Abiy’s Identity and Legitimacy Crisis: The Politics Behind Ethiopia’s Red Sea Claim

by Ghidewon Abay Asmerom

Introduction

Ethiopia’s renewed claim to sovereign access to the Red Sea, often directed toward the Eritrean port of Assab, cannot be understood solely through strategic or economic reasoning. Although framed publicly as a matter of national destiny and historical injustice, the demand is rooted far more deeply in Ethiopia’s internal political dynamics. Let’s examine how identity insecurity, contested legitimacy, and the enduring influence of Abyssinian imperial narratives shape the country’s maritime rhetoric. Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, an Oromo leader with a Muslim family background, confronts a political tradition that has historically excluded figures like him from the center of Ethiopian power. His emphasis on Assab reflects an attempt to align himself symbolically with Ethiopia’s past rulers and to consolidate authority during a period of intense domestic strain. The wider political and religious reactions to Oromo and Tigrayan assertions of autonomy further reveal longstanding hierarchies within Ethiopian identity. This means Ethiopia’s Red Sea discourse is best understood as an internal crisis projected outward. It explores how these domestic pressures heighten regional risks and challenge African norms on inherited borders. Understanding these dynamics is essential for assessing Ethiopia’s intentions and for safeguarding stability in the Horn of Africa.

Internal Turmoil Behind an External Claim

Ethiopia’s escalating rhetoric about sovereign access to the Red Sea, particularly the focus on the Eritrean port of Assab, cannot be understood only through the lens of regional geopolitics. The insistence on a coastline is not driven primarily by maritime trade, strategic necessity, or historical grievance. It arises from internal pressures that reflect a crisis of political legitimacy, unresolved identity tensions, and the revival of imperial narratives during a moment of profound national strain. What appears externally as a foreign policy demand is internally a search for meaning and authority in a state struggling to reconcile its past with its present.

The government of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed presents Ethiopia’s landlocked status as an unnatural condition that must be corrected for the country to fulfill its historic place in the world. This framing transforms geography into a political metaphor. The absence of a coastline becomes a symbol of national injury, and the recovery of Assab is projected as a form of restoration. Yet this narrative functions less as strategic analysis and more as a tool for managing domestic instability. Ethiopia today faces soaring inflation, political fragmentation, unresolved conflicts in several regions, and economic pressures that have eroded public confidence. In such a climate, attaching national hopes to a dramatic and emotionally charged project provides a convenient way to redirect frustration outward. The government’s rhetoric portrays internal weakness as the result of an imposed geographical injustice rather than the consequence of political decisions.

The Symbolic Power of Assab and the Search for Legitimacy

Economic considerations play a role in this story, although not in the way officials present them. Ethiopia’s reliance on Djibouti is costly, but it is a manageable challenge that many landlocked states confront through commercial agreements and diversified routes. The government instead elevates this issue into a matter of sovereignty and mission. It becomes a rallying theme that distracts from the real economic problems facing the country, which are rooted in mismanagement, debt pressures, and faltering investor confidence. The prospect of owning a coastline appears not as a realistic solution but as an aspirational symbol that masks deeper economic vulnerabilities.

There is a significant internal signaling dimension as well. Ethiopia’s military and political elite have long associated territorial expansion or control over strategic geography with national strength. In this tradition, speaking assertively about Assab becomes a way for leaders to declare their resolve. It positions them as defenders of Ethiopia’s greatness during a period when the state is visibly strained. For some within the security establishment, the maritime narrative bolsters institutional relevance at a time when their influence is contested by political upheaval and shifting alliances.

Identity Hierarchies Within the Ethiopian State

The most sensitive and least acknowledged factor, however, concerns Ethiopia’s internal identity hierarchy. Abiy Ahmed’s background as an Oromo with a Muslim family heritage places him outside the traditional core of Ethiopia’s political identity, which has centered for centuries on the Abyssinian Orthodox Christian highlands. Leaders who did not originate from this nucleus have historically faced significant skepticism. Mengistu Haile Mariam encountered relentless racialized delegitimization and ruled through repression rather than acceptance. Hailemariam Desalegn, who succeeded Meles Zenawi, was widely regarded as a figurehead without genuine authority. Neither managed to alter the deeper structures that define legitimacy in Ethiopia.

The case of Lij Iyasu illustrates this pattern most clearly. Iyasu, who was of Oromo and Muslim ancestry, was designated Emperor in 1913 but was never accepted by the northern elite. His deposition in 1916 was justified through accusations that portrayed him as culturally and religiously alien. He was accused of marrying Muslim women, funding mosque construction in Jigjiga, appearing in Somali attire, reading the Qur’an, restoring land to Muslims in Harar, tracing his lineage outside the Solomonic tradition, and failing to mourn Menelik II according to expectations. Iyasu’s removal revealed the depth of resistance to leaders who did not conform to Abyssinian norms of identity. Those sensitivities have not disappeared, and they continue to influence perceptions of who is seen as truly legitimate in Ethiopia.

Recent developments in the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church further expose these hierarchies. When three bishops in Oromia declared a new Holy Synod in January 2023 and ordained bishops to serve Oromo congregations in their own language, the central Holy Synod responded with excommunication and condemnation. Security forces intervened violently, and Oromo clergy and worshippers described a long-standing pattern of discrimination that extended to liturgy, pastoral appointments, and the treatment of Afaan Oromo as unworthy of use in church settings. These grievances echoed earlier disputes, such as the 2019 push for Oromo-language services, which was never fully resolved.

In contrast, when archbishops in Tigray declared independence after accusing the central church of silence during the war, the reaction from Addis Ababa was markedly more conciliatory. Delegations were sent to negotiate, letters of apology were issued, and efforts were made to persuade the Tigrayan hierarchy to remain connected. Even if these attempts were rejected, the difference in tone was unmistakable. Oromo demands were met with force and suspicion, while Tigrayan demands were met with negotiation. The church’s treatment of these movements reflects deeper societal attitudes toward Oromo cultural and religious identity, which has often been dismissed as inferior or outside the center of national tradition. Irreecha, the central Oromo thanksgiving celebration, was restricted for decades and continues to be mocked in some political and ecclesiastical circles as a pagan ritual rather than a legitimate cultural expression.

This broader context helps clarify why the current political leadership gravitates so intensely toward the Assab narrative. When Abiy Ahmed speaks of Assab, he is not addressing maritime logistics or trade efficiency. He is invoking a symbol deeply embedded in the mythology of Abyssinian imperial reach. The claim is a bid for inclusion in a lineage of authority that has historically excluded men of his background. In this sense, the fixation on Assab is less a strategic calculation and more an attempt to step into a political tradition that has never fully accepted Oromo leaders or those with Muslim heritage.

The choice of Assab, over far more practical and economically sensible alternatives such as Lamu, Mombasa, Kismayo, Mogadishu, Berbera, Zeila, Tadjoura, or even expanded arrangements with Djibouti, reveals how symbolic weight overwhelms rational planning. None of these alternatives carry the imperial aura that Assab and Massawa hold within the Abyssinian imagination, though Assab and Massawa had never been part of Abyssinia. The obsession with Eritrea’s coastline reflects an older worldview that privileges the mythic “3,000-year” narrative of Empire over the lived realities of the southern regions whose lands, cultures, and people were incorporated during the scramble for Africa. In this worldview, the economic well being of the south and south west, their proximity to the Indian Ocean, and their potential corridors to the sea are dismissed as irrelevant. What matters is not economic logic but a symbolic geography built on historic dominance.

Such a hierarchy is not merely outdated; it is corrosive. A politics that treats the aspirations, resources, and geographic advantages of Ethiopia’s southern populations as secondary to an imperial myth risks deepening internal fractures. If the state continues to rely on a narrative that elevates Abyssinian symbolism above national inclusivity, it will undermine the very cohesion it claims to defend. In the long term, no country can remain stable when it insists that only one identity, and only one version of history, truly counts.

Dangerous Consequences of a Symbolic Territorial Agenda

This identity dynamic extends beyond Abiy himself. Many of the loudest voices calling for Assab today are Oromo generals, Oromia Prosperity Party leaders, and other non-Abyssinian actors. Their enthusiasm reflects a desire to prove themselves within a political culture still shaped by Abyssinian norms of legitimacy. In a system where newcomers have often been viewed with suspicion, embracing an expansionist agenda becomes a way to demonstrate loyalty, toughness, and ideological conformity. It resembles group dynamics in which one must participate in acts of aggression to be accepted as a full member. For these actors, calling for Assab is as much about belonging as it is about policy.

These internal pressures create significant risks. Once a government frames a territorial demand as existential, it becomes difficult to retreat without appearing weak. Symbolic gestures made for domestic consumption can be easily misinterpreted by neighbors, increasing the likelihood of miscalculation. Ethiopia is also not unified in its enthusiasm for this agenda. For many regions, the Red Sea narrative has little practical relevance, and pushing it too far may deepen internal fractures rather than heal them.

Diplomatically, Ethiopia’s posture challenges the principles that have preserved stability in Africa for decades. Eritrea’s sovereignty over Assab is established through colonial treaties, the 1964 Cairo Resolution on inherited borders, and the 2002 Boundary Commission ruling. Attempts to revise these borders through historical reinterpretation undermine a foundational principle of African statehood. If Ethiopia can claim Eritrean territory based on a narrative of historical injustice, other states may be tempted to do the same, threatening wider regional stability.

Ultimately, Ethiopia’s renewed claim to the Red Sea is not the product of a coherent geopolitical vision. It is the symptom of internal uncertainty and a reflection of unresolved questions about identity, legitimacy, and national purpose. Diplomats and journalists should understand these claims as part of a larger narrative that emerges when the Ethiopian state is under stress. The issue is less a matter of geography and more a story Ethiopia tells itself when it cannot reconcile its present with its self-image. Understanding these internal dynamics is essential for encouraging policies that support peace and stability in the Horn of Africa and for grounding political decisions in law rather than myth.

Conclusion: The Red Sea Does Not Belong to Ethiopia’s Identity Crisis

In the end, Ethiopia’s Red Sea narrative is not a foreign policy doctrine but a political mirage created to soothe an identity wound that the state has never resolved. The louder Addis Ababa insists on “historic injustice,” the more it reveals its own discomfort with modern borders, modern law, and the plural reality of the country it governs. The campaign for Assab is not about commerce or sovereignty. It is about mythology, insecurity, and the desperate search for a unifying story at a moment when Ethiopia’s internal cohesion is slipping through its fingers.

The tragedy is that these fantasies are not harmless. They gamble with regional stability, mislead Ethiopian citizens into believing geography can be rewritten, and attempt to turn Eritrea’s internationally recognized territory into a psychological bandage for Ethiopia’s political fractures. No amount of rhetoric, historical revisionism, or revival of imperial nostalgia will produce a coastline where none exists. The Red Sea is a fact of international law; Ethiopia’s identity crisis is not.

Eritrea does not exist to complete Ethiopia’s self-image. Assab will not resolve Ethiopia’s legitimacy problems, will not heal the fractures of a deeply divided society, and will not transform a political project that relies more on spectacle than on governance. What Addis Ababa calls “existential,” the international system rightly calls impossible.

And that is the truth Ethiopia’s leadership refuses to confront: the Red Sea cannot save them from their own politics. The sooner that reality is accepted, the sooner the Horn of Africa can step back from a crisis manufactured not by geography, but by the anxieties of a state still wrestling with its own reflection.