Other sources claim that the dabo idir existed during the Haile Selassie regime (see chapter 3) but were banned by the Derg, and that after 1974 the idir were instead organised based on neighbourhoods or church affiliation, as is common all over Ethiopia. Chiatti (1984) confirms the existence of clanidir in pre-Derg times, and according to informants in Soddo Zuria and Damot Gale woreda, the clan idir existed informally under Haile Selassie but were destroyed during the Derg. The associations reemerged first with the EPRDF, and today they play an important role in social life in Wolayta. The clan idir have essentially the same functions as other idir. Orig- inally a funeral association, the idir has gradually developed into a mutual aid organisation that carries out various functions: collecting money for weddings and funerals, providing support for medical treatment and other urgent needs, extending credit, and organising collective house construction (interview with elders in different locations in Soddo Zuria and Damot Gale woreda, October 2005 and February 2006). Although the dabo idir are not present in all communities and clans in Wolayta, and the level of formalisation varies from association to association, they appear to have an important social function for members of the clans. A dabo idir may not include all clan members in an area, but may have members only in one neighbourhood or from one lineage. Whenever a member faces economic difficulties or must pay the costs of a funeral or a wedding, his fellow members contribute money. Many of the associations meet monthly and have a formal leadership with a chairman, secretary, and judge. It appears that clans from the higher levels of the traditional hierarchy, like the royal clans of the Tigre Malla and Wolayta Malla and the currently dominant clan of Hizea, are better organised internally and have more members than other clans. Even Wolayta individuals from these clans who have resided in Addis Ababa for decades are organised in dabo idir in the capital. The strengthening of clan-based instead of neighbourhood- or church-based associations means in practice that the groups which are classified outside the common clan system, thehillancha and the dealing with local minorities 131 ayle, face yet another form of social exclusion. Although the Protes- tant churches preach against the clan idir, portraying them as divisive and devilish, other major institutions in Wolayta society do not take a clear stand on the practice. The local party leaders appear to be silently accepting of the idir, though they do not officially encourage or discourage them. On the one hand, members of the educated elite in Soddo criticise the clan idir because they exclude the ayle and the hillancha. But on the other hand, they also praise the clan idir for preserving the traditions and identity of Wolayta. In this sense, the reemergence of the dabo idir may be justified in a political order of ethnic federalism because it enhances the specific traditions of the Wolayta. Although the educated elite express ambivalence towards the clan idir, they appear to be the main actors behind the revitalisation of old hierarchies. In Soddo town, for example, a number of respected elders (teachers, pharmacists, and merchants) have been trying to organise clan-based associations and have been instrumental in putting Wolayta traditions, language, and culture on the agenda of the zone and the region. Members of the higher clans argue that the occupational minorities and slave descendants have established their own idir and that the ayle in particular appear to have a strong but informal and largely hidden form of organisation (interview with elder, Soddo Zuria, March 2006, nb 3:100). But this notion was rejected by individuals of slave origin, who pointed out that a separate organisation for the ayle would be a dangerous affair, likely to lead to prosecution and arrests (interview with slave descendant, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:92). In sum, the emergence of the dabo idir illustrates one way in which the traditionally higher clans have been able to define and monopolise the ‘revival’ of traditional practices to their own advantage and in their own image. The effect has been to perpetuate the exclusion of the traditionally marginalised groups.

Polarisation between the hadicho and the wollabicho Compared to Wolayta, Sidama is more polarised, with internal contestation between the traditionally privileged and the traditionally excluded. Thehadicho have long been more empowered than other artisan groups in southern Ethiopia because they have their own clan land and organisation. They have not remained unorganised like the hillancha and ayle in Wolayta, but have tried to resist the higher clans’ 132 chapter six attempts to monopolise the ‘ethnic revival’ by forming their own political party, the Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic Organisation. This has, however, led to sharper confrontations between the different strata. Discrimination has been exposed, and accusations by the marginalised against the ‘commoners’ have been more serious than in Wolayta. Apart from maintenance of the marriage taboo, restricted access to land is a central complaint of the hadicho. They claim that they are prevented from building houses on certain plots of land because the land is still considered to belong to the wollabicho. They also accuse the wollabicho of excluding them from graveyards on the grounds that hadicho cannot be buried on wollabicho land. The SHPDO reported that this has led to extreme actions by the wollabicho, such as dig- ging up hadicho graves and depositing the remains outside the grave- yard (interview with SHPDO chairman, Dale woreda, August 2006, nb 9:25). Other common accusations are that the hadicho are treated unfairly when they take cases to court or appeal to administrative bodies, and that hadicho who try to stand as candidates for election encounter problems. As noted earlier, the Sidama, unlike the Wolayta, have been able to keep many of their traditional administrative and political organs due to the indirect nature of Amhara rule in Sidama. Their traditional beliefs have largely survived, despite an overall Protestantisation of society. Just after the Derg fell, but before the EPRDF forces established control in Sidama, people took the initiative to safeguard law and order by revitalising the clan councils known as songo. This practice has continued, and today the elders of each lineage songo meet every Sunday to resolve community conflicts and findhalale , the true way of life. For special issues or issues that concern the whole clan, the clan songo is gathered (interview with woreda official in Dale, May 2006, nb 7:150). In the traditionally powerful clan of Hollo-Garbicho, however, the songo works only at the clan level, convening at the traditional religious site of Abo. It is led by the gana, the religious leader, and makes decisions in court cases and informal conflicts. The generational class system of luwa has also continued to perform traditional duties during the current regime, and informants even report that the local EPRDF organisation has been instrumental in revitalising the luwa by encouraging the local Sidama radio to broadcast community programmes on the functions of the luwa and other traditional authorities (interview with Sidama zone Cultural Bureau official, Awassa, May 2006, nb 7:81). dealing with local minorities 133

There are, however, expressions of dissatisfaction about the role of elders in community governance today, suggesting that the elders have not managed to entirely maintain their independent and legitimate role in society: The truth is not with the old generation anymore, as it was in the past. Now we look to God to find the truth. The elders receive birr [Ethiopian currency] and wheat, and the truth is sold for money. (Interview with female elder, Awassa Zuria, August 2006, nb 8:81) A common critique of the elders’ power in contemporary Sidama is that they receive money from officials to take decisions that are favour- able to the government. It is argued, for instance, that if the people refuse to accept certain government initiatives, officials may use signa- tures from the songo members to obtain formal approval on behalf of the community (interview with SLM member, Awassa, August 2006, nb 9:112). Still, the maintenance of the luwa and the songo implies that two of the most exclusionary social institutions are still operating in Sidama. Except with respect to their own songo within their clan territory in Dara, the hadicho, as well as the awacho, remain barred from participation in both structures all over Sidama.

The current political expressions of old hierarchies

The main political events in Sidama and Wolayta in the post-Derg period have taken place in a setting of increased mobilisation of ethnicity as a political force and a revival of ethnic markers within each ethnic group, including the traditional hierarchies and clan identities. In Sidama, this led the hadicho to openly fight for their rights and organise in a separate party: The government did not study the background of the Sidama very well— they just assigned the wollabicho to positions. But the wollabicho have used this system to revive old ways of discrimination against us. They practice the traditional administration within the new one. Our struggle is to replace these officials with our people, the traditionally inferior. (Interview with SHPDO leader, Dale woreda, May 2006, nb 7:173) The artisans and descendants of slaves in Wolayta, however, have remained unorganised and disengaged from the political process, except for a few ayle in administrative positions. The artisans in particular 134 chapter six have continued to be isolated from the larger society. Nevertheless, the marginalised groups in Wolayta also complain that discrimination against them is stronger than before, and they point to the EPRDF’s power politics and its ethnic element as the cause of this increased discrimination. According to a slave descendant in Wolayta: The discrimination based on clans and strata was revived at the end of the Derg regime, and it is flourishing today. There is a misunderstanding of the concept of nationalities—the people of Wolayta interpreted it as the rights of clans, especially of the higher clans. (Interview with slave descendant who is now an official in the regional government, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:143) Both statements above suggest that the combination of the EPRDF’s ethnic politics, the party’s lack of knowledge about local power structures, and people’s (mis)understanding of the nationalities concept has led to a situation in which the values of the dominant groups within each nationality have become the values governing politics in these two communities. Still, the political developments in Wolayta and Sidama are not unique. There are clear similarities elsewhere in the Southern region and in other regions of Ethiopia where ethnic groups include marginalised minorities (Data Dea 2003; Freeman and Pankhurst 2003; Zerihun Abebe Woldeselassie 2001). This makes it reasonable to argue that the EPRDF’s policy towards minorities is not only an outcome of spontaneous events and special circumstances but could also be the result of a purposeful strategy. As Sarah Vaughan writes in her evaluation of the situation in Kaffa/Shasheko zone in the SNNPRS, the EPRDF’s approach to ethnic groups and its pragmatic choices of allies have revitalised prejudicial practices: The EPRDF administrators advocate a much more cautious approach to changing social norms than did their predecessors. This approach, in combination with the devolved ethnic administration established under federalism, results in a situation where local administrators, civil servants, judges, and police officers originate locally, share local prejudices, and experience little sanction from either government or ruling party organs of views whose extreme intolerance may conflict with the constitutional protection of the constituents they are elected or recruited to serve. (Vaughan 2003, 138)

Revenge and suspicion In addition to the EPRDF’s mixture of ethnic politics and local pragmatism, the experiences of minorities under the previous regimes dealing with local minorities 135 influence their situation in Wolayta and Sidama today. The Derg’s policy of ‘equality for all’ is one such influence. Although the ‘lower strata’ continued to be stigmatised in social life during the Derg, the socialist regime opened up many lower administrative positions to the hillancha and ayle, and to the hadicho and awacho. In Wolayta, in particular, people from higher clans claim that many of these officials sought revenge for past discrimination by using their new power to attack the traditionally privileged during the Derg: The Wolayta people widely accepted the Derg in the beginning. The majority had an interest in pulling down the domination of the kawona and supported the land reform. Former slaves became church leaders, kebele chairmen, and leaders even at awraja and province level. The mis- take some of them made was to take revenge. That made people angry. During the Red Terror, the children of the kawona were particularly targeted. This gradually undermined the acceptance of these officials. A positive impact of the Derg time was to make the descendants of the slaves more conscious, but they finally used it wrongly. (Interview with teacher, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:66) This has led to a situation of distrust and bitterness, particularly between the descendants of the slaves and the Tigre Malla, the so- called kawona. As argued by a kawona, this distrust still has serious effects on the political and social situation in Wolayta today: With the Derg, the slaves came to power and became officials. Through their positions, they took revenge on the higher clans by imprisoning them and looting their property. They even denied them the right to talk. From 1975 to 1985 was the worst. My brother was thrown into the Omo River and drowned, and my father was imprisoned. There is no trust between us even today. I feel the need to revenge what they did to my brother and father in the past. But when the slaves are in a good position they are ready to attack me. So in order to live peacefully, we live separately. (Interview with member of the Tigre Malla clan, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:73) The descendants of slaves, more than thehillancha , are acutely conscious of the hostility towards them. Some of them argue that the revitalisation of the ‘clan logic’ during the EPRDF has provided justification for discrimination against them at election time or in appointment to administrative positions: The discrimination against us is reviving—it is a dangerous situation! In the selection of government employees for the zone and the woreda, people always ask which clan the candidate belongs to or where he comes 136 chapter six

from before they choose. They have a belief that if they employ someone from the slave group, he will take revenge on them. The government speaks about equality like honey, but in practice there is nothing. The officials from the region to thekebele follow the clan logic. (Interview with slave descendant, Soddo Zuria, July 2006, nb 6:77) Compared to the situation in Sidama, in Wolayta there is little openness about alleged discrimination in political and social life. One reason is that those who claim to be the victims of discrimination, especially the people of slave background, do not acknowledge their identity openly. This encourages backbiting and rumour mongering, and it reduces the ability of the minorities to organise or receive official recognition of their problems. A few intellectuals of nonslave background have attempted to put the issue on the agenda by establishing an NGO to preserve the skills and traditions of the hillancha and promote equal status for slave descendants within the clan system. But only a few of the marginalised people have joined the organisation themselves, and it has ended up as a project for the elite rather than as something the stigmatised themselves feel ownership of (interview with one of the founders of this NGO, a teacher, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:65).

Organising against discrimination: The SHPDO The Sidama situation from the start was different from that of Wolayta, largely because the marginalised hadicho were willing to openly acknowledge their identity and fight for respect. The establishment of Dara as a separate woreda administration in 1992–93 marked the first step in the overt political mobilisation of the potter group. It was perceived as an opportunity for the hadicho to make up the dominant majority within their own territory. As one said, it would allow them to create a world where power relations were the reverse of those in the rest of Sidama: “Dara is the only woreda in Africa where there is only one clan like the hadicho. When the wollabicho go there they should say they are hadicho in order to avoid problems” (interview with hadicho woreda official, Yirgalem, May 2006, nb 7:98). The founding of the Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic Organi- sation as an independent political party in 2000 was the second major step in the political mobilisation of the hadicho. Although the EPRDF gave its initial blessing to the party, apparently because officials hoped to create division within the SPDO elite, the SHPDO nonetheless created an avenue for the marginalised to express their grievances. It provided dealing with local minorities 137 the hadicho leaders with an arena for representation in political bodies beyond Dara—in the zone, in the region, and at the national parliament in Addis Ababa. One of the immediate reasons for creation of the SHPDO was concern about the allegedly derogatory portrayal of the hadicho in an edu- cational book about Sidama culture. Also of concern was another book, written by Betena Hotesa, an early member of the SLM leadership and one of two SLM representatives to the transitional parliament in the early 1990s. As noted in chapter 4, Betena Hotesa was the research assistant to the Norwegian anthropologist Jan Brøgger when the latter did his doctoral dissertation fieldwork in Ethiopia in the 1960s and 1970s. Hotesa’s book essentially presents the traditional wollabicho view of the hadicho, including the reasons for the ritual impurity of the hadicho (violating food taboos, uncertainty of origin, etc.) and the purported difference in physical appearance between the two groups (“the hadicho having small faces, thick lips and strong hair”). After pressure from Bitew Belay, the TPLF delegate in Awassa, the Sidama zone established a committee including both wollabicho and hadicho to look into the matter. But many of the wollabicho members resigned from the committee when it was finally decided that one of the books should be withdrawn from primary school classrooms (interview with SHPDO leader, Dale woreda, May 2006, nb 7:164). In retrospect, wollabicho representatives in the zone administration at that time argue that Bitew Belay was to blame for this division, as he deliberately used the written material “to mobilise the hadicho in a negative way” in order to serve the interests of the ruling party (interview with former chairman of Sidama zone, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:129).

Clan competition In both Sidama and Wolayta, the division between the commoners and the traditionally despised groups exists alongside clan competition between the traditionally privileged clans. Among the Sidama, the historical power struggle between the Yemericho and Aletta clan clusters has been reproduced in the EPRDF era. In the first 10 years there was a perception that the Yemericho dominated because Abate Kisho, a Yemericho, was the regional president. Members of the Aletta elite argue that the Yemericho were systematically privileged in appointments to positions and in education during this period. After Abate Kisho was deposed and imprisoned in 2001, the Yemericho were marginalised 138 chapter six in the internal power struggles. Since then, the Aletta have been perceived as the most powerful clan cluster in Sidama (interview with elder, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:45). These power struggles are to some extent overshadowed by the traditionally important role of the Hollo-Garbicho clan. This clan has been perceived as particularly powerful, in part because it has one of the most revered clan deities, Abo, as its clan father. Prominent political leaders of Sidama origin, like the SLM leader Wolde Emmanuel Dubale and the previous minister of justice in the EPRDF government, Harka Haroye, are from Hollo-Garbicho. Politicians from this clan claim that the EPRDF tried in the beginning to portray the Hollo- Garbicho as the meazafint (royal class) of the Sidama, who had ille- gitimately dominated the other clans in the past. But this effort was undermined by the increased importance of the Hollo-Garbicho clan in what can be described as a revival of traditional belief in Sidama. In keeping with the augmented significance of traditions as ethnic markers during the EPRDF, traditional religious celebrations such as Fiche (the Sidama new year) and ritual sacrifices to the clan deities have reclaimed some of the importance they had before the socialist revolution. The site of Abo, Hollo-Garbicho’s clan deity, just outside the administrative town of Yirgalem has become a centre for this revival. As a consequence of the revival, and perhaps contributing to it, members of the ruling party from Sidama have taken active part in annual ceremonies at the Abo site. It appears that political leaders have attempted to gain political advantage by making pilgrimages to the site and offering sacrifices of bulls there, as observed just before the general elections in 2005. In response to this, the current religious leaders of the Abo site have expressed strong support for the ruling party: “EPRDF is like a mother and a father to us, like medicine. We prayed and sacrificed bulls to make them pass the [2005] elections” (interview with gana, religious leader of the Abo site, August 2006, nb 8:157). But the reemergence of traditional beliefs, just like the revival of the songo and luwa, also contributes to maintaining the traditional exclusion of the artisan groups. Thehadicho and awacho are strictly prohibited from entering the religious sites because of their alleged ritual impurity. In Wolayta, the struggle between clans for political dominance essentially pits descendants of the royal dynasties, the Tigre Malla and the Wolayta Malla, against the Hizea, a clan that emerged as the strongest after the fall of the Wolayta kingdom. As reported by Chiatti (1984), dealing with local minorities 139 the competition between the Tigre Malla and the Hizea dominated the political landscape in Wolayta from the 1930s onward. Today, the Hizea is probably the largest of the Wolayta clans, and its members are seen as particularly well educated and influential in contemporary politics. These power relations are expressed by the fact that the majority of the kebele leaders in Wolayta and most of the higher party officials, including the Wolayta representatives at the regional and national levels, are from the Tigre Malla and the Hizea. For members of the higher clans, it seems difficult to accept that descendants of ‘the impure’, the artisans and the slaves, should decide on their affairs. As in the 2005 elections in Wolayta, it is commonly claimed that the EPRDF is ‘playing the clan card’ in an effort to preserve its power base: The clan mentality is much stronger during the EPRDF than it was during the Derg. It is now coming from the top to the lower levels of power—as a safeguard for their power. People claim that the EPRDF officials are in power not by education but by clan. This is a way of dis- empowering and pacifying the people. (Interview with teacher, Soddo, March 2006, nb 3:113) Some informants also say that the ruling party is intentionally diverting people’s attention to clan status in order to minimise resistance to and discontent with EPRDF rule and policies (interview with zone official, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:28). EPRDF leaders from Wolayta admit that clan identities and organisations are regaining importance, but they argue that this is not a product of the EPRDF’s policies. Rather, they say, it reflects a ‘lack of good governance’ locally and that ‘individual officials may play this game’ (interview with speaker of the HPR, of Wolayta nationality, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 10:57). Indepen- dent of cause, the effect of the renewed importance of clans in Wolayta politics is nevertheless that the traditionally unprivileged, the descendants of slaves and the artisans, remain excluded from political life. In sum, the divisions between and within the clans and social strata have persisted and have in many ways been reinforced in both communities under ethnic federalism. A major difference between the two communities, nevertheless, is that the persistent discrimination has led to mobilisation of the marginalised in Sidama and to continued exclusion in Wolayta. The marginalised in Sidama have managed to discredit and question their continued stigmatisation, while in Wolayta, it is instead the privileged groups who have managed to discredit the marginalised. Thehadicho ’s achievement in organising a separate party 140 chapter six is an outcome of the group’s history of having its own clan territory and being part of the common clan system, enabling the potters to be confident of their own identity and willing to confront the majority. In addition, the power politics of the EPRDF’s envoy in the south, Bitew Belay, helped the hadicho emerge as a strong pressure group in Sidama as well as in SNNPRS regional politics. Without Bitew’s initial blessing, it would probably have been impossible for the SHPDO to gain independent party status. As we will see in the analysis of major political controversies in the south in the post-Derg period, it is apparent that the EPRDF has used the internal divisions in Sidama to maintain its position in southern politics, and hadicho political actors have therefore been useful tools for the ruling party. The continued exclusion of thehillancha and ayle in Wolayta and the absence of organised resistance to this discrimination is an outcome of the traditionally privileged groups’ ability to monopolise the revival of tradition in their own interest. Indeed, they have used the ethnic political mobilisation to enhance their position in society at the expense of the despised groups. The dominant clans in Wolayta have used the experiences of the Derg regime to discredit the marginalised, and they have exploited internal clan linkages to maintain their control of administrative and political positions and the revived clan associations to maintain exclusion in social life. The historical legacy of centralised kingship as opposed to the decentralised clan rule in Sidama also lends legitimacy to the renewed dominance of privileged clans in Wolayta. As we will see in the analysis of the Wogagoda crisis, the traditional ruling clans have taken a leading role in the defence of ‘Wolayta identity’, further discrediting and excluding the marginalised from Wolayta politics. The traditional elite have managed to stay relatively united, and the EPRDF has thus been less successful in exploit- ing internal divisions to sustain its power in Wolayta.

Revival of tradition and the consequences for women

The revival of cultures is constructed and maintained by men. Since the coming of the ethnic federal system, we have not seen women being influential. Women are followers more than initiators. So the process is hijacked by men, geared towards their interest. When it comes to Sidama, we have yet to see the advancement of women. It is undeniable that education opportunities are improved for girls, but traditions prevail, such as early marriages, abductions, and circumcision. (Interview with female NGO worker from Sidama, Awassa, August 2006, nb 9:45) dealing with local minorities 141

One of the most difficult challenges in the data collection for this book was locating female informants. Very few women are found in administrative and political positions or among the traditional elders in the communities of Wolayta and Sidama. The underrepresentation of women results from male dominance at every level of society and from a set of gender roles which specify that men control the public space while women are restricted to domestic areas. It is beyond the scope of this book to go more deeply into the reasons for male dominance in Wolayta and Sidama. This section will nevertheless look briefly at how the introduction of the ethnic federal system and revival of traditions has affected the situation of women in these communities. Should women, like other marginalised groups in Wolayta and Sidama, be seen as victims of the new political order?

Reviving the clans: Reinforcing male interests If the renewed focus on ethnic markers and traditional social rank- ings has reinforced the exclusion of the slave descendant and artisan groups, it seems reasonable to expect that it would have a similar effect on women, who are also a traditionally marginalised group. Just as the traditionally privileged clans have attempted to redefine traditions to serve their interests, it can be expected that men, as the traditionally privileged gender, will use the opportunity to strengthen traditions which maintain or reinforce male interests in society. The remark from the female NGO worker quoted above supports this kind of scenario: the traditions selected to be part of the traditional revival are not those which favour female agency, but rather those which enable men to continue their domination of society. My own fieldwork in Sidama and Wolayta, backed by a range of reports on the prevalence of ‘harmful traditional practices’ (SNNPRS Bureau of Statistics and Population 2005), also supports such a view. Tradition, in and of itself, is by no means a phenomenon entirely hostile to female agency and empowerment. Recent studies on the Arsi Oromo demonstrate that certain traditional practices within this group provide women with the authority to take action to prevent men from abusing their power, and that this has done more to protect the rights of women than the current political order of ‘democracy and human rights’ (Østebø 2007). Similar practices are found in the Sidama women’s traditional organisation. In order to deal with the misbehaviour of husbands, Sidama women have traditionally 142 chapter six had an ‘ombudswoman’ in the local community, called the k’arite. In cases of abuse, the k’arite would lead a public demonstration (yakka) against the perpetrator or take immediate action to punish him (yak- kisa) (interview with Sidama zone Cultural Bureau official, May 2006, nb 7:101). This tradition died out with the emergence of the Protes- tant churches, which linked it to the ‘pagan’ practices of the Sidama traditional religion. Even though the focus on ethnicity has led to a revival of traditional beliefs in Sidama under the EPRDF, it has not led to any renewed interest in the k’arite tradition. This suggests that women have not been allowed to play a role in the redefinition of Sidama culture. Instead, traditions which are considered harmful to women, such as female genital mutilation (‘circumcision’), marriage by abduction, and early marriages, have been maintained (SNNPRS Bureau of Statistics and Population 2005). The renewed focus on clan identity has had a particular effect on the situation of women in Wolayta and Sidama. In both communities, a woman who marries outside her clan or nationality will have to take her husband’s clan or national identity (the tradition of kommo lame in Wolayta). This is why girls are highly protected and are not allowed to marry someone from a lower clan. As expressed by one of the few female officials in the Wolayta administration, marrying someone from the proper clan has taken on renewed importance today: Educated children want to marry according to their wish, but their families do not allow this. If a girl falls in love with a boy from the lower strata, her family will not permit her to marry him. If she acts against their will, she will be stigmatised and isolated. During Haile Selassie, this was a strong practice. At the Derg time, people were punished if they considered clan or ethnicity in marriages. At this time it is reviving, and the problem is people’s poor understanding of democracy—they think they are free to do anything, also the bad things. (Interview with official in the Wolayta zone Women’s Affairs Bureau, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:134)

Marriage by abduction The increased importance of proper clan marriages may also have an impact on the practice of obtaining brides through abduction. Because of the restrictions on marriages across status lines, a man from a lower clan knows that he will not be allowed to marry a woman from a higher clan than his, so he may try to take her by force. In other cases, if a woman and a man are in love, they may stage an abduction to make it dealing with local minorities 143 look as though he took her by force, so they will have to get married. The continued importance of elders in local communities under the current political order poses a hindrance to efforts to curb abduction and other harmful practices. According to NGO workers, many elders see abduction as a normal act and will try to ‘solve’ it through negotiation between the parties rather than by punishing the perpetrators. The numbers of abductions have decreased gradually in Wolayta and have stagnated in Sidama. This progress is largely due to efforts by NGOs to educate people about the impacts of harmful traditional practices, combined with the severe punishment for abductions. Since 2004, the Ethiopian penal code has forbidden girls to marry before the age of 18, and marriage by abduction is punishable by up to 20 years’ imprisonment. Still, individuals working on these issues assert that the continuous reconstruction of traditions and cultures under the ethnic federal system has contributed to maintaining the legitimacy of such practices. When the EPRDF took power in 1991, prominent SPDO leaders in Sidama were heard to say that “abduction is our culture” and that “as part of the right to national self-determination it should therefore be allowed” (interview with member of the National Committee against Harmful Traditional Practices, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:68). A well-established rumour, which I have not been able to verify or disprove, is that one of the prominent EPRDF leaders in Sidama obtained his spouse through abduction after the party took power in 1991. As a result of continuous efforts by local and national NGOs, however, political leaders have at least formally accepted the principle that abduction is a harmful practice, and there is no longer any official backing for it.

Female genital mutilation Despite a small decline, female genital mutilation is still very prevalent in both Sidama and Wolayta, as well as nationally. According to official statistics, 74 percent of girls in the Southern region underwent the procedure in 2005, a decrease of 4 percent since 2000 (IRIN 2007). In conversations with women in various woreda in Wolayta and Sidama, it became apparent that women, as well as men, support this practice as culturally and traditionally correct. Young women who have not been cut complain that they are insulted and are considered less attrac- tive as potential wives, and thus they expect to have problems finding husbands. Although the persistence of female genital mutilation 144 chapter six cannot be directly linked to the current political order, the continued popular defence of the practice reflects people’s esteem for traditions, a phenomenon which has regained importance in a context of ethnic political mobilisation under the EPRDF. Together with the increased value accorded proper clan marriages and the persistence of marriages by abduction, the continued practice of female genital mutilation is a sign of social development that adheres to traditional male values. In the end, this serves to sustain rather than challenge the marginalisation of women in Wolayta and Sidama.

The inherent challenge of ethnic politics

Several studies of traditionally marginalised groups in Ethiopia in the post-1991 period indicate that the status of subethnic minorities is no better under the reign of the EPRDF than it was during the Derg regime, despite the current government’s rhetoric of human rights and democracy (Data Dea 2003; Freeman and Pankhurst 2003; Vaughan 2003; Zerihun Abebe Woldeselassie 2001). As noted in chapter 1, one of the arguments against introducing self-government for ethnic groups in Africa is that in contexts where there is no overall consensus on liberal values and human rights, ethnic groups may use their autonomy to introduce illiberal customary law practices (Eyoh 2004), which in the end leads to discrimination against minorities. I will argue, however, that in the Ethiopian context it is not actors within the ethnic groups alone who have revived discriminatory practices. Rather, the EPRDF’s promotion of ethnicity as the major organising principle of society has combined with its pragmatic power politics in local communities to reproduce rather than challenge the traditional hierarchies. With the renewed emphasis on ethnicity, people are compelled to ask who they are and where they come from. As people turn inward towards their own communities, boundaries between ethnic groups— and between intra-ethnic social and cultural subgroups, which in Wolayta and Sidama means clans and social strata—become more sharply defined. Since descendants of the historically privileged clans and other dominant social groups have maintained their high rank within the ethnic groups, the ruling party is most likely to choose them, and not the traditionally despised groups, as allies in the creation of party-loyal local elites. In Wolayta and Sidama, it is apparent that the internal social hierarchies within the two groups have had a dealing with local minorities 145 strong impact on the formation of local EPRDF parties. The final outcome of the EPRDF’s policy of ethnic federalism and its pragmatism towards local power politics in the two communities has therefore been to revive rather than diminish discrimination against the traditionally marginalised groups.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IDENTITIES OR RESOURCES AT STAKE? CONTROVERSIES ON NATIONAL SELFDETERMINATION IN SIDAMA AND WOLAYTA

In the past few years, Sidama and Wolayta have been caught up in three major controversies linked to the issue of national self-determination and implementation of the institutional arrangements of ethnic federalism. These are the Sidama’s struggle for control of the regional capital, Awassa, and the quest for a separate Sidama region; the Wolayta’s resistance to an amalgamated North Omo language (Wogagoda) and the demand for a separate Wolayta zone; and, finally, the conflict between Sidama and Wolayta in the border areas around Lake Abaya. With the constructivist approach to ethnicity as an analytical frame, I will discuss how ethnic identities, constructed upon historical and cultural experiences selected from the repertoire of each group, become relevant in the interaction between ethnic groups and the state, as well as how the EPRDF’s politics of ethnicity and power in such a context is itself conflict producing. This again points to the need to identify complex and contextually based explanations for ethnic political mobilisation as a step towards finding contextually sensitive solutions to the challenge of managing diversity in multiethnic states. The conflicts explored in this chapter concern three key aspects of governance in multiethnic states: self-rule, territory, and identity. The Sidama’s quest for a separate region and control of the regional capital is first of all a claim to territory and self-rule, but it is also linked to assertion of the Sidama identity, as the loss of regional status and control of Awassa was seen as an attack on and humiliation of the ‘Sidama nation’. The controversy over the unified North Omo language of Wogagoda in Wolayta appears as a clear case of identity conflict, but it is also linked to the issue of Wolayta self-rule. Initial resistance to the language was a result of mobilisation to defend the ‘Wolayta identity’, while the continued struggle for a Wolayta zone reflected the Wolayta’s aspiration to control their own administration. The conflict between the Sidama and the Wolayta in the border areas around Lake Abaya began as a clear territorial conflict over control of land but later evolved into a matter of ethnicity and identity. 148 chapter seven

The Sidama’s quest for regional status and control of the regional capital, Awassa

Although the Sidama managed to keep a separate ethnic administration after the merger of the southern regions in 1992, the step down from region to zone status provoked political mobilisation for reestablishment of the Sidama region. Linked to this was the status of the SNNPRS capital, Awassa, which is located on historical Sidama land. Awassa today is a multiethnic town in which the Sidama are a minority. It was founded by Haile Selassie in 1951, replacing Yirgalem as the capital of Sidamo province (Ababu Aligaz Ali 1995). The establishment of Awassa led to the eviction of Sidama semi-pastoralists, members of the Havella clan, who used the savannah land for grazing their cattle. In addition to allocating land for city development, the emperor also gave plots to soldiers who had fought the Italians. In 1966, the founding of a commercial state farm on the outskirts of Awassa led to further eviction of the Sidama, and daily labourers from neighbouring ethnic groups, particularly the Wolayta and the Kambata, swelled the town. There was also an influx of Amhara, who were business owners and made up the majority of employees in the provincial administration. The Sidama, meanwhile, were directly or indirectly prevented from settling in urban areas. The Havella who had lived on the land were treated badly by city administrators and developers, and this created hostility between the original settlers and the newcomers from other ethnic groups. As justification for pushing the Sidama out of town, the city dwellers promoted stereotypes of the Sidama as backward and uncivilised rather than urban and sophisticated like the newly arrived groups. A Havella elder recalled: They moved us by force from the land and we fled to the outskirts of the town. They burned our houses and ploughed the soil with tractors, ruining our grain stores and the graves of our ancestors. There was no compensation for the land they took. [. . .] The Wolayta and Kambata did many bad things to us. They assumed that we were illiterate, even if our people also can read and write. They thought we were not able to take part in administration, so in alliance with the Amhara they blocked our access to positions. (Interview with Havella elder, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:98–100) identities or resources at stake? 149

From Sidama zone to regional town under the EPRDF As a part of the EPRDF’s ethnic-based restructuring, Awassa became a municipality under Sidama zone in 1991. The first municipality head was a Tigrayan, but a Sidama took over as mayor in 1992 (interview with current mayor of Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:120). The new municipality administration soon started an active policy of encouraging Sidama to settle in the town, leasing out land for residential and business purposes to members of the group. But although the numbers of Sidama increased, the neighbouring ethnic groups still made up a large numerical majority in Awassa. They objected to the new Sidama- friendly policy, arguing that the Sidama were unfairly favoured. This tension led the regional government to consider a reorganisation of the municipality at the end of the 1990s. It was suggested that Awassa be taken out of Sidama zone and designated a municipality under the regional government, to be administered by officials from all the ethnic groups in town. This proposal coincided with another important event in southern politics: Abate Kisho, the regional president from Sidama, was charged with corruption and replaced by a new president, Haile Mariam Dessalegn from Wolayta. So the attempt to place Awassa under regional administration was interpreted not only as an attack on the rights of the Sidama nation, but also as revenge seeking by the Wolayta, the major competitors of the Sidama in Awassa and the region. The regional administration managed to exploit some of the intra- ethnic competition and internal struggles between members of different clans in the Sidama zone council. They allegedly won the support of representatives from the Aletta and Sawola clans and the hadicho potters’ group for the reorganisation of the Awassa administration (interview with elder, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:45). In spite of the ruling party’s attempt to enforce obedience, zone administrators from other clans, including the zone president, opposed the proposal and started organising people underground to resist it. The organisers linked the issue of Awassa to the struggle for regional status for Sidama—an issue that had festered since the merger of the southern regions in 1992, although only the Sidama Liberation Movement had raised the demand in public. In May 2002, an estimated 10,000 to 15,000 people gathered on the outskirts of Awassa and marched towards the city centre to demand that the government give the Sidama their own regional administration 150 chapter seven and make Awassa accountable to a Sidama administration. One of the demonstrators’ slogans proclaimed, “Our question will be solved only by the EPRDF” (interview with one of the organisers, Awassa, August 2006, nb 9:15). The message was clear: the demonstration was not against the EPRDF per se, but against the decision made by the regional administration—an administration staffed by officials who were perceived to oppose the Sidama cause. Nonetheless, the EPRDF- controlled government took harsh measures against the demonstrators. The police started shooting at people who were peaceful and unarmed. According to Amnesty International (2003), at least 25 people were shot dead; local sources estimated the death toll at 32 (interview with witnesses and organisers, Awassa, August 2006, nb 9:15). Excerpts from Amnesty’s report indicate the brutality of the government’s reaction: On 24 May in Awassa, capital of Sidama zone in the southern region, regional and federal police shot dead at least 25 people and wounded others at a demonstration which was peaceful until police shot without warning. Two police officers were killed—by other police, according to some sources. Scores of demonstrators and their alleged supporters were detained in the following weeks and many were reportedly tortured. [. . .] The southern region government established an inquiry but the inquiry was not independent and no report had been published by the end of the year. (Amnesty International 2003, 4) After the demonstration, a number of Sidama officials in the zone administrations and members of the SEPDM including the zone president were arrested and charged with instigating the people against the government. The lingering disputes on the status of Awassa and the regional issue are one cause of the extremely high turnover of zone presidents in Sidama since 1991. By late 2010, the chief executive of Sidama zone was the eleventh to hold office since the EPRDF came to power. The zone presidents have come and gone amid accusations that they have mobilised in favour of regional status for Sidama or the status of Awassa, and several have been accused of having links to the SLM. But the moves against them have often been carried out under the cover of allegations of fraud and corruption. The current president of the SNNPRS from Sidama, Shiferaw Shigote, explains the high turnover as essentially an outcome the party’s evaluation procedures ( gimgimma), which have revealed the leaders’ inability to govern efficiently; he denies that the changes are linked to political issues (interview with Shiferaw Shigote, Awassa, December 2006, nb 10:92–93). The ousted zone leaders see it differently. As stated by one former identities or resources at stake? 151 president of Sidama zone, the frequent change of executives reflects the desire of the central party apparatus to create and maintain internal divisions among the Sidama elite in order to keep control of the Southern region (interview in Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:130). Although the demonstrators paid a heavy price in the struggle for what they saw as the Sidama’s constitutional right to self-determination, their demands were not heeded. Awassa was placed under the regional administration in May 2003. The officials responsible for the use of excessive force against the demonstrators were not interrogated or charged, and they remain in prominent positions. Haile Mariam Des- salegn, the regional president at the time of the demonstration, was not accused of involvement in the killings, and he is now an advisor to the prime minister in Addis Ababa. Melese Marimo, a Sidama representative and head of the Justice Bureau in 2002, was named by many people as the person who ordered the use of violence. He was appointed in 2006 as Ethiopian ambassador to South Africa, which was essentially seen as a reward for supporting the central EPRDF against the Sidama. The harsh measures taken against the demonstrators and the organisers behind them seem to have had a dampening effect on political activism in Sidama. Since the massacre, Sidama grassroots engagement in politics appears to be reduced. Several years after the incident, many people in Awassa say that they would not risk taking part in any public gathering again. Political passivity, they have decided, is the best way to survive.

The call for reestablishment of Sidama region Since the regional merger in 1992, the Sidama Liberation Movement has been the only political organisation that has openly pressed the demand to reestablish the Sidama region. Individual members of the ruling SPDO, later SEPDM, may have supported the claim, but it has never been on the party’s official agenda. In July 2005, however, it was the SEPDM members of the Sidama council who raised the issue in public. The Sidama zone council justified its decision to ask for regional status by asserting that the Sidama suffered from discrimination in the regional distribution of resources, that the benefits from Awassa were not shared with the Sidama, and that officials of the Awassa administration did little to respond to questions from the Sidama zone. They argued that compared to other ethnic zones, Sidama received a budget 152 chapter seven that was too small in relation to its problems and population size, and that the zone suffered from lack of infrastructure and employment, good governance, and justice. Despite these justifications, it was clear why the ruling party in Sidama had raised the issue at this time. The SEPDM had performed poorly in elections for the regional and national parliaments in May 2005, and several of its prominent candidates had lost to the SLM. The National Election Board agreed to annul the original polls and arranged new voting in most of the constituencies where the SEPDM had lost. The promise of a regional state for the Sidama therefore came at the right time, making it easier for the SEPDM officials to mobilise support for the ousted candidates in the reelections. A complete ‘victory’ over the SLM was finally secured when all the defeated SEPDM candidates were elected in the rerun of the polls.

The prime minister’s intervention Although the mobilisation of the regional issue helped strengthen the EPRDF in Sidama after the reelections, the EPRDF organisation in Addis Ababa was unhappy about the ethnic demands made by the party fellows in Sidama. The Sidama zone decided to ask the regional council for separation from the SNNPRS and establishment of an independent region; this request had the support of a large majority of the council, with the notable exception of the hadicho representatives. The standing committee on legal affairs in the SNNPRS Council received the request and replied that the Sidama had a constitutional right to ask for regional status. The same answer was given by the Council of Nationalities in the region. But before any decision could be made, the EPRDF’s central party apparatus intervened and stopped the process through the SEPDM organisation. After the EPRDF’s intervention, Sidama officials at different levels of the government held several meetings with Prime Minister Meles Zenawi in Addis Ababa during the summer of 2005. The prime minister made three points to the Sidama officials. First, the Sidama council had violated the internal procedures of the EPRDF by raising the issue before it had been discussed by party leaders at the central level. Second, the Sidama would not benefit from a separate regional state because of the Sidama’s own lack of development. And third, if the Sidama gained regional status, this would lead the remaining nationalities to ask for the same (interview with former minister in the national cabinet from Sidama, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 9:158). identities or resources at stake? 153

Disintegration of the Southern region was clearly not in the interest of the ruling party. In addition to using force to block the request, the ruling party also made strategic changes in the regional administration, rewarding leading Sidama who had changed their stance by appointing them to higher positions. The zone president was one of the officials who turned against Sidama as a region; he was made state minister in the national government. Although the former president of the SNNPRS from Wolayta, Haile Mariam Dessalegn, officially resigned his position for health reasons, the appointment of a Sidama, Shiferaw Shigote, as the next regional president at this critical juncture was also seen as a part of this process of co-optation (interview with Sidama intellectual, Awassa, May 2006, nb 7:46). In the efforts to turn the tide in Sidama, the prime minister also came to Awassa to conduct ‘consultations’ with the people. Although the participants in this encounter were carefully selected by party cadres loyal to the centre, they still expressed opposition to Meles Zenawi. Elders, who were assumed to be uncritical listeners to the party boss, also raised their voices. An elder who was present at the meeting recalls her experience: There was an invitation [from regional officials after the elections]. Four bulls were slaughtered and wasa [ensete, the staple food in Sidama] with butter was served. At that time we were given the region. Then the reelections were held, and we elected the ruling party. But the party changed its mind, and said we could not get what we wanted. We had a meeting with the prime minister and discussed it. I asked him: “God and government cannot speak two things at the same time. If he kills, he kills; if he gives mercy, there is mercy. Why do you first give us, and then take it back?” (Interview with female elder participant in the meeting with Meles Zenawi, May 2006, nb 7:136) In the ruling party’s last attempts to thwart Sidama’s regional claims, the prime minister facilitated a return of the SNNPRS capital to Sidama control. After his consultations in 2005, all the bureau heads in Awassa municipal administration were replaced by Sidama officials. New plots of land were released for lease, particularly to the Sidama population (interview with current mayor of Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:120). Debub (South) University was renamed Hawassa University to reflect the fact that the regional university was on Sidama land. All these concessions led the newly appointed zone president to confidently proclaim that since Sidama’s problems had been solved, there was no longer any reason to ask for a region: “The solution to our problem 154 chapter seven is development, not region” (interview with chief executive, Sidama zone, Awassa, May 2006, nb 7:82). SEPDM party cadres conducted meetings with people all over the zone in an effort to convince them of the correctness of the revised decision. But the concessions made were not enough to silence the continuing demand for a region. In March 2006, demonstrations broke out in Awassa, and the intervention of the armed forces led to the killing of at least one demonstrator. In the aftermath of the demonstration, around 30 Sidama were arrested in connection with the regional issue (Amnesty International 2007). The SLM claimed that hundreds of its supporters were being held in prisons around the zone.

Ethnic political mobilisation in Sidama: Instrumentalism and failed unity The Sidama demand for control over Awassa is a classic example of a conflict between a minority population of historical dwellers and a majority population of recent settlers. The city is on historical Sidama land, but ‘modernisation’ has driven the Sidama out and other ethnic groups now constitute the majority. It is also an example of how the promise of the Constitution, which gives all ‘nations, nationalities and peoples’ the right to self-determination, is perceived to be in stark contrast to the actual implementation on the ground: the Sidama, as the largest group in southern Ethiopia, have been deprived of what they see as national self-determination by losing control of a city on their land and by being refused the chance to govern Sidama land as a separate region. When one compares the situation of the Sidama with that of other, smaller groups in the country, it appears unjust that some of these groups—like the Harari, with a population of around 200,000—administer their land through separate regional states, while the Sidama do not. To justify its rejection of Sidama ethnic claims, the ruling party argues that the Sidama are not asking for a region because of genuine identity issues, but because Sidama political leaders are hoping for personal gain. At the SEPDM party congress in 2006, after the regional issue had been raised, the party leadership took a strong position against what they described as the Sidama political leaders’ misguided actions. A central member of the SEPDM party leadership declared, We should ask: whose question is national self-determination? If it’s the people’s, we have to address it. The Sidama issue was after all not an identities or resources at stake? 155

issue of the people, but of the political leaders. (Interview with speaker of the HPR, Teshome Toga, of Wolayta nationality, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 10:61). In this way, the ruling party again reduced the political opposition to a matter of instrumentalism, arguing that it had nothing to do with identity or with genuine calls for self-determination. The ruling party also benefited from internal splits within the Sidama group, reflecting intra-ethnic divisions between the clans and social strata. Thehadicho , both those within the ruling SEPDM and those in the opposition party SHPDO, opposed a separate Sidama region because they feared increased discrimination. When the five southern regions were amalgamated in 1992, the hadicho clearly supported the merger, but otherwise the resistance to it came largely from the Sidama side, also within the SEPDM (interview with former vice chairman of SPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 8:124). The hadicho leaders assumed that if Sidama became an independent region, more space would be created for the revival of discriminatory practices against them, as a regional administration led by the Sidama would mean that the wollabicho majority would retake control of regional affairs (interviews with SHPDO leader, Dale woreda, May 2006, nb 7:174, and SEPDM chairman in the hadicho woreda of Dara, May 2006, nb 7:194). They argued that thehadicho people were not only unhappy about the prospects of a separate region but were also concerned about the SNNPRS being governed by a Sidama. When Abate Kisho was in power, discrimination against the hadicho increased, and the potters were afraid the same would happen under the new regional president from Sidama, Shiferaw Shigote, who was appointed in 2006.

Wogagoda and the claim for a separate Wolayta zone

In 1998, the regional government, in a rather unwise and provocative exercise, tried to replace the various indigenous tongues in North Omo zone with an artificially constructed language imposed upon all the North Omo groups. This happened after the three EPRDF-affiliated parties and four development associations in North Omo had been merged. The name given to the language, Wogagoda, was shorthand for Wolayta, Gamo, Gofa, and Dawro, but it could also translate as either ‘big master’ or ‘master of tradition’, depending on the pronun- ciation (Data Dea 2005). This figured into the Wolayta politicians’ cal- culations at the time: 156 chapter seven

Wogagoda means in our language ‘people with great culture’, and we thought this meaning would make people accept the idea. (Interview with Tefera Meskele, founder of WPDO, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:105) Without any form of popular participation or consultation, the regional government moved to make Wogagoda the language of education and administration in the zone. This led to violent resistance by students, teachers, and civil servants, and many people were imprisoned or killed by local police and federal security forces. Eventually the regional government gave in to the demands of the protesters and withdrew the new language. But the language experiment, which especially infuriated the people in Wolayta, triggered the fight and widened the support for an independent Wolayta zone. Finally, the Wolayta achieved zone status in November 2000 (Data Dea 2003).

Why the resistance to a unified language? The introduction of the Wogagoda language in schools and administrative offices in North Omo in 1999 led to unprecedented levels of hostility between the Wolayta and the Gamo. In retrospect, it is clear that the name chosen for the amalgamated language actually contributed to strong reaction against it, particularly in Wolayta. The name signalled to the Wolayta that the merger of languages was done for the sake of the party in power—also called Wogagoda—and not for bona fide linguistic or social reasons. Finally, in response to the conflicts and the resistance, the SEPDM in Awassa agreed to give the nationalities of North Omo separate administrative units. Wolayta, Dawro, and Gamo-Gofa zones and several special woreda were established in 2000. Still, the SEPDM insists that the resistance to Wogagoda was about struggles for resources and material benefits for the nationalities and had nothing to do with identity issues. According to their analysis, the recognition of separate administrations was not granted because the nationalities had a constitutional right to them, but was instead compensation for the errors committed by the ruling party and the administration in the language question. SEPDM leaders characterised the conflict that erupted around the introduction of a unified language as a reflection of Wolayta chau- vinism and the drive for positions and budgets by Wolayta political leaders. In their view, the Wolayta elite’s stress on their history as an independent kingdom and their heroic resistance against incorpora- identities or resources at stake? 157 tion into the Ethiopian empire in 1894 led the Wolayta people to look down upon their neighbours who had submitted to the northern invasion. According to ruling party leaders, this historical legacy had no value in itself, but was used as a tool to mobilise the Wolayta people for a separate administration so that political leaders could profit from the jobs and higher budgets that this would entail. The SEPDM leaders thereby dismissed the desire to maintain a separate Wolayta identity as a genuine cause of the struggle. Worth noting, however, is that one of their aims in launching the Wogagoda language was to merge the four national identities into one ‘Wogagoda’ identity. So the same political leaders who denied that the resistance to the new language had to do with identities talked about a vision of merging these identities—in the interest of the ruling party. There is a certain inconsistency in this: the party denied the importance of identities but created a project whose main objective was the melding and moulding of these ‘nonexistent’ identities into one: The issue of Wolayta and Wogagoda—I do not think it was an issue of identity, but of administrative concerns. A history of separate kingdoms, what does it mean today? We lost a golden chance: if we had managed to be administered as one, we could have created a large nationality speaking the same language. (Interview with head of political affairs of SEPDM, Awassa, August 2006, nb 8:188) Sarah Vaughan, in her analysis of the Wogagoda affair, argues along the same lines as the SEPDM: the core issue in the conflict was not language but jobs, budgets, and increased authority. “The resistance to the language was a marker or form, but was never the substance of the conflict” (Vaughan 2003, 129). Instrumental concerns were probably a factor in explaining parts of the conflict. Nevertheless, the denial of Wolayta identity as a genuine reason for the resistance against Woga- goda provoked a stronger reaction than the introduction of Woga- goda in the first place, thereby undermining the potential for further integration of the nationalities of North Omo. Given the history of interconnectedness between the North Omo groups and the Wolayta’s desire for increased integration with their neighbours, the language project might have been feasible if it had taken identity concerns more seriously: My clan origin is from the neighbouring groups of Wolayta. We also share the same language and culture with our neighbours, but have different dialects. So I favoured the use of a common language. But the 158 chapter seven

Wogagoda was not done in the right way, and the creators behind it did not choose the right words or vocabulary, and the leaders were not genuine to the people. (Interview with teacher, Soddo, March 2006, nb 3:160) As mentioned in chapter 3, the name Wolayta derives from walaheta, meaning to become mixed or assimilated. This reflects the diverse origin of the Wolayta people and the close links between them and their neighbours in terms of genealogy, language, and culture. So the potential for successful unification was definitely there. The Wolayta who took part in developing the amalgamated language in the early 1990s have argued that linguistically speaking, it was possible to construct such a language. But the attempt failed “because it was essentially a political project, attempting to bring down the Wolayta” (interview with a participant in the preparation of Wogagoda from Wolayta, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:77). Self-critical SEPDM leaders argue along the same lines when they look back at the amalgamation process today. They admit that even if a unified language made sense in North Omo, the launching of Wogagoda was done in the wrong way: When we evaluated the process, the main problem was that the people, including both the elite and the commoners who were concerned with the issue, should have been involved in the discussion and an agreement should have been reached. We took their support only at face value and did not go deeply into the issue. Another deficiency was in the management process—how to administer the implementation and introduce the language into schools. Both administrators and party officials had hidden agendas and did not truly support the process. (Interview with former vice chair, North Omo zone, October 2006, nb 6:176)

Wolayta-Gamo enmity The end result of the Wogagoda issue was to undermine the desire for further integration between the Wolayta and their neighbours instead of creating a new unified nationality, as the SEPDM had envisioned. The majority feared that if Wogagoda were introduced, they would have to describe themselves as ‘Wogagoda’ and not as ‘Wolayta’. They did not want that, even if a merged administration and merged language initially had been seen as advantageous for the Wolayta. The Wogagoda conflict also affected relations between the Wolayta and their neighbours. Although the Wolayta were the only one of the four groups in North Omo that mounted violent resistance to the language, representatives from the other groups were also hostile to the identities or resources at stake? 159 project. Conspiracy theories flourished in Gamo, where people argued that it was actually the Wolayta who had masterminded the project of unifying the languages. The rationale was that since Wolayta lacked arable land for its growing population, it needed to extend its area of domination and absorb the land of neighbouring groups. The Woga- goda language was seen as a tool to facilitate the extension of Wolayta control over land (interview with Gamo intellectual, Arbaminch, April 2006, nb 6:4). A common claim in Wolayta was precisely the opposite: that the Wogagoda project was Gamo in origin. Wolayta elders behind the anti-Wogagoda campaign pointed out that many of the words chosen for inclusion in the new language came from the Gamo lexicon. In the aftermath of the protests against Wogagoda in Soddo, mobs attacked business people and town dwellers of Gamo origin. Their property was destroyed and they were chased away or fled from the town. This led to acts of retaliation against Wolayta living in Gamo areas such as Mir Abaya, Lante, and Chamo. In order to stop the fighting, elders from both sides initiated a traditional conflict resolution process on the border between Wolayta and Gamo at Hameza River, which succeeded in ending the violence. The elders claimed that it was not the people but the cadres in the ruling party who had stirred up the attacks and counterattacks: “Since the officials tried to create conflict, we, the elders, had to find a resolution” (interview with Gamo elder, Arbaminch, April 2006, nb 6:9).

A reflection of social and political hierarchies The Wogagoda conflict did not only reflect identity issues and relations between the four nationalities in North Omo. It can also be understood as a product of internal struggles based on the traditional social and political hierarchies in Wolayta, simplified as a battle between the Wolayta Malla and the descendants of slaves (ayle). The Wogagoda conflict in this sense resembles many of the political struggles between the hadicho and the wollabicho in Sidama. In both cases, it appears that the ethnic political order in combination with the power politics of the EPRDF locally contributed to strengthening old clan rivalries and revived the importance of the traditional division between the pure and the impure, the higher and the lower, the privileged and the marginalised in society. Although the Wogagoda crisis is conventionally understood as a conflict between a unified Wolayta and the EPRDF-controlled regional 160 chapter seven and zone governments, a deeper analysis reveals that the Wolayta people were not as uniformly opposed to the new language as it initially seemed. Rather, the division between those for and against reflected hierarchical social divisions to some extent. Another effect of the language conflict was therefore to heighten the awareness and importance of internal social and political divisions in Wolayta—between those who had stood by the ‘Wolayta cause’ and those who had allegedly betrayed it. This division today is perceived to reflect the traditional division between the upper clans and the ‘impure’—the royals versus the slaves and artisans. When discussing the issues of traditional hierarchies and current politics, many informants claimed that the lower strata, the traditionally despised groups, favoured Wogagoda while the educated elites from the higher clans opposed it. Elders who led the struggle against the language and in favour of a separate administration even claimed that the despised groups were the masterminds behind the Wogagoda project: Even the amalgamation of the North Omo languages was a result of the work of the ayle—as they did not want to hear the word Wolayta anymore. After the attempt to introduce Wogagoda failed, those who had supported it were victimised. So from then on the slaves were addi- tionally stigmatised. After Wogagoda, people started asking: who are these people who are trying to undermine our identity? Everyone turned against the ayle as power holders. In order to get a position, officials should have a good clan background. The Hizea became dominant, as they are educated and have traditionally acted strategically in obtaining marriage alliances with the kawona. (Interview with municipality leader, of Wolayta nationality, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:110–11) Although this version of events does not reflect the actual roles of the marginalised groups in introducing Wogagoda, it indicates the level of distrust that exists between the different strata of the traditional hierarchy in Wolayta today. This attitude is found at all levels of society, including within the ruling party, which was the real brain trust behind the language experiment. Officials in the current zone administration try to put the blame on the federal government, which they say “was instigating the descendants of the slaves to support the Wogagoda” (interview with zone official, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:27). Amid the conspiracy theories that flourished around the reasons for the introduction of Wogagoda, the claim that the marginalised groups had an interest in a merged North Omo seems to reflect some truth. The introduction of Wogagoda appeared to offer an opportunity to identities or resources at stake? 161 redefine the Wolayta identity as a part of a larger North Omo, without the division between the clan, ayle, and hillancha categories: “If Wolayta exists, my being a slave will be forever,” descendants of the slaves were quoted as saying. But the marginalised groups as a whole played no active role in the planning and introduction of the language. The political space for theayle and hillancha was already limited, and few of them took part in the decision-making process. One obvious exception is Daniel Demisse, an SEPDM official of known slave background who was the vice executive of North Omo at the time of Woga- goda. But overall, the low-ranking groups were silent supporters: When Wogagoda was launched, we kept quiet, but we favoured it. A unification of North Omo for us meant diminishing the higher clans’ chances of domination. All the leaders who worked against Wogagoda were descendants of the royal clans. (Interview with slave descendant, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:91) This remark also points to the other side of the story: the opposition on the part of the traditionally privileged, the royal clans of the Wolayta dynasties. By accident or on purpose, the majority of the elders who led the campaign against Wogagoda were from the Wolayta Malla, the clan which had ruled the first Wolayta kingdom in the Middle Ages. It was not only the marginalised groups that cited this as evidence of the conspiracy behind the resistance to Wogagoda. The ruling party also used it to delegitimise the opponents, as explained by one of the leaders of the protest campaign: We were considered to be the leaders of the resistance against Woga- goda. The fact that many of us belong to the Wolayta Malla clan made people link us to the old royal lineage and the revival of the clan’s power as it was during King Motolomi. The EPRDF even tried to claim that our aim was to introduce the feudal system again. (Interview with one of the leaders against Wogagoda, Soddo, April 2006, nb 5:2) Firew Altaye, the first chairman of a separate Wolayta zone in 2000, was a parliamentarian during the Wogagoda affair. Many people saw him as a hero because he was one of the few SEPDM cadres who openly fought against unification of the languages. A common claim is that he got some of his strength and inspiration from his royal lineage: “Through his grandmother, he is the great grandson of Tona, the last king of Wolayta” (interview with elder, Soddo, October 2005, nb 3:27). In this way, the fight against the merged language was linked to the distant Wolayta past and was even equated to the resistance against 162 chapter seven

Menelik in 1897: “When the northern government expanded south, the Wolayta were the only ones who really resisted. So we have something great that we need to maintain” (interview with elder, Soddo, October 2005, nb 3:30). Another indication of the impact that the Wogagoda issue had on the definition of Wolayta identity was that the clan idir, informal burial associations organised by the major clans, grew stronger after the crisis. They were seen as a way of securing the interests of clan members and protecting ‘proper Wolayta culture’ from external and internal attacks (interview with elders who led the campaign against the Wogagoda, Soddo town, February 2006).

Disregard of identity produces conflict The Wogagoda crisis in many ways illustrates what can happen when there is a fundamental gap between the rulers’ and the people’s perceptions of reality. This gap in itself contributes to conflicts, or it may lead to an escalation of tension which initially was manageable or amenable to solution. In the Wogagoda case, the rulers argued that resistance to the language was just a cover for instrumentalism and political opportunism, while the people (led by representatives of the traditional elite) saw the language as an attack on their identity. The rulers’ refusal to acknowledge the identity aspect of the conflict triggered a stronger reaction than anticipated and in the end forced the rulers to admit mistakes and come up with compensatory measures. This scenario is analogous to the situation described by Eriksen (1999) in his proposal for a life-world approach to the understanding of ethnicity and ethnic political mobilisation. He argues that the desire to reduce ethnicity to a matter of simple instrumentalism may create potential conflicts because it ignores or misrepresents the subjective experiences of the actors—how ethnicity and other social phenomena are defined from within, from the ‘local life-worlds’. The Wogagoda crisis thus represents a case in which disregard for the meaning of ethnic identity has exacerbated intra- and inter-group tensions and led to violence. In the following section of this chapter, I will analyse a conflict that unfolded in quite the opposite way. In Abaya, tensions which were initially defined in terms of livelihoods and control of land escalated into a more serious conflict after intervention by officials contributed to redefining it in ethnic terms. The differing trajectories of these two conflicts demonstrate that ethnic political mobilisation does not necessarily exhibit the same stages of identities or resources at stake? 163 development and may arise from very different motivations, underlining the fluid and flexible nature of ethnic identity and group formation.

The Abaya dispute: An ‘ethnic’ conflict between Sidama and Wolayta?

A third conflict erupted in the border area between the Sidama and Wolayta zones around Lake Abaya. Relations between people of Wolayta and Sidama origin turned violent in 2002, when pastoralists and farmers clashed over control of land and several people on both sides were killed. In the aftermath of the violence, the inhabitants of the Abaya area tended to interpret the incidents in ethnic terms, even though tensions in the past had been related to livelihood rather than ethnicity. The conflict in Abaya therefore shows how relationships between groups which have been divided on the basis of socioeconomic rather than ethnic markers can be ethnicised, thereby hardening divisions and making the situation more complex. This is a phenomenon also noted by scholars of ‘ethnic diversity management’ in other societies: There is also a tendency to label conflicts as ‘ethnic’, both by members of minority groups and by the media, the former because they consider such categorisation strengthens their case and the latter because of lazi- ness. Once such a categorisation is accepted, it can change the focus of attention—from the analysis of underlying economic and social problems to the accommodation of competing ethnic claims—and thus both simplify the problem and render its solution complex. (Ghai 2000, 5) The Abaya conflict is also an example of how political leaders who are originally disengaged from the local context can contribute to the escalation of a conflict. Here this role was played by officials from the regional government and the two zone and woreda administrations. As Brubaker and Laitin (1998, 24) point out, the eruption of ethnic conflicts typically involves, at one level, deliberate manipulation and organisation by a small number of instigators, but also, at other levels, “turbulent currents of crowd behaviour governed by powerful emotions and compelling collective representations”. This was the case in Abaya: after officials became involved as ethnic and political instigators, the ‘crowd’ of people in the area closed ranks and the issue turned into a matter of one people against the other—of ‘Sidama’ against ‘Wolayta’. 164 chapter seven

The historical Abaya: A no-man’s-land The conflict erupted in an area where the Wolayta and Sidama zones border each other, along the northern shore of Lake Abaya, where the Bilate River flows into the lake. The Abaya State Farm is a large enterprise in the vicinity. This is a lowland area, where the majority of the population has traditionally lived from animal husbandry as pastoralists or semi-pastoralists. Historical sources describe the area as a ‘no-man’s-land’ on the outskirts of the Wolayta kingdom and note that it was controlled by the Wolayta kings on and off since the mid- nineteenth century. Generally, the boundaries between the Wolayta and surrounding peoples were marked by tracts of forest land, but today it is difficult to trace these boundaries because of deforestation. It is reported that stone walls were built between Wolayta and Sidama two kilometres north of Abaya. But these were mainly defensive in nature, and in general there were no artificial boundary markers to separate one province from another (Tsehai Berhane Selassie 1973). Chiatti describes the area as an imata (colony) of the Wolayta kingdom, an area inhabited by ‘Sidama tribes’ over whom the Wolayta had very limited control: The relationship between the ‘conquerors’ and the ‘conquered’ was pre- carious; they spoke different languages, the zone of influence of each garrison was vague, encompassing lineages and extended families who lived on pastures, and by slash and burn agriculture, or were outright nomads (such as those of the deep valley of the Sidamo lowlands). [. . .] They occupied what was calleddaga (an empty space) between two kingdoms. (Chiatti 1984, 416) So it appears that up until the ‘modernisation period’, the area was utilised only by pastoralists of Sidama origin but was capriciously controlled by envoys of the Wolayta kingdom and later of the imperial regime. In 1966, however, the establishment of a modern mechanised farm and of irrigation using water from the Bilate River facilitated the settlement of farmers, as the soil in the area is relatively fertile. The mechanised farm was set up by Dennis Franco, a Belgian entrepre- neur, who had the blessing of the governor of Wolayta awraja and the imperial government to start developing the area. Most of the workers on the farm were recruited from Wolayta (interview with former awraja governor, Addis Ababa, December 2006, nb 6:149). The construction of the farm required large tracts of land, and as a result, Sidama pastoralists living in the area lost much of their access identities or resources at stake? 165 to grazing and water. This led in turn to violent clashes between pastoralists and farmers, according to a previous farm manager (interview in Awassa, August 2006, nb 9:31). With the revolution in 1974, the farm was confiscated by the state and administered under the Minis- try of State Farms. After the EPRDF took power, the farm remained government property and was administered under the North Omo Agricultural Board. Privatisation has been planned, and some private investors have leased land around the state farm. This has further reduced access to dry-season grazing land for the pastoralists.

The Sidama: Pastoralists on both sides of the river The Sidama people who live in the area refer to themselves aszelan , which means ‘nomadic’. They hold this identity strongly, and people living in the surrounding areas also refer to them this way (Carswell et al. 1999). These Sidama livestock herders, together with the Guji Oromo, who also are pastoralists, have up until recently constituted the majority of the people living close to the lake shore. As pointed out by Carswell and colleagues, it is a source of pride for the zelan that they rely on livestock and do not have to toil on the land. But a history of land insecurity and displacement and the eruption of animal diseases have also led some of them to start farming. The Sidama living on each side of the Bilate River have had different relationships to the state farm and to the Wolayta people living in the area. Those on the eastern river shore have traditionally been closer to the Sidama community in the current Dale woreda of Sidama zone, sending their children to schools in Yirgalem and trading in Sidama markets. Most are wealthy cattle owners from the powerful Bankano clan. With their large herds of cattle, they have needed considerable areas of dry-season grazing land around the lake, and they have thus been the group hardest hit by the establishment of the mechanised farm and the recent investments outside the state farm. Until the mid-1990s, they were under the administration of Dale woreda in Sidama zone. The Sidama on the western side of the river have intermingled with the Wolayta community to a greater extent. They have intermarried with Wolayta living in Humbo woreda, sent their children to schools in Soddo, traded in Wolayta markets, and moved with their cattle to the Wolayta uplands for rainy-season grazing. They have been under the administration of and have paid taxes to Humbo woreda in Wolayta zone. This means that although the Sidama around the lake all represent 166 chapter seven the same ethnicity and have a pastoral identity, they have quite different stakes in their relationship to the Wolayta. After the violence between Wolayta and Sidama in 2002, however, these intra-ethnic differences were deemphasised in favour of ethnic cohesion, laying the groundwork for mobilisation on ethnic grounds.

The Wolayta: State farm workers and farmers The Wolayta living around the lake have also been perceived as a diverse group, with different interests and different relationships to the Sidama. The largest group of Wolayta in the immediate vicinity of the lake are linked to the state farm, although their actual numbers are not known. They include the permanent workers and their families along with unemployed, temporary, and retired workers. The Wolayta make up around 75 percent of the state farm workers, with the remainder coming from different ethnic groups such as the Amhara and the Oromo (Carswell et al. 1999). The farm workers live in camps on the state farm land, but they also cultivate outside the farm and have livestock. During the Derg, the management of the state farm deterio- rated, and the workers had to go without salaries for periods of time. This required them to diversify their livelihoods and seek land outside the state farm. Although Mengistu, after his visit to the farm in 1980, prohibited such diversification, in 1991 the EPRDF again allowed state farm workers to farm outside their camps. In the past, there have been numerous arrangements between the state farm workers and the pastoralists regarding access to water, grazing, and farm land. One informal rule was that the farm workers were not allowed to take their livestock over the bridge across the Bilate River (Mellese Madda 2005). These conflict-preventing agreements were, however, disrupted during the 1990s, when the administrations of the two zones allowed investors to confiscate land outside the state farm and land was also allocated for the settlement of former soldiers, initiated by the Wolayta administration. The second group of Wolayta linked to the Abaya area are those without direct connections to the state farm, including ordinary farmers and traders living in the various kebele around the lake. In the kebele closest to the lake (Chokare and Abaya Zuria), Wolayta make up a minority of the population and have traditionally traded and intermarried with the Sidama majority, particularly the Sidama living on the western side of the Bilate River. In contrast to the Wolayta state identities or resources at stake? 167 farm workers, many of these people are bilingual and have close kinship ties to the Sidama. This means that the Wolayta population around Lake Abaya, just like the Sidama population, comprises diverse subgroups, with different concerns and different ties to their neighbours. In the aftermath of the 2002 violence, however, the internal Wolayta differences were toned down, and political leaders were successful in making the boundaries between the two ethnic groups appear sharp and mutually exclusive.

External interventions under the EPRDF During the 1990s, certain events initiated from outside the area had critical impacts on the relationship between the Sidama and Wolayta around the lake, contributing to the buildup of tensions that erupted in violence in 2002. In the mid-1990s the regional government made administrative changes in the area by deciding that eight Sidama mender (villages) on both sides of the river should be included in Wolayta zone, instead of being administered by Sidama as they had been since the EPRDF came to power. The regional government argued that the measure would enhance ‘good governance’ because the population in this area had a much shorter distance to travel to Humbo, the closest woreda centre in Wolayta, than to the Dale woreda town of Yirgalem in Sidama. After the reorganisation, one of the first measures taken by the Wolayta administration was to start disarming the Sidama pastoralists in the eight mender. This led to resistance from the pastoralists and to increased distrust and distortion of the power balance in the area (interview with legal expert at the Council of Nationalities, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:58). At the end of the 1990s, the Sidama Development Programme, with support from Irish Aid, built a road on the Sidama side, along with a bridge, a health centre, and a school. This was done in order to give the Sidama population in the area, including those of the eight mender, a better supply of services. The Sidama on the eastern side of the river started sending their children to the newly built school, but this was disrupted when the school was destroyed by parties to the conflict in 2002 (interview with residents on the Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:165). These improvements in infrastructure on the Sidama side have since been interpreted in ethnic terms: the Wolayta have argued that the developments were personally initiated by the regional president at that time, Abate Kisho from Sidama, as a part of a campaign to disfavour the Wolayta. 168 chapter seven

In 2002, the tension between state farm workers and pastoralists, particularly from the eastern side of Bilate River, erupted into a large- scale conflict between the Wolayta and the Sidama. The trigger was the killing, by a Sidama, of two Wolayta women linked to the state farm as they were fetching water from the river. The pastoralists claimed it was their water point. This escalated into wider violence in which dozens were killed on both sides. The actual number killed is not known, but witnesses report that around 17 Wolayta and an undetermined but smaller number of Sidama died in the fighting. The Wolayta, described by the Sidama essentially as former soldiers now working on the state farm, burned Sidama villages, while the Sidama attacked two camps of state farm workers; they did not target Wolayta outside the state farm, seeing them as not involved in the conflict (interview with Sidama residents, Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:171). Many Sidama evacuated the area and went upland to Dale woreda. In retrospect, it seems clear that the conflict did not break out along purely ethnic lines but rather between specific subgroups ofWolayta and Sidama, the state farm workers and the pastoralists, fighting over control of land. After the incident, a large reconciliation meeting was held in a ware- house at the state farm, gathering elders from the area and officials from the Sidama and Wolayta zones, Dale and Humbo woreda, and the kebele administrations in the vicinity of the lake. The outcome of the reconciliation attempt is controversial. The state farm group and the kebele residents of Wolayta origin and the Sidama on the western shore of Bilate River all say that the elders took a traditional oath to remain in peace. They also claim that the Sidama elders agreed that the Sidama would be administered by and pay taxes to Humbo woreda in Wolayta. The Sidama on the eastern side of the river, on the other hand, argued from the beginning that there was no such agreement between the elders. Rather, they say, the Sidama zone and woreda officials, by agreeing to place the Sidama under Humbo, betrayed them by subjecting them to Wolayta administration (interview with Sidama residents, Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:171). Current officials in Dale woreda confirm that Sidama officials urged the Sidama people to accept the transfer of eight mender to the Wolayta (interview with Dale woreda official, Yirgalem, August 2006, nb 8:144). In the end, the reconciliation effort did not solve the impasse. Since that time, the Sidama in the eight mender have not recognised any of the administrations, have not paid taxes, and did not take part in the 2005 elections. Moreover, by 2006 the Sidama elders had changed identities or resources at stake? 169 their tune, saying they no longer consented to Wolayta administration: “Now, because of the tension, we would like to be included in the Sidama zone; we would like to live with our people” (interview with group of Sidama elders, Chokare kebele, July 2006, nb 8:171). Further inflaming tension in the area was a resettlement programme initiated by the Wolayta administration in the immediate aftermath of the reconciliation. The zone administration in Soddo started an intra- zone resettlement programme from all seven woreda in Wolayta zone to several resettlement sites around Lake Abaya in 2002, officially to enhance food security in the zone. But the programme appeared badly planned from the start, and it did not lead to any improvements in people’s access to food (Mellese Madda 2005). Lack of water, exacerbated by erratic rainfall, was one of the greatest obstacles to a successful resettlement. Of the 1,300 household heads recruited for the programme, many joined after coming under pressure from the local authorities in their home area or being given false promises regarding the rewards of resettlement. They were either landless or relied on food aid, or they were former soldiers of the Derg or the current regime. According to Mellese Madda (2005), 37 of the 252 resettlers in one camp returned home immediately after seeing the area they were supposed to resettle. The Sidama were not consulted before the resettlers came, even though 150–200 of the 6,000 Sidama pastoralists living in the area of Abaya-Bilate were forced to leave their cultivation and grazing land to make way for the resettlement. This led to frustration for both the pastoralists and the resettlers, and in some of the camps, the newcomers were initially prohibited from working on the land because the administration feared violent confrontations with the pastoralists (Mellese Madda 2005). This tense situation was aggravated by the fact that the pastoralists were armed with automatic weapons, while the resettlers had only machetes and shovels with which to defend themselves. In October 2004, the friction led the administration to start a forced repatriation of 274 households from two of the resettlement camps, Bilate and Shukukucha. This was also done without consulting those involved, and the resettlers had no chance to resist the repatriation. The official reason given was that they had to be removed in order to calm the tensions between the Sidama pastoralists and the resettlers and give the pastoralists access to water and grazing areas. It appeared, however, that the Wolayta zone had not received the necessary approval from the regional government to carry out the 170 chapter seven resettlement in the first place, and that the regional government was now pushing the zone administration to restrict the damage by repa- triating some of the resettlers (interview with resettlers in Bilbo settlement, July 2006, nb 6:48). The forced repatriation was nevertheless not the last step taken in the struggle for land around Lake Abaya. After being repatriated, the former settlers, together with farmers from the local Wolayta upland, went back to some of the areas they were removed from and started ploughing the land again. In July 2006, this group included between 600 and 1,000 household heads, according to the resettlers. Although the zone and woreda administrations argue that this happened purely on the resettlers’ own initiative, the new settlers claim that they received the blessing of the Humbo woreda administration to ‘recapture’ the land: “We sent a letter to them [Humbo woreda] about the new initiative, and the woreda officials accepted and permitted us to plough the land” (interview with one of the leaders of the new initiative, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:128). Whatever the formal procedure was, it finally led to a reshuffle of the Humboworeda administration, and the chairman was dismissed after intervention from the zone executive, allegedly because he had been mobilising the Wolayta to settle in new areas. The recapture initiative was also supported by community leaders in Soddo, who were actively backing these ‘foot soldiers’ to make it possible for the Wolayta to keep the land which they perceive as theirs (interviews with elders, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:43). These community leaders are in many cases the same people who mobilised against the Wogagoda at the end of the 1990s. Indeed, the leaders of the new initiative say that their enterprise is not a simple matter of finding a livelihood, but a part of the Wolayta’s just struggle for sovereignty over their land: If one single piece of sand is taken from the Wolayta land, there will be no peace. [. . .] We know that the Sidama have machine guns. Some of us also have guns. But our people are not afraid of guns, we are only afraid of the law. (Interview with leader of the recent resettlement, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:128) After the failed reconciliation, the resettlement effort, and the repatriation of the resettlers, both Wolayta and Sidama elders and officials sent appeals to the regional government to intervene. It was decided that the Council of Nationalities in Awassa was the right body to investigate the issue and decide what to do with the contested land identities or resources at stake? 171 between Sidama and Wolayta along the river and the lake. After sending experts to the area to interview the various parties and survey the lands in question, the Council identified the eight Sidamamender (villages) that had been given to the Wolayta administration in the mid- 1990s as key to a solution. Finally, the Council reached a decision in an extraordinary meeting in Butajira, the zone town of Gurage in the SNNPRS, in August 2005. A majority in the Council affirmed that the eight mender should be administered from the Sidama zone, thereby supporting the Sidama’s claims to control the land on both sides of the Bilate River. Unhappy with the decision, the Wolayta sent a written appeal to the House of Federation in Addis Ababa. The House of Federation supported the decision as correct in principle but urged the Council in Awassa to inspect the situation on the ground again, in an attempt to cool down the Wolayta side. This was interpreted by the Wolayta as a decision in their favour, while the Sidama also claimed victory. This is where the issue stands today: tension on the ground remains high, and people on both sides continue to feel insecure about the outcome of the conflict, making reconciliation and peaceful coexistence difficult to achieve.

Two contradictory understandings of land The conflict around Lake Abaya reflects two different understandings of land. On the one hand, the farmers stress formal ownership and fixed geographic boundaries. On the other hand, the pastoralists focus on usufruct rights, the principle that those who use the land should also control it. This divide essentially parallels the line between the Wolayta and the Sidama. When explaining the reason for the conflict, the Wolayta living in Humbo say that the border is the problem: The disagreement about the border is the main cause of the conflict. So we should plant trees on the border, according to an official map. Then we should show it to both the Sidama and Wolayta. After that we can live together peacefully. (Interview with Wolayta resident, Humbo, July 2006, nb 6:140) Wolayta zone officials support this view, emphasising that the border between the Sidama and the Wolayta along the Bilate River is an “internationally known border” which has been there since the time of Menelik (interview with deputy chief executive, Wolayta zone, Soddo, July 2007, nb 6:123). Although a river should provide a clear-cut 172 chapter seven boundary, the situation by the shore of Lake Abaya is not straightforward. After the establishment of the mechanised farm in 1967, the main river was diverted. This diversion has grown to be as big as the main river, and the two sides in the conflict therefore disagree as to which is the real Bilate River. The Wolayta claim that the branch fur- thest to the east is the real Bilate, while the Sidama claim that the branch to the west is the real river and thus the valid border. Despite the disagreement on which is the actual Bilate River, most of the Sidama whom I interviewed and conversed with around the lake shore expressed little concern about the location of the boundary between Wolayta and Sidama. When questioned about where the border lies, people often held long discussions among themselves before attempting to answer. Some stated simply that they did not know where the border is: “I don’t know whose land it is. The only thing I know is that it is the Sidama living here” (interview with Sidama elder, Humbo, July 2006, nb 6:15). They would rather focus on the right to access the land when explaining the conflict: “The conflict arose when daily labourers at the state farm claimed land behind the Bilate River. They took our land and started farming it.” The resettlement programme in 2003 and the new resettlement initiative in 2005 created more insecurity and fear: “When we sleep, we fear the attacks from our Wolayta neighbours. We don’t have grazing land and water—all is taken by the settlers” (interview with group of Sidama elders, Chokare, Abaya, July 2006, nb 6:55). It appears that the Sidama’s perception of land is also in accord with the current legal and political interpretation of land rights, as expressed in the deliberations of the Council of Nationalities and also in statements by the ruling EPRDF leaders in the SNNPRS. In line with the Sidama claims, the legal expert at the Council of Nationalities who led the investigations in Abaya argues that the conflict is not a boundary issue. According to him, the area has always been inhabited by Sidama pastoralists, living largely alone there. Whether the land is considered to be a part of the historical Wolayta or not is irrelevant, he maintains: The Constitution says the people have the right to promote their language and culture, so we followed the law and after studying the area, we decided that the Sidama should be entitled to administer the area. In the decision, we don’t care about borders, but about people’s identities. Our Constitution gives rights to the people, not to the land. (Interview with legal expert at the Council of Nationalities, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:58) identities or resources at stake? 173

Similarly, speaking from the EPRDF’s point of view, the Wolayta former president of the region, Haile Mariam Dessalegn, claims that the Abaya conflict must be understood as a struggle between “the old versus the new democracy way of thinking”: The old way of thinking is that borders are solely geographic, a view held by the Wolayta, who claim that the Bilate River is the border between them and the Sidama land. The new way of thinking is that borders are determined by ethnicity, by the will of the people living in the area. This is the thinking of the EPRDF. (Interview with Haile Mariam Dessalegn, former president of SNNPRS, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:165)

The right to self-determination: Producing conflict in a multiethnic local context Both these statements from higher officials point out that the current law potentially empowers ethnic groups, independent of geographic boundaries. But people on the ground argue instead that the Con- stitution of the current regime has exacerbated tension and has not empowered the Sidama or the Wolayta. Because the Constitution enshrines the nationalities’ right to self-government, Sidama living under Wolayta administration fear that they will be treated unfairly by woreda administrators and will be dominated by the Wolayta ethnic majority in the area. These concerns became even more urgent after the violence that erupted in 2002. Sidama who had been placed under Wolayta administration in Humbo were desperate to join their ‘ethnic brothers’ in Dale woreda, where they felt their rights would be protected. In particular, Sidama feared that the constitutional right to use the mother tongue in education would mean that Sidama living as a minority in Wolayta territory would lose the right to teach their children in the Sidama language. An NGO representative who has been working with conflict prevention in the area affirms this view: In this Constitution, the basic right is the group right. But the right to have mother tongue education, for example, is very difficult when you live outside your indigenous area. Then you have no rights. The Sidama in Humbo are afraid that their language will not be used in education there—and that they then will lose their constitutional rights. (Interview with NGO worker, Awassa, September 2006, nb 9:54) Another tension-producing effect of the Constitution, many people say, is that it gives incentive for any group to settle on a given area of land so that it becomes the majority, at which point it can gain 174 chapter seven control of the area by invoking the constitutionally guaranteed right to a referendum: The main cause of the conflict is political. This Constitution means that people can extend their control of the land and thereafter ask for a referendum to rearrange the borders. This could never have happened during the Derg or Haile Selassie. We did not have such a constitution at that time. (Interview with Wolayta elder, Humbo, July 2006, nb 6:43) In the Abaya area, the resettlement programme from the Wolayta side can also be understood in such a context. Although its official aim was to contribute to increased food security in the zone, the poor planning and involuntary character of the recruitment indicate that other, more political concerns influenced the zone officials’ actions. By settling ‘their people’ close to the contested areas, the Wolayta would be able to contain further expansion of the Sidama population. This would then ensure a majority in case of future referenda to decide which ethnic group should control the land. Representatives of both sides in the conflict on the ground con- cur that the current Constitution is exacerbating tensions. They also share the view that “the problem started with the officials, not with the people”. Although both the Sidama and Wolayta tell of struggles over land in the past, they argue that these conflicts were solved locally by traditional reconciliation, without intervention from administrators at higher levels: “Previously, we lived peacefully with the Sidama. Starting from Menelik up to the Derg, there were no serious conflicts” (interview with Wolayta resident of Abaya Zuria, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:128). Each side started with accusations against officials of the other ethnic group. Particularly after the reconciliation meeting, when all the officials, regardless of ethnicity, demanded that the Sidama around the lake should come under Wolayta administration, the Sidama com- plained about their own officials too: “At that time, our enemy was not the Wolayta people, but Dale woreda officials” (interview with Sidama residents, Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:171). The Sidama initially blamed only one subgroup of the Wolayta in the area: the state farm workers, or those who previously had worked on the state farm, who were now searching for land outside the state farm. But according to Sidama informants, the mobilisation of the woreda and kebele officials on the Wolayta side made the conflict appear to be a larger struggle between the two peoples (interview with Sidama residents, Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:171). identities or resources at stake? 175

As battle lines hardened, accusations against the administrators began to employ ethnic language. The villains in the game were no longer the local officials but the Sidama and Wolayta at higher administrative levels in the regions. The Wolayta pointed to Abate Kisho, the first regional president, of Sidama origin, and later also to the vice president of the region, Melese Marimo, also from Sidama. As Abate was linked to the building of the new infrastructure for the Sidama community at the end of the 1990s, he was accused of manufacturing animosity between the Sidama and Wolayta: “Starting from that time, Abate pushed the Sidama into conflict, and underground, we began to see the Sidama as our enemies” (interview with Wolayta resident of Abaya Zuria, Soddo, July 2006, nb 6:128). When Abate Kisho was removed from power after the split in the EPRDF in 2001 and replaced by a Wolayta, Haile Mariam Des- salegn, it further politicised the conflict. The Sidama largely blamed the Wolayta resettlement programmes on the Wolayta regional president, even though the regional administration had not given its formal permission for the move. When the resettlers were forcefully repatriated, the Wolayta claimed that the order came from the Sidama vice president of the region, Melese Marimo, while the Wolayta president, Haile Mariam Dessalegn, was abroad. The same accusation was made against the Council of Nationalities in August 2005, as the Wolayta people and zone officials interpreted this decision as the work of the Sidama regional officials. They argue that the processes were too hasty and were pushed through by the vice president while the president was out of the country. It is interesting to note, however, that some of the regional power holders themselves blame the escalation of the Abaya conflict on regional power struggles. A previous high-ranking member of the regional executive argues that the case is a reflection of the Sidama- Wolayta competition in the south, fed by the perception that the Wolayta have been dominating the other groups since the Derg, but he also acknowledges the role of personal power struggles between Wolayta and Sidama officials in the regional administration: “The Abaya issue is aggravated by higher officials’ desire to turn personal struggles into a matter of ethnic conflict, as a matter of the Sidama people against the Wolayta people” (interview with former member of SNNPRS executive, Addis Ababa, October 2006, nb 6:165). 176 chapter seven

Despite the shared perception that the intervention of officials caused and aggravated the problems between the Sidama and the Wolayta, both sides in the conflict also have altered retrospectively their views of the relationship between the Wolayta and the Sidama, ultimately internalising the sharpened divide between the two groups. This is in line with Brubaker and Laitin’s (1998) depiction of how ethnic conflicts typically erupt: on one level, through deliberate manipulation and organisation by a small number of instigators, and on other levels, through collective behaviour determined by altered collective emotions and representations. When one analyses the development of the relationship between the local populations around Lake Abaya since the 2002 violence and the ensuing administrative interventions, it is apparent that that the relations, which previously were shaped by occupational and livelihood differences between pastoralists and farmers, now turn on clear-cut ethnic differences between the Sidama and Wolayta. This change has led to a revisionist view of how the Sidama and the Wolayta related to each other in the past. What was before described as a practical symbiosis between the pastoral and agricultural communities in terms of trade, intermarriage, and kinship is now presented, since the conflict and interventions, as two mutually exclusive ways of life. The past interaction between the two peoples is denied or portrayed in disparaging terms, as seen in this statement from a Wolayta elder who has lived in a community with traditionally strong relations to the Sidama pastoralists: We never wanted to marry the Sidama. We have always seen, and still see, the Sidama as our servants. A Sidama woman came to sell milk to us, and after she left, we removed the leaves that she had been sitting on. The Sidama smell and are dirty. (Interview with Wolayta elder who took part in the negotiations, Humbo, July 2007, nb 6:115) Similarly, Sidama depict the Wolayta farmers in derogatory terms and say that the Sidama look down upon the Wolayta ‘because of their bad culture’. They point out that the two people’s traditions and ways of life are impossible to combine, and that any attempt to do so will inevitably lead to conflict (interview with chairman of Abaya Zuria kebele, August 2006, nb 8:167). The Abaya case thus shows how the introduction of ethnic-based politics, combined with manipulative and destructive intervention by political and administrative officials, has greatly affected the way people look upon territorial boundaries. They are no longer perceived as identities or resources at stake? 177 flexible, but have become frontiers between ethnicities, languages, and cultures. The Abaya conflict also illustrates how regional political leaders from both Sidama and Wolayta have used conflicts in a small local context such as Abaya in their own struggles for regional domination. People in Abaya have become part of a larger political game, and the conflict that was initially about local issues and could have been solved locally took on larger proportions and became more difficult to solve. The development of the Abaya conflict is hence a clear example of a scenario where intervention from higher political levels has hardened the positions on both sides instead of contributing to reconciliation of the warring parties.

Controversies on self-determination in Sidama and Wolayta: Resources and identities at stake

An analysis of the three controversies on national self-determination in Sidama and Wolayta under ethnic federalism shows that all have elements of resource competition. Political leaders, in their struggle for administrative and material advantages, appealed to the authorities and mobilised the population with the help of ethnic markers. In the Awassa and Sidama regional issues, the Wogagoda crisis, and the Abaya dispute, ethnicity has been deliberately used to either campaign for or resist changes in the territorial or administrative organisation of the two communities. The first two controversies also reflect internal struggles between the traditionally privileged and marginalised groups within Wolayta and Sidama. These internal contestations were exploited or used pragmatically by the ruling party in its attempts to impose its decisions. Thehadicho ’s resistance to a separate Sidama region helped the EPRDF contain ethnic claims from the wollabicho majority. In Wolayta, however, the weakness and internal disunity of the traditionally marginalised prevented the EPRDF from stopping the dominant majority of traditional elites and prestigious clans from mobilising the people for ethnic claims. The Awassa and Sidama regional issue and the resistance to Wogagoda both led to resistance and violent repression of opposition in the two communities, but only in Wolayta did this result in concessions and the establishment of separate ethnic administrations. A common element of conflicts in the post-1991 period is that the ruling party has claimed that its opponents are motivated by the 178 chapter seven search for personal benefits and are using identity issues only as a cover and a tool to mobilise the people for their self-serving causes. I would argue, however, that although ethnicity does often serve as a tool in the struggle for scarce resources, it also has meaning for people, a meaning which is independent of whether or not ethnic political mobilisation leads to material and political benefits. Explanations based simply on instrumentalism do not provide a full understanding of these conflicts. To disparage political opponents as ‘rent seekers’ is an efficient way to disarm the opposition, but it does not give a full picture of the situation. As pointed out by Eriksen (1999), there is a dilemma with this kind of ‘deconstruction’ of ethnicity: if the observer finds that the apparent ‘ethnic political mobilisation’ has nothing to do with ethnic claims at all, the actors themselves are still mobilised by and find meaning in their ethnic identity. By excluding the identity aspect of these disputes, the EPRDF has simplified the realities and contributed to an escalation of the conflicts. As identities are flexible and fluid, they can be easily mobilised for political ends, but the feelings involved should nonetheless be recognised as genuine. Here lies the challenge of separating ‘primordial’ identity and instrumentalist forces from each other. This is also what makes the EPRDF’s policies of preventing ‘narrow nationalism’ and administrative disintegration in the Southern region extremely difficult to carry out successfully. CHAPTER EIGHT

CONCLUSION: THE FACETS OF ETHNIC FEDERALISM

This book has analysed how a national institutional framework which gives ethnically defined groups the right to self-determination is understood, negotiated, and executed in two communities in the multiethnic Southern region of Ethiopia. The EPRDF’s introduction of the ethnic- based federal system in 1991 has had an important influence on the communities’ continuous construction of separate ethnic identities. By establishing fixed and easily distinguishable ethnic political units, the government has attempted to make ethnic identity less fluid and flexible. This has led, over time, to the construction of more rigid ethnic groups with more sharply defined boundaries between them. The comparative case study of two ethnic groups, the Sidama and the Wolayta, has demonstrated, however, that communities under the same political order can develop different patterns of ethnic political mobilisation. Although the leaders in both communities have relied on ethnic markers to mobilise citizens, an array of factors, many of them intra-ethnic, have shaped the political expressions of the communities: clan competition, social stratification, and each group’s relations to neighbouring groups and the ruling party, among others. In Wolayta, such factors have increased group cohesion, while in Sidama the internal contestations have prevented the group from mobilising as one political unit. The political mobilisation in southern Ethiopia under ethnic federalism has been characterised by an increase in small-scale ‘ethnic’ conflicts. In one sense, this interpretation can be seen as supporting an instrumentalist understanding of ethnicity, which is implicit in the institutional approach. As the current political regime favours ethnic organisation of politics and has drawn administrative boundaries along ethnic lines, political actors find that it pays to sharpen ethnic divides. Before ethnic-based self-rule can be implemented, it has to be made clear which people belong to which group (identity demarcation) and which territories each group should be entitled to govern (territorial demarcation). This process may increase people’s awareness of ethnic differences and may also create a potential for 180 chapter eight territorial disputes between groups. Groups of people that did not previously look upon themselves as ethnic entities may press such claims in order to gain their own administrative units. Thus the launch of ethnic self-administration has led to increased political mobilisation on ethnic grounds. This argument is also in line with the inventionist understanding of the mobilisation of ethnicity as a political force in Africa (Ranger 1983). Just as colonial indirect rule led the elites in various African communities to invent or reinvent ethnic identities in hopes of being favoured with administrative and material resources, the elites in southern Ethiopian communities may have invented or reinvented their own ethnic identities to gain political and material benefits. In the competition for a larger share of resources, this has led to increased levels of tension between ethnically defined communities. A fundamental problem with such an interpretation of the proliferation of conflicts in southern Ethiopia is that one takes for granted that it is the ethnic aspect that fuels the conflicts. What the constructivist approach has demonstrated is that by isolating ‘ethnicity’ as a focus of research, one easily loses sight of everything else. So we should be careful in assuming that conflicts are genuinely ethnically driven, even if they appear to be. What we can explore, however, is how conflicts which previously were understood as expressions of economic or social issues are now ‘ethnicised’. A good example is the fight between pastoralists and farmers over control of land in the borderland between Sidama and Wolayta, which is now expressed in ethnic instead of economic language. The very different trajectories of political mobilisation in Sidama and Wolayta under the same ethnically based political order also demonstrate that political variation concerns not only differences between states, but also differences within states, between communities within the same political entity. In exploring intra-ethnic, and not only inter- ethnic, relations in two communities in the Southern region, I have reaffirmed what several ethnographic studies of Ethiopian communities have found: ethnic groups are not necessarily cohesive but are products of internal contestations and power struggles between different subgroups, in line with the constructivist approach to ethnicity. These empirical findings suggest that a purely institutional explanation of ethnic political mobilisation is futile. We cannot take for granted that institutional arrangements are the main determinant of political behaviour. There is no unidirectional or monocausal relationship facets of ethnic federalism 181 between the introduction and functioning of federal systems and the level of ethnic conflict: federal institutional arrangements, isolated from all other political processes, cannot increase or reduce ethnic tensions. The studies of Sidama and Wolayta demonstrate that the effect of institutional arrangement depends on context, and similar federal structures have different effects in different cases. This corre- sponds to comparisons of political development in other parts of the world, which also have demonstrated that the impact of institutions on ethnic mobilisation depends inter alia on the prehistory of ethnic domination, the level of trust between ethnic groups, the existence of consensus on overall values like human rights, and, finally, the degree of institutionalisation of political affairs (Kymlicka 2006). I have therefore proposed that instead of assuming that it is first and foremost institutions that determine political behaviour, institutional change should be analysed within a wider web of factors. The analysis in chapter 2 sets the national political framework of ethnic federalism in a context shaped by the legacy of ethnic marginalisation of the previous regimes, the ruling party’s ideological and political motivations for bringing about the federal system, the party’s contradictory approach to ethnicity as a political phenomenon, and the centralised and informal features of the ruling party organisation. All these aspects influence the way in which the national political framework is implemented in the regional setting of southern Ethiopia, as described in chapter 4. Because of its desire to sustain its control of the Ethiopian state, the EPRDF has gradually shifted its emphasis to administrative integration instead of national self-determination in the south, even though the national Constitution gives ethnically defined groups a universal right to self-rule. This shift also explains the central party’s interference in regional affairs, an interference that has largely undermined the constitutionally guaranteed autonomy of the regions from the centre. The EPRDF’s power politics is in itself conflict producing: when communities that have defined themselves along ethnic lines are denied the right to self-rule, it creates a contradiction between principles and practice that provokes anger and discontent. Hence, the findings of chapters 4 and 6 show that the institutional framework of ethnic federalism cannot be analysed simply as it is outlined in the Constitution; rather, it must be understood within the context of centralised party rule and the ruling party’s desire to sustain and enlarge its power. 182 chapter eight

Based on inputs from the constructivist approach to ethnicity (Ber- man 1998; Eriksen 1999; Yeros 1999), I have proposed that political mobilisation under the order of ethnic federalism should also be analysed from a historical point of view, asking how ethnic feelings have been honed as motivations for common action and which historical realities provide a basis for ethnic activism. The constructivist approach stresses that ethnic identities are constructed on the basis of deliberate selection of cultural and ethnic markers. This selection is based on what people feel are real and plausible experiences, linked to a history that actually happened (Peel 1989). In the outline of Sidama’s and Wolayta’s historical trajectories in chapter 3, I have identified the range of cultural and historical experiences that are available for actors to use in the construction of ethnic identities. I have shown how actors in the contemporary ethnic political mobilisation have dealt with the historical ambiguities of Sidama and Wolayta in ways that create or maintain boundaries between the two groups and their neighbours. Still, the historical outlines in chapter 3 also illustrate that there are controversies over which interpretation of the past should become the authoritative version. In both Sidama and Wolayta, ethnic political mobilisation is sustained by an interpretation of the community’s past which is accepted by the dominant majority, but the contemporary historical reinterpretation in each case also reflects internal competition between subgroups based on established hierarchies. In Wolayta, the traditional elite has managed to monopolise the interpretation of Wolayta history and has enforced a moral order and definition of Wolayta identity which leaves no room for the traditionally marginalised to take part. In Sidama, the historically despised groups have themselves taken up the struggle to define Sidama history and identity, and they have mobilised separately, apart from the established elites. The exploration of internal contestations within Sidama and Wolayta in chapter 6 shows how struggles between clans, social strata, and genders shape the internal power constellations within an ethnic community and finally affect its relations to the outside as well, to other ethnic groups and to the state. It makes clear that the study of ethnic groups should not take for granted that ethnically defined entities are cohesive and speak with one voice, an argument also put forward by other scholars of Ethiopian history and ethnography (Abbink 2002; Poluha 1998). The analysis in chapter 6 also reveals a side effect of ethnic self-rule and the power politics of the ruling party in Sidama facets of ethnic federalism 183 and Wolayta: a revival of clans and traditional hierarchies, lending legitimacy to the maintenance of discriminatory practices against the traditionally marginalised groups of artisans and women. The analysis of three different controversies linked to national self- determination in Wolayta and Sidama in chapter 7 reveals that so- called ethnic conflicts can be expressions of fundamentally different mechanisms and interests. This is again in line with the constructivist approach to ethnicity, which implies that the study of what appears to be ethnic mobilisation should question the significance of ethnic identities and claims and empirically investigate how ethnicity interacts with other identities—indeed whether ethnicity has any impact at all. All three conflicts involve ethnic identity issues to some extent, proving that it is difficult to exclude such issues from the analysis of this kind of political mobilisation. But this does not mean that ethnic identity explains everything or is sufficient in itself to create such conflicts. In all three instances, instrumentalist concerns are also present, driving political actors to defend their cause against perceived external enemies. Nevertheless, the differences between these three conflicts demonstrate that ethnic political mobilisation does not always exhibit the same stages of development, and it may represent very different sets of motivations, underlining the fluid and flexible nature of ethnic identity and group formation. The empirical findings of my study show that ethnic relations and political development in southern Ethiopia under the order of ethnic federalism represent both changes and continuities from the previous regimes. They also show that specific controversies purportedly driven by ethnic claims in reality express not only strains in the relationship between different ethnic groups but also struggles between subgroups within the ethnically defined communities. As pointed out in other ethnographic studies of Ethiopian communities, ethnic political mobilisation must thus be understood as an outcome of both inter- ethnic and intra-ethnic relations (Abbink 2002; Turton 2003). With this in mind, I argue for a sharper focus on internal contestations within ethnic groups. This will help us refine a methodology which recognises the fluid and flexible nature of ethnic identities and does not presume that ethnic coalitions are cohesive and that all members of the coalitions act in the same way. This study of political development in Wolayta and Sidama under EPRDF rule has focused on two main questions: how intra-ethnic 184 chapter eight relations within each group have developed under the ethnic-based federal system, and how inter-ethnic relations between the two groups and between each group and its neighbours have advanced since 1991. Let us review the main findings of each in turn.

Intra-ethnic relations in the ethnic federal order

One of the assumptions implicit in the institutional approach to the study of ethnic political behaviour is that every ethnic group is homogeneous and represents a single set of interests. By questioning this assumption in the study of Sidama and Wolayta, I have been able to explain how and why the two communities have produced two different patterns of political behaviour from 1991 onward, bluntly described as division in Sidama and cohesion in Wolayta. The questioning of ethnic groups as uniform units also calls into question the mobilisation of traditions and ethnic markers as reflections of subgroup struggles. The analyses of political development in Sidama and Wolayta have revealed that the ethnic federal system’s stress on promotion of national cultures and the EPRDF’s pragmatic power politics in local communities have contributed to reviving and legitimising many traditional practices in Sidama and Wolayta. But this revival is contested. The process of defining legitimate traditions in the two communities creates winners and losers, finally reproducing rather than challenging the historical divisions between clans, social strata, and genders.

Division in Sidama, cohesion in Wolayta In Sidama, the ‘politics of ethnicity’ has produced a divisive political mobilisation. The traditionally marginalised artisan group, thehadicho, has led a separate political struggle, challenging the traditionally powerful wollabicho’s monopolisation of Sidama identity. By founding the Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic Organisation, the hadicho have attempted to expose the historical injustices against them and mobilise against persistent discrimination. This has fragmented Sidama interests in the Southern region, making it difficult for the ‘Sidama nation’ to achieve its demands in regional politics. Thehadi- cho’s success in organising a separate struggle reflects the historical conditions of the marginalised in Sidama, but it also has to do with the current power politics of the EPRDF. Thehadicho ’s own clan land and facets of ethnic federalism 185 their separate clan assembly and leader unified the group internally and empowered the potters to organise a common front despite the severe stigma attached to their status. Because of the EPRDF’s pragmatic concerns with creating a loyal elite and preventing efficient opposition from the Sidama (which had a strong nationalist party, the SLM), the ruling party and its representative in Awassa facilitated the establishment of the SHPDO. In Wolayta, political developments under ethnic federalism have reproduced rather than challenged the traditional intra-ethnic social order. They have also reinforced a cohesive identity for the Wolayta ethnic group at the expense of its subgroups. Here, the marginalised artisans and descendants of slaves have not managed to coordinate common efforts to counter their exclusion from social and political affairs. This reflects the lack of historical unity between them, but also the persistent strong stigma which prevents the hillancha and ayle from even acknowledging their identities in public. This has made it possible for the historically powerful clans, including those of royal lineage, to recreate and reinterpret Wolayta history in their own image. Promotion of a unified Wolayta ethnicity has also undermined formation of a wider southern identity. Although the Wolayta have a history of interconnections with neighbouring groups in North Omo, it is the history of the Wolayta divine kingship and the status of Wolayta as an independent kingdom which have been used to mobilise the Wolayta people in times of political stress under EPRDF rule. Again, the power politics of the EPRDF plays a role. The ruling party’s imposition of a unified language, Wogagoda, undermined connections between the North Omo groups and served to nourish a separate Wolayta nationalism. In the struggle against the Wogagoda project, the slave descendants and artisans were accused of betraying the Wolayta cause by supporting the new language. In this way, the traditionally despised groups were again the scapegoats, and the historically prestigious clans could call the Wolayta people to a common struggle defined on their own terms. The dominant groups were thus successful in subordinating the Wolayta to certain moral imperatives, similar to what Lonsdale has described as ‘moral ethnicity’ (Berman and Lonsdale 1992; Lonsdale 2004). Even if the end result of the political mobilisation was to strengthen Wolayta unity, the process of defining common social values reflected a continuing internal social tension between competing elites and subgroups. 186 chapter eight

Revival of tradition Most studies of ethnic groups in Africa point to colonisation as a major stimulus to the mobilisation of ethnicity as a political force. In response to the colonial authorities’ primordial stereotypes of African society and the system of indirect rule, aspirant African elites moulded traditions and ethnic identities to fit the stereotypes and obtain the advantages of having their own administrative structures (Ranger 1983). Similarly, the ethnic-based federal system of the EPRDF may have encouraged elites in southern Ethiopian communities to invent or reinvent their ethnic identities in pursuit of political and material gain. The renewed importance of clan identities and clan-based idir, the continuing importance of the songo, the new legitimacy of traditional religion, and the maintenance of clan marriages are some indications of a ‘revival of tradition’ in Sidama and Wolayta. The downside of this revival is that practices that have proved harmful to the traditionally marginalised groups are maintained or revived as well. Artisans and descendants of slaves continue to be excluded from major arenas of social and political life. The continuing practice of clan marriage is coupled with practices detrimental to women, including marriage by abduction and female genital mutilation. In the end, the maintenance and revival of such traditions as ethnic markers redounds to the benefit of the traditionally privileged: men in prestigious clans and positions.

Inter-ethnic relations in the ethnic federal order

Another aspect of the ‘revival of tradition’ under the order of ethnic federalism is that the practices chosen for revival are those which provide the ethnic group with markers that distinguish it clearly from other groups. According to the transactionist approach to ethnic group creation (Barth 1969), ethnic groups may focus on cultural aspects of their history and traditions which separate them clearly from their neighbours. This may increase the chances that ethnic claims will be recognised and strengthen the potential for ethnic political mobilisation in the community. My empirical findings from southern Ethiopia partly support this supposition. Inter-group relationships which previously were defined by different livelihoods are today defined purely in ethnic terms; the dividing lines between different ethnically defined communities have been sharpened; and group membership, which previously was flexible and fluid, has now turned rigid and exclusive. facets of ethnic federalism 187

Ethnicised conflicts, sharper divides Together with a range of other local conflicts in the Ethiopian federation (see Vaughan and Tronvoll 2003; Vaughan 2003), the Abaya case illustrates how the introduction of ethnic-based politics, combined with the manipulative intervention of political and administrative officials, has deeply affected the way people perceive the boundaries and relationships between neighbouring groups. Relationships between groups which previously were divided on the basis of socioeconomic rather than ethnic markers have been ethnicised, thereby changing the modus of their connections and rendering the fronts in the conflict harder and the situation more complex. Before the conflict, the relations between the Wolayta and the Sidama in the border areas around Lake Abaya had turned on occupational and livelihood differences between pastoralists and farmers. After the introduction of the ethnically defined administrations in the area and the intervention of political leaders on each side of the divide, struggles over land turned into clear-cut ethnic conflicts. The boundaries between the two groups are no longer perceived as flexible, but have become frontiers between ethnicities, languages, and cultures. As a result, views of how the two groups relate to each other—and how they related to each other in the past—are continuously reinterpreted. What was described as a practical symbiosis between the pastoral and agricultural communities through trade, intermarriage, and kinship is after the conflict and the interventions presented as two mutually exclusive ways of life.

Ethnicity gives meaning, too; it’s not all about fighting for resources The three controversies over national self-determination that have taken place in Wolayta and Sidama under ethnic federalism all display elements of instrumentalism. Political leaders, in their struggle for administrative and material resources, have appealed to the authorities and mobilised the population with the help of ethnic markers. The analyses of the Awassa and Sidama regional issues, the Woga- goda crisis, and the Abaya dispute reveal that ethnicity has been used deliberately to campaign for or to resist changes in the territorial or administrative organisation in the two communities. Ethnicity has thus been an instrument and not an end in itself. This may be interpreted as clear evidence of the applicability of the instrumentalist approach to ethnicity in multiethnic states, which posits that ethnic groups are 188 chapter eight calculating, self-interested, collective actors, maximising material values through the vehicle of communal identities (Bates 1983). I would argue that this is only one side of the story. Although ethnicity often serves as a tool in the struggle for scarce resources, it also offers meaning to people, a meaning which is independent of whether or not ethnic political mobilisation leads to material and political gain. Even under circumstances of instrumental ‘ethnic invention’, or in cases where a conflict has been ‘ethnicised’, ethnic belonging remains one of the many basic dimensions of human life, a way of identifying oneself and one’s neighbours. If state intervention, conflicts between ethnic groups, or intra-ethnic contestation threaten what people perceive as their identity, this in itself may be enough to mobilise them for political action. In short, inter-ethnic relations in southern Ethio- pia can never be reduced to matters of resource competition. These relations will always touch on what people perceive as a fundamental aspect of their existence: who they, and others, are. The Wogagoda controversy in Wolayta is a particularly illustrative example of how disregard for the meaning of ethnic identity can exac- erbate intra- and inter-group tensions and lead to violence. The ruling party officials argued that the resistance to a unified North Omo language was just a cover for instrumentalism and political opportunism, while the people (led by representatives of the traditional elite) saw the introduction of the language as an attack on their identity. The fact that the rulers did not acknowledge the identity aspect of the conflict triggered a stronger-than-anticipated reaction from opponents of the project, in the end forcing the rulers to admit their mistakes and make amends. This scenario is analogous to situations described by Eriksen (1999) in which the attempt to reduce ethnicity to a matter of simple instrumentalism leads to conflicts because it ignores or misrepresents the subjective experiences of the actors.

Beyond southern Ethiopia

As we have seen in chapter 1, a significant research issue in political science is the question of how states with multiethnic composition should be governed, and which measures should be introduced to curb tensions between ethnic groups in these societies. Behind the discussions of different institutional solutions, ranging from consociational- ism to electoral system reform and federalism, there is a normative desire to find a solution to the problems that ethnic conflicts create. In facets of ethnic federalism 189 political science, in the Western sphere at least, scholars who believe in the primacy of institutional reform include public choice, rational choice, and game theorists. According to this approach, institutions can ensure so-called ‘structure-induced equilibriums’ (Harriss, Hunter, and Lewis 1997), influenced by the new institutionalism in economic theory. Through constitutional engineering, the political system in a country can be designed to regulate the relationship between minority and majority groups, ensure that all groups are represented in governance of the state, and provide incentives for inter-group cooperation. This implies that institutional solutions can easily be exported from one context to another and that a particular institutional design, such as federalism, can by itself produce a specific outcome, either harmony or disharmony. The Ethiopian case, however, suggests that institutional solutions are insufficient to solve inter-ethnic and intra- ethnic tensions, as the formal institutional frames only partly explain the political behaviour of ethnic political actors. The experience of the Ethiopian federation therefore underlines an uncomfortable truth for those who would seek quick-fix solutions to the challenge of accommodating ethnic diversity: there is no universally applicable answer to the question of which political system best fits a multiethnic society. The analysis of the findings from southern Ethiopia will ultimately contribute to our understanding of the extent to which ethnic federalism can serve as an instrument of conflict management and prevention in ethnically diverse societies. Although these regional findings cannot be generalised to the whole Ethiopian state, much less to all multiethnic states, they can contribute to a more nuanced understanding of the relationship between institutional arrangements and ethnic conflict. The situation in Ethiopia demonstrates that the introduction of federalism is by no means a quick route to ethnic conflict mitigation; at the same time, it does not provide a full explanation for exacerbation of ethnic conflicts and state disintegration. The Ethiopian example therefore underlines the need for a contextually sensitive approach to analysis of the accommodation of ethnic diversity. A central argument of this book is that the analysis of political developments in Ethiopia under the order of ethnic federalism must have a wider scope than is common in conventional political science analysis. As pointed out in the early writings of Africanist political scientists (Apter 1963; Austin 1964), the explanations of ‘politics’ must be found in part outside the formal political sphere of institutions: in communities’ histories and social conditions, in identities, and in the informal games 190 chapter eight of power. An implication of this argument is that universal and general theories about the nature of ethnicity and institutions and the relationship between them have limited value in explaining ethnic political mobilisation if they are not coupled with contextual and combinatorial explanations. Again, this underlines the need to look not only at institutional solutions to the problems of ethnic conflicts in multiethnic states, but also at the wider societal, historical, and political conditions that influence the problems as well as the solutions. The findings of this book therefore have limited potential for generalisation. But it is still worth asking: do experiences with the ethnic-based federal system in southern Ethiopia offer any broader lessons on how to organise multiethnic societies?

Ethiopia as an exception Before we assess whether the Ethiopian experience can provide lessons for other multiethnic states, we should briefly review the particulari- ties of ethnic politics in Ethiopian history. As described in chapter 2, Ethiopia’s relatively unusual experience of ethnic politics is linked to its history of state building, which is fundamentally different from the common African pattern in which multiethnic states were created almost randomly by colonisation. In colonised Africa, the dominant ideology of the decolonisation and independence struggles was nationalism, which meant a decreased emphasis on separate ethnic identities. The Ethiopian state, however, was built by incorporating peripheral peoples into a state which already possessed a strong identity and historical core. As pointed out by Clapham (1988), the concepts of ‘nation’ and ‘state’ thus have indigenous points of references in Ethiopia, unlike in the rest of Africa, where they were largely alien ideas imported and imposed by external colonisation. For people to be integrated into the Ethiopian state, they had to adopt the core culture, including the Amharic language and Orthodox Christian faith, and subordinate their own origin, culture, and religion. Historical Ethiopian nationhood therefore incorporates a fundamental paradox: while assimilation into the core culture allowed peripheral peoples to participate in the national political system, it also humiliated them by disparaging their own cultures and histories. In combination with an exploitative landlord system, which reinforced the supremacy of the Amhara, this led to marginalisation, exploitation, and alienation. Ethnicity in Ethiopia thus has a peculiar edge, which is lacking to a degree in post-colonial states. facets of ethnic federalism 191

With the emergence of the Marxist military regime of the Derg in 1974, there was an attempt to redefine Ethiopian nationalism away from the focus on Amharic language and culture. The radical student movement of the 1960s put forward the idea that Ethiopia would be a viable political entity only when ethnic groups were equal and not suppressed. But the Derg’s new nationality policies were largely symbolic and did not change the bias of the Ethiopian state. Instead, they created confusion about what it meant to be an Ethiopian, calling into question the fundamental premise of Ethiopian statehood. This contributed to a new ethnic discourse, finally leading to a strong ethnic- based opposition to the central state. The party leaders and ideologists of the current EPRDF regime were part of the 1960s and 1970s student movement in Ethiopia, a movement that embraced a Leninist-Stalinist approach to the question of the nationalities. This ideology served the new power holders’ need to legitimise a restructuring of Ethiopian society aimed at forcing out elites associated with the previous regime. Ethnic-based devolution of power, but in the hands of the vanguard party, was also probably the only model in which the TPLF, representing an ethnic minority, could keep control of the state. The legacy of Amhara supremacy; the marginalisation, exploitation, and alienation of other ethnic groups; and the influences of Stalin- ist ideology in the reconstruction of the Ethiopian state after 1991 together create the particular context in which ethnic federalism in Ethiopia has been implemented. Along with local realities in the various ethnic communities in the federation, this context constitutes a unique set of conditions in which the Ethiopian politics of ethnicity is constructed. This poses a challenge to the transfer of Ethio- pian experiences of ethnic federalism to other societies. Its noncolonial past sets Ethiopia apart from the African pattern of ethnic political mobilisation. Ethiopia’s lack of a unifying national identity based on anti-colonialism, such as developed in the course of other countries’ decolonisation struggles, limits the Ethiopian model’s relevance to other multiethnic African states. Despite these differences, Ethiopia may shed useful light on the specific institutional solution of ethnic- based federalism. This may feed into the theoretical debates on federal systems, adding empirically based evidence to the discussion between those who argue that ethnic-based federal subdivision increases integration of subnational groups and those who claim that it increases ethnic division and undermines integration. 192 chapter eight

Which political system best fits a multiethnic society? Throughout this book, I have argued that generalised knowledge and universal theories are of limited value in explaining the relationship between institutions and ethnicity. Studies of the impacts of specific institutional arrangements in multiethnic societies may nevertheless provide us with useful information about the functioning of certain political systems in diverse societies. In this regard, the Ethiopian case may serve as an example of the intrinsic problems of a federal political system which is explicitly structured along ethnic lines. It suggests that such systems may increase the chances of conflict and disintegration by promoting primordial nationalism, solidifying temporary or partial group identities, and limiting the expression of genuine pluralist interests because the concerns of groups other than ethnic groups are deemphasised (Smith 1995). Thus, the failure of ethnic federalism in Wolayta and Sidama is not only an outcome of the EPRDF’s tactical ineptitude, but has deeper roots in the very nature of the EPRDF’s federal project. This is linked to the fundamental and intrinsic problems with ethnic-based federations and the nature of ethnicity as a social and political phenomenon. Ethnicity is a constructed phenomenon, not inborn and fixed. It need not be mobilised, and it can remain dormant and nonsalient, but it is also quite easy to manipulate and mobilise it for political ends. In an ethnic-based federation, it is highly likely that administrative subdivision along ethnic lines will sharpen ethnic divides and help solidify the originally fluid borders between ethnic groups, leading to redefinition of both inter- and intra-ethnic relations. In contexts where resource competition is acute and there is little respect for democracy and individual rights, this is likely to lead to increased tension between and within ethnic groups and a continuous stream of demands for the creation of new ethnic units. By its very nature, therefore, ethnic-based federalism seems to be a source of instability and conflict. Lessons from several other multiethnic federations also demonstrate that federalism has not eradicated ethnic conflict and has not prevented ethnic groups from continuing their violent campaigns for separate statehood. Examples from Nigeria, India, and Canada, where groups have opted for secession, show that federalisation has not solved or eliminated conflicts between ethnic groups but has only managed or regulated them (McGarry and O’Leary 1993). Studies from these countries suggest that certain preconditions must be present in a society if a federal system is to play the reconciliatory role expected of it. facets of ethnic federalism 193

The most fundamental of these preconditions is the existence of a well-functioning democracy. The Indian and Canadian cases show that there is a symbiotic relationship between federalism and democracy: the state being a democracy allows the federal subdivision to facilitate unity, while the empowerment of regional states and minorities in the federation enhances the functioning of democracy. In contrast to this, the centralisation of power and lack of democracy in Nigeria is undermining the federal division of power, and federal subdivision along ethnic lines is exacerbating ethnic conflict. It is thus clear that democracy and federalism must coexist in order to make federalism work for stabilisation and reconciliation. Contextual factors, including the structure of societal cleavages, the protection of minorities, and the space created for parallel national and ethnic identities, also influence the extent to which a federal system will be successful in accommodating ethnic diversity. Nevertheless, when it comes to stability, the experiences of all these federations illustrate the intrinsic problem of ethnic-based federalism: the need to cope with a never-ending stream of demands from more and more ethnic groups seeking statehood. Unless the claims to separate status are accompanied by a high degree of flexibility and will- ingness on the part of the central government to change subfederal borders, there is the danger of escalating ethnic tension. The experiences of federal systems also show us that unless ethnic subdivision is accompanied by strong measures to protect minority rights, it is likely to lead to increased discrimination against subethnic communities. This book’s description of local as well as regional and national politics in the Ethiopian federation gives a bleak impression of the state of democracy in the country. The EPRDF’s centralised party rule, the blurred distinction between the party and the state, and the numerous human rights abuses point to dim prospects for future democratisation. This in turn suggests that instability and failure to peacefully accommodate ethnic diversity will continue. Political developments in Ethiopia after the contested 2005 election are a stark reminder of the autocratic nature of the EPRDF regime. After a liberalisation intermezzo in the election campaign and a challenge to the incumbent by the pan-Ethiopian opposition coalition CUD in the polls, the ruling party has led a step-by-step retreat back to outright authoritarianism, crushing the hopes of those who believed that a peaceful transfer of power was possible (Aalen and Tronvoll 2009). 194 chapter eight

Events since the elections and since fieldwork for this book was com- pleted in 2006 are worth touching on briefly because they give a hint of the direction in which the Ethiopian federation may be heading. The imprisonment of the CUD leadership was the start of a process of dividing the opposition by encouraging splits within these parties. By the time the CUD leaders were released in September 2007, the coalition was no longer functioning. One of the promising young leaders of the party, Birtukan Mediksa, had the potential to reunite the various factions. But she was rearrested and stayed behind bars until her release in October 2010. Another strategy for quelling dissent since 2005 has been the enact- ment of new and oppressive laws. The revision of the press law in 2008 maintained the repressive elements of the previous law, while new articles allowed prosecutors to summarily stop any publication deemed a threat to public order or national security; the punishment for defamation was also increased. The new party law passed the same year prevents political parties from receiving donations from Ethiopi- ans abroad and makes publication of donor names compulsory; both provisions decrease the chances of funding for opposition parties in the country. The final and most sweeping of the new laws is the Societ- ies and Charities Proclamation of 2009. This law restricts civil society organisations which work on issues of human rights and good governance from receiving donations from abroad, which for all practical purposes means that these organisations will not be able to continue their work in the country. The EPRDF has conducted an efficient recruitment of party members since 2005, increasing its numbers from 750,000 in 2005 to between four and five million in 2008. Through a mixture of intimidation and incentives, the ruling party has made it next to impossible for state employees to remain nonmembers. In the 2008 local elections and the 2010 regional and national elections, the EPRDF won again with 99 percent of the seats, confirming the electoral authoritarian nature of the regime. In the local communities of Sidama and Wolayta, most opposition parties have given up their activities while the EPRDF has managed to monopolise power to an even greater extent than before. This has obviously minimised the space for local political initiatives and self-rule within the two communities. Even more than before, the local politics of Sidama and Wolayta are a product of the EPRDF’s power politics, creating new sources of intra- and inter-ethnic conflicts. REFERENCES

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to maps and tables.

AAPO. See All Ethiopian Unity Party elections of 2005 and, 49 Abate Kisho, 100, 104, 105, 112–13, 119, EPRDF and, 36 137, 149, 155, 167, 175 imperial history of, 4, 21, 26–30, Abaya, Lake 72–74, 78, 86, 88–89, 97, 190, border conflict, 7–9, 24, 147, 162–77, 191 180, 187 intermarriage and, 42 resettlement programme, 169–70, 172, Italian invasion and, 56, 75, 90 174–75 Protestantism and, 77–78 Abaya State Farm, 164–68, 172, 174 Sidama myth of origin and, 59 Abo (ancestor and site, Sidama), 64, 93, Wolayta clans and, 72–73 132, 138 WSHA vs., 114 Abyssinian kingdoms, 26, 56, 87 Amhara National Democratic accountability upwards, 43, 47, 104 Movement (ANDM, formerly Addis Ababa, 8, 21, 29, 46, 49, 115 Ethiopian People’s Democratic administrative integration policy, 23, 99, Movement), 33, 46 102, 178, 181 Amharic language, 4, 18, 26, 47, 75, 89, administrative positions, 82, 84, 124, 190, 191 135–36, 141 Amharisation, 26, 73, 78, 89–91 administrative units. See also specific Amnesty International, 150 units and types ANDM. See Amhara National Derg and, 32–33 Democratic Movement EPRDF and demand for, 3, 97–99, anga (ritual purity, Sidama), 63, 64. See 101–2, 105–8 also purity and impurity ethnic delineation of, 15, 41 Ankober area, 59 types, defined, 17 Apter, David E., 2 Wolayta historical (dana), 61, 66 Arbaminch area, 116 AEUP. See All Ethiopian Unity Party Arbegona area, 83 Africanists, 2, 189 armed settlers. See landlord system; agrarian involution, 81 neftegna Ahmed Gragn, 59 Aroresa area, 83, 112 Albania, 34 Arsi Oromo people, 56, 141 Aletta clans (Sidama), 63, 64, 72, 78, artisans, 17, 23 137–38, 149 Derg and, 81–82 Aletta Wondo woreda, 113 marginalisation of, 66–71, 67, 86, 87, All-Ethiopia Socialist Movement. See 127, 128, 138–39, 183, 186 MEISON Protestantism and, 77–78 All Ethiopia Unity Party (AEUP, Sidama (see awacho, hadicho, formerly All Amhara People’s tunticha) Organisation, AAPO), 50 Wolayta (see chinasha, degela, Amado, King of Wolayta (Tigre dynasty, hillancha, wogache) 1800–35), 61, 62 Assab administrative unit, 32 Amhara, 8 assimilation, 28, 190. See also Abaya State Farm and, 166 Amharisation Awassa and, 148 Austin, Dennis, 2 class vs. ethnicity and, 30, 38 authoritarianism, 4, 48–49, 193, 194 Derg and, 77, 82–83, 97 autonomy solutions, 35–36 204 index awacho (smiths, tanners, Sidama), 68, Christianity, 26, 58, 75. See also 70, 114, 133, 135, 138 Orthodox Christianity; Protestantism Awassa, 7, 56, 76, 79, 187 civil society, donations to, 194 protests of 2002, 149–51 clan idir (dabo idir, Wolayta), 79, 122, protests of 2006, 154 130–31, 162, 186, see also idir Sidama struggle for control of, 23, clans, 4. See also Sidama clans; Wolayta 147–51, 154, 177 clans Axum dynasty, 26, 29, 58 characteristics of, compared, 10, 11, ayana (spirits, Wolayta), 62 63 ayle (slave descendants, Wolayta), 23, competition between, 12, 91–93, 127, 65–69, 67, 71, 74, 78, 82, 86, 87, 92, 137–40, 148–49, 155, 179, 182–84 127, 133–36, 139, 140, 185, 186 Derg and, 64, 77, 80–82, 93, 97, 135, EPRDF encadrement of, 98, 118–20, 140 123–26 EPRDF and, 23, 97–98, 112–15, 119, idir and, 131 121–26, 134–40, 159–62, 177 marriage and, 128 ethnic politics and intensification of, Wogagoda and, 159–61 144–45, 148–49, 155, 157, 159–62, 165, 177, 182–86 Bahru Zewde, 27 hierarchies and, 60–72, 128–29, Bakalu, Fitawrari, 71 131–34 balabat (local administrators), 72–75, historical trajectories of, compared, 82, 86, 88, 89, 93, 115 86 Balcha, Dejazmach, 74 imperial rule and, 72–73 Bali state/sultanate, 58 inter-ethnic links and, 91 Balisky, P., 21 landlord system and farming and, Bankano clan (Sidama), 165 78–80 Bedru Adem, 53 marginalised groups and, 66–72, 67, Benza area, 83 92–93, 127–44 Betena Hotesa, 137 marriage and, 128–29, 142–44 Beyene Petros, 111, 115, 121 northern invasion and, 88 Bilate resettlement camp, 169 origin and development of, 59–70, 63, Bilate River, 164–66, 172 91–92 Birtukan Mediksa, 49–50, 194 Protestantism and, 77–78 Bitew Belay, 104–5, 113–14, 125, 137, Wogagoda conflict and, 160–62 140 women and revival of, 141–44 Boditi town, 123 Clapham, C., viii, 26–28, 190 Boloso Sore woreda, 122 class tensions, 13, 14, 27–30, 32, 38 Borrodda, 58 clientelism, 3, 19 Brøgger, Jan, 61, 70, 137 Coalition for Unity and Democracy Brubaker, R., 163, 176 (CUD), 49–54, 120–23, 193, 194 Bushe (mythical ancestor, Sidama), Coalition of Alternative Forces, 111 63–64, 63, 70, 92 coffee, 10, 74, 78, 81,87 , 92 Butajira meeting of 2005, 171 colonisation, 13, 25, 29, 55, 85, 87, 180, 186, 190, 191 Canada, 35, 46, 192–93 constitutional court, 45 Carswell, G., 165 constitutional structures, 5, 189. See also case-specific reforms, 41 Ethiopian Constitution of 1995 Chabal, Patrick, 14, 16 constructivist approach, 3, 11–16, 41–42, checks and balances, 43, 44, 46 55, 85, 90, 92, 107–8, 127, 147, 179, Chiatti, R., 21, 65, 74, 122, 130, 138–39, 180, 182, 183 164 contextually sensitive approach, vii, viii, chinasha (potters, Wolayta), 67, 68–69, 5–7, 11, 16–17, 19, 24, 91, 116–17, 86, 125, 128 147, 181, 189–91, 193 index 205

Council of Nationalities, 17, 101–2, 152, East Cushitic language group, 58 167, 170–73, 175 economic context, 10, 11, 23, 27–28, courts, 45, 47, 75, 79, 124, 132 34, 54, 56, 76, 78–81, 87, 90, 107, crime, 62 163–64, 180, 189. See also Abaya, CUD. See Coalition for Unity and Lake; farming; landlord system; land Democracy reform; resource competition cultural approach, 2–3, 12, 16, 55 education, 44, 76, 78, 97, 99–100, 124, Cushitic peoples, 58 156, 173 customary law, 144 women and, 140 egalitarian ideology, 77–78, 81–82, dabo idir. See clan idir 135–36 Dalbo area, 129 elders, 17 Dale woreda, 165, 167, 168, 173, 174 Abaya and, 168–69, 176 Daloz, Jean-Pascal, viii 14, 16 marriage and, 143 Damot Gale woreda, 120, 130 Sidama (chimesa), 60, 62, 67, 78–79, Damot kingdom, 59 89, 132–33, 153 dana (historical administrative districts, Wogagoda and, 160, 161 Wolayta), 61, 65 Wolayta, 66, 80, 159 Dara area, 68 women as, 141 as woreda, 93, 113, 136 elections, 47–49, 122, 132, 135 Data Dea, 58, 65 of 2005, 2, 48–54, 111, 120–26, 139, Dawro area, 56, 57, 58–59, 84, 115, 152, 168, 193 116 of 2008, 194 zone established, 156 of 2010, 53, 194 Dawro party, 103 electoral authoritarian states, 48, 53 Dedesa camp (Oromiya), 49 elites, 3, 13, 36, 180, 186, 191 degela (tanners, Wolayta), 66 coopting, vs. creating new, 97–98, Demisse, Daniel, 161 109–10, 112 democracy, 53, 96, 123, 124, 144, 193 northern rule and, 26, 28–29 democratic centralism, 43, 46, 53, 100, Sidama, 110, 112 104 Wolayta, 114, 115, 119–20, 131, 140, democratic nationalism, 107, 111 182 Derg regime (1974–91), 11, 21, 23, 25, encadrement, 96–98, 113–14 30–34, 47, 64, 96–99, 109, 110, 132, EPLF. See Eritrean People’s Liberation 134–35, 140, 191 Front, 33–34 Abaya and, 165–66, 174 EPRDF. See Ethiopian Peoples’ EPRDF topples, 33–34, 96–97, 105 Revolutionary Democratic Front Sidama and, 10, 76, 77, 79–84, 87, 90, EPRP. See Ethiopian People’s 92–93 Revolutionary Party Wolayta and, 10, 77, 79–84, 87, 91, ‘equality for all’ policy, 135 118, 122–24, 130 Eriksen, Thomas Hylland, 16, 162, 178, women and, 142 188 Dessalegn Rahmato, 81 Eritrea, 29, 32, 34, 105 Desta, King of Wolayta (son of Tona), war of 1998–2000, 107 73 Eritrean People’s Liberation Front development, 29, 44, 99–100 (EPLF), 33–34 devolution of power, 19 essentialism, 40 direct rule, 72–74, 89–91 Ethiopia Dire Dawa, 8, 32 administrative map, 8, 84 discrimination. See marginalised groups; as exception, 190–91 and specific groups Hamitic myth and, 57 Donham, Donald, 21–22, 27, 31, 55, as parliamentary system, 44 76–77, 96 periphery incorporated into, 26–29 206 index

Ethiopian Constitution of 1987 (Derg), regional governments and, 46, 104–5 32, 84 rise to power, 1–2, 4–6, 34, 42–43, Ethiopian Constitution of 1995 84, 91 (EPRDF), 5, 15, 40–46, 95, 102, 104, Sidama controversy and, 152–55 127, 154, 172–74, 181 southern regions merged by, 99–104 Article 39, 1, 35, 37–38, 40–42, 50, 51 split of 2001 and, 105–8 Ethiopian House of Federation (upper student movement and, 191 chamber), 17, 37–38, 44–46, 101, 102, TPLF and, 4–5 171 traditional hierarchies and, 81–82, 91, Ethiopian House of Peoples’ 93, 98, 132, 134, 140, 159–60, 177, Representatives (lower chamber), 17, 183–85 44, 46 Wogagoda conflict and, 155–56, Ethiopian Human Rights Council, 49 159–61 Ethiopian Ministry of Federal Affairs, Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Party 17 (EPRP), 30, 32 Ethiopian Ministry of State Farms, 165 Ethiopian student movement (North Ethiopian parliament, 49, 137 America), 82 transitional (1991–92), 110, 112, 115, Ethiopia since the Derg (Pausewang, 137 Tronvoll, and Aalen), 7 Ethiopian People’s Democratic Ethiopia tikdem slogan, 31 Movement (later Amhara National ethnic claims Democratic Movement), 33 boundaries created by, 186–87 Ethiopian Peoples’ Revolutionary increase in, 39–40, 179–80 Democratic Front (EPRDF) ethnic containment policy, 106–8 Abaya conflict and, 165–68, 173, 175, ethnic entrepreneurs, 17, 107–8 178 ethnic federalism. See also Ethiopian administrative integration and, Constitution of 1995; and specific 115–18, 181 conflicts, groups, and political parties authoritarianism of, 193–94 conflict and, 6, 177, 179, 192 Awassa conflict and, 149–51 construction of identities and, 87 centralised rule of, 5, 43, 46–49, contradictory approach to, under 104–5, 193, 181 EPRDF, 36–40, 95, 181, 191 class perspective and, 23, 38 election of 2005 and, 50–51 conflicts produced by, 108, 147, 181, established by EPRDF, 4–6, 34–36, 178 40–46, 53, 189 Constitution of 1995 and, 42–43 ethnicisation of conflicts under, 6, elections of 2005 and, 48–50, 53–54, 163–64, 177–80, 187 120–24, 139, 194 historical perspective and, 182–83 elections of 2010 and, 53, 194 inter-ethnic relations under, 186–89, ethnic claims and, 40, 98–99 191 ethnic containment and, 107 intra-ethnic relations under, 183–86, ethnic federalism and, 2, 5, 23, 32–40, 191 144, 179, 181, 191, 192 lessons of, beyond Ethiopia, 190–94 ethnic self-determination policy and, patterns of political mobilisation 9, 42–43 under, 125–26 growth of, since 2005, 194 rights of subgroups under, 127, instrumentalist vs. primordial 144–47 approaches and, 36–40, 95, 181 unity vs. disintegration and, 2, 192 marginalised groups and, 38, 82, women and, 127, 140–44 134–46 Ethnic Federalism (Turton), 22 party building by, 33–34, 46, 136, Ethnic Federalism in a Dominant Party 144–45 State (Aalen), 6 party building by, and new vs. ethnic identity. See also constructivist coopted elites, 23, 76, 96–97, approach; contextually sensitive 109–20, 125–26 approach; ethnic federalism; index 207

instrumentalist approach; primordial as solution to ethnic conflict, 181, approach 189–94 definition and fluidity of, 10–15, 163, Feierman, Steven, 13 178–80, 183, 186–88 Fekadu Sebene, 84 EPRDF’s contradictory approach to, female genital mutilation, 140, 142–44, 35–40, 95, 181, 191 186 Ethiopia and, vs. post-colonial states, feudal system, 28, 74. See also landlord 190–91 system exploitation of, 22, 25, 27–28 Fiche (Sidama new year), 138 intra-ethnic cleavages and, 3 Firew Altaye, 161 mixed, 41–42 first terror (northern invasion of 1887), other identities vs., 40, 127, 183, 189 75 problems of federalism structured Forum for Democracy and Justice along lines of, 192–94 (Medrek), 53 ranking of, in past, 4 Franco, Dennis, 164 ethnic political mobilisation, 18. See also Freeman, Dena, 66, 70 ethnic federalism; Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front; gabber. See peasants Sidama; Wolayta; and specific political gada (age-set system), 60–62 parties, regions, and subgroups gadana (leader in generational class Amhara and, 78, 90 system, Sidama), 61 analytical frames for, 15 game theorists, 189 challenge of, under EPRDF, 144–45 Gamo, 56, 58, 84, 103, 115, 116, 156, colonisation and, 186 158–59 contextual explanations and, 190 Gamo Gofa, 57, 84, 156 Derg and, 31–32, 90, 191 gana (religious leader, Sidama), 132 imperial rule and, 27, 89 garo (depute mote, Sidama), 113 institutions and, 20, 180–81 Gedeo, 56, 57, 59, 78, 113 instrumentalism and, 154 Geertz, Clifford, 2, 16 life-worlds and, 162 gender divisions, 3, 12–14, 127, 140–44, patterns of, 109, 125–26, 159–63, 184 179–83 generational differences, 3, 12, 13, 112 perceptions and, 16, 107–8 genocide, 51 primordial approach and, 39 Ghana, 2 ethnogenesis, 12, 85, 87 godabishu (enslaved, Wolayta), 66. See ethnographic studies, 20, 22 also ayle; hillancha ethno-nationalism, 76 Gofa, 56, 58, 84, 103, 115, 116 executive, 17, 43, 44, 46, 102 gomame (punishment, Sidama), 62, 69 gome (punishment, Wolayta), 62, 69 Fardano clan (Sidama), 114 good governance, 34, 194 farming, 67, 73–74, 76. See also land; goqa (commoners/farmers, Wolayta), 63, landlord system; land reform; peasants 65, 124 cash cropping, 11, 77–79, 87, 92 Greater Ethiopia tradition, 21, 56, 59 class and, 38 Guji-Oromo, 56, 165 cooperative, 81, 87 gult (grant of power over land, pastoralists vs., 163–67, 169–72, 176, Amharic), 73 180 Gurage, 44, 57, 171 subsistence, 11, 77 federal division of power, dominant hadicho (potters, Sidama), 67–72, 67, 78, party and, 44, 47–48 86, 92–93, 129 federalism. See also ethnic federalism Awassa and Sidama conflicts and, assumptions about, 18–19, 189 149, 152, 155, 177 Ethiopian vs. other federal systems, Derg and, 82, 135 40–48 elections of 2005 and, 120, 126 208 index

encadrement of, 98, 113–14, 118, institutions, 53–54, 95, 102, 109, 181, 125–26 188–91 political party of, 133, 135–40 formal, 2–3, 18–20, 23, 43–46, 189–90 wollabicho vs., 131–33, 159, 184–85 informal, 2–3, 19, 23, 48, 189–90 Hadiya state, 56–59, 57, 115, 121 instrumentalist approach, 11–12, 17, Haile Mariam Dessalegn, 99, 106, 107, 36–39, 95, 97, 154–55, 157, 162, 117, 122, 142, 149, 151, 153, 173, 175 177–79, 183, 187–88 Haile Selassie, Emperor, xiii, 4, 25, 26, international community, 34, 42 28–29, 51, 71, 74–76, 79, 83, 84, 89, intra-ethnic cleavages (internal 93, 97, 115, 130, 142, 148, 174 contestations, subgroups), 3, 10, 11, Haileyesus Seba, 130 13, 15, 24, 38, 92–93, 144–45, 179–86, Hailu Shawel, 50 189. See also clans; marginalised halale (‘true way of life,’ Sidama), 62, subgroups; and specific clans, conflicts, 69, 132 and subgroups Hamer, John H., 61, 78 Sidama and (see Sidama; Sidama Hamitic myth, 57 clans) Harari, 8, 154 Wolayta and (see Wolayta; Wolayta Harka Haroye, 104, 138 clans) Havella clan (Sidama), 148 inventionist approach, 85 Hawassa University ( formerly Debub Irish Aid, 167 University), 153 Italian occupation, 56, 71, 75–77, 86, 90 hillancha (artisans, Wolayta), 65–66, 67, 68–69, 92, 130–31, 133–36, 139–40, James, Wendy, 21–22 160–61, 185 Jamjam, 56 historical factors importance of, 2, 181–82, 184–85, Kaffa/Shasheko zone, 134 189–91 Kambata, 56, 148 reinterpretation and, 55–56, 86, 182 k’arite (ombudswoman, Sidama), 142 Hizea clan (Wolayta), 73, 121–24, 130, kawona (royal lineage clan, Wolayta), 138–39, 160 63, 65, 67, 123, 124, 128–29, 135, 160 Hofa people, 59 kebele (lowest administrative unit), 17, Hola woreda, 113 30–31, 47, 80–81, 106–7 Hollo-Garbicho clan (Sidama), 64, 72, Abaya conflict and, 166–68, 174 93, 112, 132, 138 Sidama and, 80–81, 106, 111 Horowitz, Donald L., 19 Wolayta and, 81, 135, 136, 139 human rights, 1, 42, 48, 96, 144, 181, Kenya, 13 193, 194 Kindo-Didaye, 58, 59 Human Rights Watch, 49 Konso, 57, 97 Humbo woreda, 165, 167, 168, 170–71, Konta, 58 173 kotta (sharecropping, Wolayta), 79 Hutus, 51 Kullo, 58, 59 hybrid regimes, 48 Kullo-Konta awraja, 84 Kymlicka, Will, 39 identification cards, 39 idir (mutual aid or funeral associations), labour migration, 10, 11, 77–79, 81, 87, 78, 79, 130–31. See also clan idir 91, 92 Illubabor province, 84 Laitin, D., 163, 176 India, 46, 192–93 land, 89. See also farming indirect rule, 72–74, 85, 86, 87–89, 132, Abaya conflict and, 163, 166, 169–77 180, 186 clans and, 70–71 individualism, 40, 78 marginalised groups and, 67, 76, 79, Institute for the Study of Ethiopian 81, 114, 132 Nationalities (ISEN), 32, 84, 98 Sidama and, 73–74, 76–79, 89 index 209

Wolayta and, 79, 81, 91, 92 Menelik, Emperor, 27, 56, 59, 62, 66, 68, landlord system (neftegna-gabber), 72–75, 86, 87–88, 91, 162, 171, 174 27–28, 30–31, 71–75, 78–80, 97, 113, Mengistu Haile Mariam, 4, 31, 33–34, 120–21, 190 110, 166 land reforms, 28–31, 80–82, 87, 135 micro-macro relations, 21–22 legislation, 19, 45–46 minority rights, 38, 193. See also Lenin, V.I., 29, 191 marginalised subgroups life-world approach, 16, 162 modernisation, 4, 23, 28, 56, 75–79, Lijphart, Arend, 19 90–93, 154, 164 local context, 3, 5–7, 16–17, 20–22, 47 ‘moral ethnicity,’ 13, 185 Lonsdale, John, 13, 185 mote (clan leader, Sidama), 60–62, 63, luwa (generational class system, Sidama), 66, 70, 73, 86, 89, 113 60–61, 73, 75–77, 86, 88–89, 92, 129, Motolomi, King of Damot, 59, 161 132, 133 multiethnic states, 1–2, 32 keys to governance in, 147 Maale area, 76 lessons about, 188–94 Magano (creator god, Sidama), 62 territory in, 147, 179–80 mahiber (prayer groups), 78 Mulu Meja, 76, 115, 122 Maldea (mythical ancestor, Sidama), 63, 64, 92 narrow nationalism, 23, 26–27, 50, 99, malla clans (Wolayta), 65 105–8, 111, 116, 118, 178 marginalised subgroups, 10, 11, 17, 23, nation, concept of, 26, 31–32, 190 38, 86, 92 National Election Board, 120, 152 defined, 66–72,67 national identities, 193 Derg and, 82 nationalism, 25, 29, 31, 190 elections of 2005 and, 123–26 ‘nationalities,’ as label, 25 EPRDF encadrement of, 113–14, nationalities liberation policy, 23, 30, 98, 118–20 99, 117 revival of discrimination vs., 98, national self-determination, 1–5, 15, 127–46, 183, 186 22–24. See also ethnic federalism; and Sidama and, 66–72, 67, 113–14, 127, specific ethnic groups and conflicts 131–33, 136–38, 155, 159–61, 182, administrative integration vs., 106, 184–85 (see also awacho; hadicho) 181 Wolayta and, 66–72, 67, 118–20, Derg and, 29–34, 84 123–27, 130–31, 133–36, 139–40, election of 2005 and, 50–51 160–61, 182, 185 (see also ayle; guarantee of, under EPRDF, 4–6, 32, chinasa; hillancha) 35–42 women as, 127, 140–44, 183, 186 implementation of, 20, 48, 54, 102, marriage 179–80 by abduction, 140, 142–43, 186 new ethnic claims and, 39–40, 179–80 clans and, 60, 64, 66, 128–29, 142, 186 resources and, 147–48, 173–74, early, 140, 142 177–78 inter-ethnic, 42, 165–67 Stalinist theory of, 35, 191 intra-ethnic, 68, 70–71, 78, 128–29 traditional hierarchies revived by, Marxism-Leninism, 22, 30, 32, 33, 46, 124–25 80, 96 Nea (mythical ancestor, Sidama), 70 Marxist-Leninist League of Tigray, 33 neftegna (armed settlers, Amharic), 27, MEISON (All-Ethiopia Socialist 71–74. See also landlord system Movement), 30, 32, 83 nekiki (‘touched power’), 110 Melese Marimo, 151, 175 newspapers, 50, 194 Meles Zenawi, 33, 35, 45, 53, 105, 152, Nigeria, 41, 192, 193 153 non-governmental organisations Mellese Madda, 169 (NGOs), 17, 136, 143 210 index

North Omo, 23, 84, 90, 91, 101, 103, postmodernism, 13 114–18, 125–26, 155–63, 188 potters North Omo Agricultural Board, 165 Sidama (see hadicho) northern invasion and imperial rule, Wolayta (see chinasha) 10, 11, 21–23, 25–29, 47, 56–57, 59, presidential systems, 44 62, 72–75, 86, 87–93, 162. See also press, 17 Amhara; and specific emperors Press law revision of 2008, 194 EPRDF and, 100–104, 109 primordial approach, 10–11, 13, 36–40, northern origin myth, 57, 64 42, 95, 97, 178, 192 Norwegian Centre for Human Rights, 6 Protestantism, 23, 31, 56, 64, 76–79, 87, Norwegian Lutheran Mission, 77 90–92, 97, 115, 123, 128, 131, 142 purity and impurity, 63–64, 63, 69, 71, Ogaden, 32 86, 113, 119, 137–39, 159, 160 Omo People’s Party (Uma Hizboch), 116 Omotic peoples, 58, 61. See also North qomo (clan, Wolayta), 65 Omo Quebec, 35 OPDO. See Oromo People’s Democratic “Question of Nationalities, The” Organization (Wallelign Mekonnen), 29 origin myths, 12, 56–63, 63, 70, 89–92, 161 rational choice, 189 Oromiya, 8, 49 Red Terror (1976–78), 32, 111, 135 Oromo, 42, 58–60, 166 regional executive, 102 Oromo Liberation Front, 111 regional states, 3, 17 Oromo People’s Democratic merger of southern, 99–102 Organization (OPDO), 33–34, 46 self-rule vs. centralised control of, 5, Orthodox Christianity, 4, 26, 31, 72–73, 35, 41, 43–48, 95, 104–5 75, 77–78, 89, 190 religion, 12–14, 26. See also Orthodox Christianity; Protestantism; purity pan-Ethiopian identity, 38, 41, 50 and impurity; traditional religion Pankhurst, Alula, 66, 70 Remapping Ethiopia (James), 22 Paris conference of 1992, 110, 115 ‘rent seekers,’ 105–8, 178 parliamentary system, 44 resource competition, 4, 97, 101, 105, Party law of 2008, 194 117, 121–22, 151–52, 156, 169, pastoralists, 86, 148, 163–73, 176, 180, 177–78, 180, 187–88 187 revenue sources, 43–44 patrimonialism, 3, 19 “Revival of Tradition?” (Aalen), 7 patron-client networks, 19–20 revolutionary democracy, 106–7 Pausewang, Siegfried, 7 ritual sacrifices, 62, 138 peasants (gabber), 13, 17, 27–28, 30–31, ruling party, power of, 46–47, 102, 179, 33, 38, 71, 73-75, 79–81. See also 181. See also EPRDF farming; landlord system; land reform Rwandan Interahamwe, 51 peripheral peoples core Amhara culture and, 55 Sawola clan (Sidama), 72, 149 literature on, 22 secession, right of, 1, 30, 35, 42, 50 student protests of 1960s and, 29 second terror (1941), 75 political parties, 46–49. See also specific self-ascription, 12–13 parties separation of powers, 44 centralised system, 46, 53–54, 104–5 SEPDF. See Southern Ethiopian People’s EPRDF and, 96–98 Democratic Front Ethiopians abroad and, 82, 194 SEPDM. See South Ethiopian Peoples ethnic organisation of, 15, 96 Democratic Movement merger of southern, 103 sera (ostracism, Sidama), 62 opposition, 17, 48–49, 76 Shewa, 29–30, 73 post-colonial states, 25, 190 Shiferaw Shigote, 150, 153, 155 index 211

SHPDO. See Sidama Hadicho People’s competition between, 91–92, 137–38, Democratic Organisation 148–49, 155, 179, 182–85 Shukukucha resettlement camp, 169 Derg and, 64, 80–83, 97, 135 Sidama EPRDF and, 98, 112–14, 125–26, Abaya conflict and, 7–9, 22, 24, 147, 136–40, 159, 177 163–77, 187 imperial rule and, 71–73 Awassa conflict and, 7, 23, 56, 147–51 marginalised groups and, 66–71, 67, contextual characteristics of, 11 86, 127–29, 131–33, 136–40, 186 Derg and, 10, 76, 79–84, 87, 90, 92–93 northern invasion and, 88 elections of 2005 and, 120 origin and development of, 60–72, 63 EPRDF and, crafting of parties, 23, Protestantism and, 77 109–14, 118, 125 women and, 141–42 EPRDF and, ethnic politics and elites, Sidama cultural symposium (Awassa, 23, 54, 97–98 2006), 88 EPRDF and, resource conflicts, Sidama Development Programme, 167 177–78 Sidama Hadicho People’s Democratic EPRDF and, southern merger, Organisation (SHPDO), 113–14, 120, 100–101, 104–5 125, 132, 136–37, 140, 155, 184, 185 ethnic mobilisation patterns of, vs. Sidama Liberation Front (later Sidama Wolayta, 3–4, 7, 9–10, 9, 17–18, 54, Liberation Movement), 10, 11 91, 109, 125–26, 179–86 Sidama Liberation Movement (SLM), failure of ethnic federalism and, 192 76, 78, 81, 83–84, 86, 93, 110–13, 120, historical trajectory of, 55–93, 86–87 125, 137, 138, 149, 150, 152, 154, 185 history of, and current ethnic identity, Sidama People’s Democratic 84–87 Organization (SPDO), 109–10, history of, literature on, 21–23 112–14, 125, 136–37, 143, 151 instrumentalism and failed unity in, Sidama zone, 101, 149, 150–53 154–55 Sidama Zone Women’s Affairs internal contestations in, 11, 23, 38, Department, 129 155, 179, 194 Sidamo province, 84, 148 Italian occupation and, 75–76, 86 Silte group, 44, 99 land ownership, reforms, and cash Simon Galore, 84 crops, 77–81 slave descendants. See ayle marginalised subgroups in, 66–71, 67 slavery, abolition of, 71 marginalised subgroups in, under SLM. See Sidama Liberation Movement EPRDF, 127–29, 131–40, 144–45, Smith, Graham, 40 159, 184–85 smiths modernisation and, 90–93 Sidama (see awacho) myths of origin, 56–59, 88, 91–92 Wolayta (see wogache) northern invasion of, and indirect SNNPRS. See Southern Nations, rule, 11, 57, 71–75, 85–90, 86 Nationalities and Peoples Regional Protestantism and, 75–78, 87, 92 state Sidama regional status and, 23, 100, socialism, 30, 32, 56, 90, 123, 128, 135. 112, 148–55, 177, 187 See also Derg; Marxist-Leninism; traditional clan organisation of, Stalinism 60–66, 63, 81–84, 92–93 social strata. See clans; marginalised women and, under ethnic federalism, subgroups; purity and impurity; 140–44 traditional hierarchies; and specific Sidama awraja, 83–84 groups and subgroups Sidama clans Societies and Charities Proclamation of Abaya and, 165 2009, 194 Awassa and, 148–49, 155 socioeconomic conflicts, framed as cash crops and, 78–79 ethnic, 163 212 index

Soddo town, 82, 88, 124, 131, 159, 165, tanners. See awacho; degela 170 taxes, 73–74, 80 Soddo Zuria woreda, 122, 130 Teacher Training Institute (North Solomon, King of Israel, 26 Omo), 118 Solomon Wadda, 82, 84 teachers, 17, 124 Somalia, 83 Tefera Meskele, 118, 119, 156 songo (councils of elders, Sidama), 60, tehaddso (political renewal movement), 62, 63, 66, 70, 75, 77, 86, 89, 92, 132, 105–6 133, 186 Tekle Borena, 114 South Ethiopian Peoples Democratic Teshome Toga, 155 Movement (SEPDM), 34, 46, 103–8, Tigray People’s Liberation Front 112, 118, 119, 150–58, 161 (TPLF), 5, 30, 32–36, 38, 53, 96, 103, Southern Ethiopian Peoples’ Democratic 104, 119, 137, 191 Coalition (Southern Coalition), 115, EPRDF and, 4, 33–34, 46 116, 120, 121 SLM and, 110, 111 Southern Ethiopian People’s Democratic SPDO and, 112 Front (SEPDF, later South Ethiopian split of 2001, 105 Peoples Democratic Movement), 103 Tigrayans, 4, 6, 8, 26, 29–30, 32, 51–52, Southern Marches of Imperial Ethiopia, 101, 109, 149 The (Donham and James), 21–22 Tigre dynasty (Wolayta), 59, 61, 124, Southern Nations, Nationalities and 130, 135, 138–39 Peoples Regional State (SNNPRS). Tigre Malla clan (kawona, Wolayta), 62, See also Sidama; Wolayta; and 65, 73, 77, 119, 121–24, 129, 139 specific conflicts, political parties, and Tona, King of Wolayta, 59, 62, 73, 88, 161 subgroups Tossa (supreme god, Wolayta), 62 Awassa as capital of, 23, 148 TPLF. See Tigray People’s Liberation central party control and, 4, 104–5 Front elections of 2001, 6–7 traditional hierarchies, 3, 4, 12, 23, 179. elections of 2005, 7 See also clans; elites; marginalised EPRDF and organization of, 98–101 subgroups; and specific clans and map of, 8, 57 groups officials of, 17, 95, 105, 112, 119 current political expressions of, 98, politics of ethnicity in, 3–4, 6–7, 9, 133–40, 182–86 23 Derg and, 81–82 Sidama request for independence elections of 2005 and, 120–25 from, 152 EPRDF and, 81, 98, 120, 144–45, 183 southern regions merged into, 23, 23, imperial rule and, 72–74 98–108, 111, 112, 148–49, 151–55 origin and development of, 11, 60–71, southern regions, merger of, 23, 98–108, 63, 86, 91–92, 129–31 111, 112, 148–49, 151–55. See also Protestantism vs., 77–78 South Nations, Nationalities and reinterpretation of past and, 55, 85, Peoples Regional State (SNNPRS) 182, 185, 187 Soviet Union, 29, 34, 35, 48 revival of, and marginalised SPDO. See Sidama People’s Democratic subgroups, 128–40 Organization Wogagoda conflict and, 159–62 Stalinism, 29, 32, 34–38, 191 women and, 140–44 state, concept of, 190 traditional religion, 62, 89, 138, 142, State Council, 17 186. See also purity and impurity; and structural functionalists, 22 specific deities structure-induced equilibriums, 189 transactionalist approach, 186 Struggle (student pamphlet), 29 transitional conference of 1991, 5–6, student movement, 29–32, 80, 110, 191 42–43 Sudan Interim Mission (SIM), 77 ‘tribe,’ ‘nationality’ vs., 25 index 213

Tronvoll, Kjetil, 7, 38, 107 internal contestations in, 11, 23, 38, Tsehai Berhane Selassie, 21 194 tumma (moral code, Wolayta), 69 Italian occupation and, 75, 86 Turton, David, 22 land ownership, reforms, and labour Tutsi, 51 migration, 73–75, 77, 79–81, 92 marginalised groups in, 66–71, 67 United Ethiopian Democratic Forces marginalised groups in, under (UEDF, Hibret), 50, 53, 120–23 EPRDF, 127–36, 138–40, 144–45, United Kingdom, 34 186 United Southern Ethiopia Democratic modernisation period and, 75–76, Force, 115 90–91 United States, 34, 77 myths of origin, 56–62, 89–90, 92, 161 Constitution, 44 northern invasion of, and imperial direct rule, 11, 72–74, 85–92, 86 ‘value creation,’ 107 Protestantism and, 76–78 Vaughan, Sarah, 36, 107, 134, 157 traditional clan hierarchies and villagisation, 83, 87 royalty of, 62–65, 63, 81–84, 92, 186 WADU. See Wolayta Agricultural Wogagoda conflict and, 23, 117, 147, Development Unit 155–63, 188 wage labour, 71 Wolayta zone demand and, 147, 155, Waisman, Carlos H., 19 161 Wallelign Mekonnen, 29 women and, under ethnic federalism, Western federal constitutions, 34, 41 141–44 wogache (smiths, Wolayta), 67, 68, 69 Wolayta Agricultural Development Unit Wogagoda conflict, 116–18, 125, 140, (WADU), 76 147, 155–63, 170, 185, 187, 188 Wolayta awraja, 84 Wogagoda language, 91, 103, 118–19, Wolayta clans 147, 155–60, 188 competition between, 138–40, 159–61, Wogagoda party, 103, 117–18, 156 179, 182–85 Wolayta Derg and, 81–82, 97, 135, 140 Abaya conflict and, 7–9, 22, 24, 147, EPRDF and, 98, 115, 119, 121–26, 163–77, 187 134–39, 177, 186 Awassa conflict and, 148, 149 funeral associations (dabo idir) and, contextual characteristics of, 11 79, 130–31 Derg and, 10, 76–77, 80–84, 87, 118, imperial rule and, 72–73, 79 122–24 land scarcity and, 79, 81 elections of 2005 and, 120–25 links with neighbours and, 90 EPRDF and, crafting of parties, 23, marginalised groups and, 66–70, 67, 54, 84, 91–93, 97–98, 108–10, 127–40, 186 114–26, 194 northern invasion and, 89 EPRDF and, resource conflicts, origin and development of, 59, 60, 62, 177–78 65, 63 EPRDF and, southern merger, political mobilisation and, 123–25 99–101, 103, 153 Protestantism and, 76–78 ethnic mobilisation patterns of, vs. Wogagoda conflict and, 155–63 Sidama, 3–4, 7–10, 9, 17–18, 54, 91, women and, 142–43 109, 125–26, 179–86 Wolayta kingdom and kingship, 59–62, failure of ethnic federalism and, 192 65–66, 69, 72, 88–92, 140, 156–57, historical trajectory of, 23, 55–93, 161–62, 164, 185 86–87 king (kawo), functions of, 62 history of, and current ethnic identity, national council (balimola), 61 85–88 Wolayta Malla clan, 78, 119, 123, 130, history of, literature on, 21–22 138–39, 159–61 214 index

Wolayta People’s Democratic Front WPDF. See Wolayta People’s (WPDF), 84 Democratic Front Wolayta People’s Democratic WPDO. See Wolayta People’s Organisation (WPDO), 114–20 Democratic Organisation (WPDO) Wolayta People’s Party (WPP), 115 WPE. See Workers’ Party of Ethiopia Wolayta Self-Help Association, 114, 115 WPP. See Wolayta People’s Party Wolayta zone, 147, 155–57, 161, 165–67, 169 Yanase clan (Sidama), 72 Wolde Emmanuel Dubale, 76, 78, 83, Yemericho clans (Sidama), 63, 64, 67, 93, 110, 111, 113, 138 70, 112, 137–38 Wolde Semayat, 76 Yeros, 13 wollabicho (commoners/farmers, Yilma Chamola, 83 Sidama), 67–71, 93, 113–14, 125, 129, Yirgalem, 148, 165 131–32, 136, 137, 155, 184–85 Yugoslavia, former, 48 women, 23, 60, 127, 140–44, 183, 186 women’s associations, 13 Zagwe dynasty, 26 woreda (county), 17, 47, 61, 97, 101, zelan (nomadic pastoralists, Sidama), 106–7, 111, 113 165 special, 98–99, 106 zemacha program (development through Workers’ Party of Ethiopia (WPE), 33, cooperation), 30–31, 80, 82 33, 47, 51, 84, 97 Zimbabwe, 34 World Bank, 76 zones, 17, 97–99, 101, 106