Locations“We Are Ethiopia Too”
Stories : Voices in the National Dialogue
August 13, 2025
In the quiet rustle of anticipation inside a hall in Bahir Dar, a woman in a wheelchair looked around at a room filled with suits, scarves, uniforms, and turbans—politicians, community leaders, displaced persons, youth activists, and elders. For 34-year-old Zemam Abuhay, who had lived her life on the margins of public life in North Gondar, this moment was unthinkable just months before.
“I never imagined people like me could be invited, let alone speak. For the first time, I felt like a full citizen.” - Zemam Abuhay
Zeman, a woman with a physical disability, wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
Across Ethiopia, in remote forest communities, regional towns, and historically excluded social groups, a quiet transformation is taking root. It’s not in the form of megaprojects or headline-grabbing summits. It’s in rooms filled with people like Zemam, like Yakob Pawlos from the Keffa highlands, and Solomon Ayele, a long-time political actor from the South West Ethiopia Peoples’ Region—all called not just to be heard, but to shape the questions that will define Ethiopia’s future.
And for once, the invitation seems real.
"We were always Ethiopia, but never invited to speak for it"
Yakob Pawlos, 30, knows what it means to be overlooked. Born into the Menja, an indigenous and historically ostracized community in Keffa Zone, he grew up surrounded by whispers: backward, untouchable, invisible. When the Ethiopian National Dialogue Commission announced plans for regional agenda consultations, Yakob—like many—expected more of the same: empty gestures, ticking boxes, quickly forgotten voices.
But this time, something felt different.
Community organizations, elders, and even religious institutions were tasked with identifying truly representative participants—especially those from marginalized communities. For once, the Menja were on the list. And Yakob was on the bus to Bonga, the regional capital.
“We don’t have paved roads, but we have dignity. And we have the right to be heard.” - Yakob Pawlos
In the meeting room, seated between religious leaders and youth representatives, Yakob’s spoke of ancestral lands taken by investors, of schoolbooks not written in local languages, of generations who had never seen their own faces reflected in public decisions—he saw heads nodding.
“Even people who had never thought about us began to listen,” he said. “For the first time, I wasn’t just a symbol of exclusion. I was an author of the future.”
A politician with a memory, not just a message
For Solomon Ayele, the national dialogue didn’t begin in that consultation room. It began years ago—during late-night meetings with disillusioned youth, in dusty regional offices where political permits were denied, in the quiet frustration of being told “not now” again and again.
Chairperson of the Arenguade (Green) Party and a coalition leader in the South West region, Solomon has been calling for inclusive governance for years. So when he was invited to represent his party at the regional consultation, he didn’t just bring a policy brief. He brought stories. His own, and those of hundreds who had waited too long to be heard.
“Young people in my region are tired of waiting,” Solomon told the group. “They want to shape the Ethiopia they’ll inherit. But the door has always been closed.”
His remarks hit home. His agenda points—on youth inclusion, federalism that unites rather than divides, and the rights of emerging regions—were not revolutionary. But in that room, they rang with an urgency that paper alone can’t carry.
“Dialogue won’t solve everything,” he admitted. “But this felt like more than opposition. For once, I felt part of something bigger than a party. Bigger than myself.”
“She reminded us of what real peace looks like”
Zemam’s story, like Yakob’s, wasn’t just about speaking. It was about being seen.
Years of conflict in northern Ethiopia had displaced her family. Her disability had already meant a life of barriers—schools without ramps, clinics without access, policies written for people who walked. But when the Federation of Ethiopian Associations of Persons with Disabilities reached out to her, she hesitated.
“I thought, who would listen to someone like me?” she recalled.
But supported by the Ethiopian National Dialogue Commission—with accessible transport, security, and a personal aide—Zemam arrived in Bahir Dar determined to speak her truth. And when her turn came, she did not hold back.
“We suffer too. Often more. But when peace is discussed, we are forgotten. How can dialogue be national if we are not included?” - Zemam Abuhay
After she spoke, a representative from the internally displaced community stood up and said what many had been thinking: “Zemam didn’t just speak for people with disabilities. She reminded us that real peace means no one is left behind.”
Two of the region’s key proposed agenda points emerged directly from her intervention: ensuring accessibility in public infrastructure and guaranteeing representation of people with disabilities in government.
A seed of trust
Across Ethiopia, these consultations—supported by UNDP and its partners—have been planting something that can’t be written into a single report: building trust.
Trust that there will be space on the table for voices like Zemam’s, Yakob’s and Solomon’s, and thousands to be heard.
Is the dialogue process perfect? No. Even its strongest supporters admit the road ahead is long, complex, and fraught. But as Solomon said, “It is a beginning. And beginnings matter.”
As the national agenda takes shape, the real measure of this dialogue won’t be in documents, but in the dignity of citizens.
The Ethiopia National Dialogue Commission is supported through a UNDP managed multipartner programme
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