Human Rights as a Weapon: A Father’s Response to the Digital Branding of Eritrea

By Sammy G.

The conversation that shattered my peace began in the most mundane of ways: my son, looking up from his phone, asked a question that felt like a physical blow. “Dad, is Eritrea a slave state?”

He had seen a viral TikTok clip citing the Global Slavery Index, then verified it with a quick search, only to find the same dehumanizing second-place ranking repeated across the digital landscape. In that moment, I saw a cloud of confusion and concern pass over his face. It was a look that contradicted every story of resilience, every immersive journey across our ancestral lands, and every ounce of pride I had spent a lifetime instilling in him. As a father, I realized that the “data” my son found online wasn’t just information; it was a weaponized narrative designed to erase his heritage.

This “slavery” label, frequently regurgitated by organizations like Human Rights Watch (HRW) and Amnesty International, is a masterclass in what scholars call “epistemic violence.” These reports suffer from a fatal methodological flaw: selection bias. By relying almost exclusively on the testimony of asylum seekers in overseas camps—individuals whose legal status often depends on portraying their homeland in the most dire light—these organizations create a distorted image. This isn’t objective research; it is a feedback loop that rewards the most extreme narratives while silencing the sovereign reality of the millions of Eritreans who live, work, and build their lives within the country.

The crux of the “slavery” accusation rests on Eritrea’s National Service. To an outsider operating on a Western individualistic template, any form of mandatory service looks like coercion. However, labeling this as “slavery” is a rhetorical distortion that trivializes the historically specific reality of actual chattel slavery. To understand Eritrea, one must understand its geography and history. Eritrea is an oasis of harmony and stability surrounded by a sea of volatility.

We are a nation of roughly six million people situated next to a regional giant of over 110 million, against which we fought a devastating border war and faced a prolonged “no war, no peace” stalemate. In this context, the extension of National Service was shaped by persistent existential threats and the open-ended militarization of the region. It functions not as an instrument of “ownership” over citizens, but as a collective survival mechanism designed to preserve sovereignty in a neighborhood of civil wars, extremism, and ethnic upheaval.

What is systematically omitted from the Western narrative is the tangible progress made by those who stayed to build the nation. Over the past three decades, Eritrea has made significant strides in human development. Access to education has reached previously underserved rural communities, and healthcare infrastructure has steadily improved. We have seen notable reductions in infant and maternal mortality rates—achievements recognized even by international agencies—all achieved under conditions of sanctions and sustained external pressure.

There is a profound logical inconsistency in labeling a nation of “fighters for freedom” as a nation of “slaves.” Historically, even Western pundits praised the Eritrean People’s Liberation Front (EPLF) as the most disciplined and humane revolutionary force in modern history. During the 30-year struggle, Eritrea was famous for the dignified treatment of tens of thousands of Ethiopian Prisoners of War (POWs), often sharing scarce rations with them. If a movement fought for decades—isolated and unaided—to liberate its people, it is intellectually dishonest to claim they would turn around and enslave the very citizens they bled to free. You cannot “enslave” a people whose national DNA is defined by a refusal to be subservient.

Today, this digital “large prison” narrative is being dismantled by boots-on-the-ground reality checks. Independent observers and YouTubers like Harry Haggard and Wode Maya have captured a reality that algorithms fail to index. They show us young female students in Asmara who speak with an unburdened confidence about wanting to be president, and artisans who speak with a “bright hope” and fierce pride in their nation’s future. These are the voices of a literate, educated, and dignified citizenry that Western metrics simply don’t know how to measure.

When human rights are used as a weapon, they become a tool for geopolitical isolation. By branding Eritrea with the most traumatizing word in the Black lexicon—slavery—international bodies attempt to delegitimize a country that refuses to be a debt-client of the West. As my son and I worked through the “soul-searching” this discovery triggered, we realized that our “revolt” must be intellectual. We must refuse to let a biased algorithm define who we are.

To my son, and to every young Eritrean in the diaspora: do not let a TikTok clip or a flawed index dim your light. Our history of discipline and self-reliance is our shield. When Western media calls your homeland a prison, remember Wode Maya’s boat-sailing moment in Massawa and the harmony of our streets. We are not a people of forced labor; we are a people of shared sacrifice and sovereign dignity.

Eritrea at 35 is not a country seeking approval; it is a country demanding to be treated as a partner, not a servant. As we celebrate this milestone, let us reclaim our language and our truth. We did not endure thirty years of war simply to survive; we did so to dismantle a brutal machinery of oppression and reclaim our dignity. Having outlasted another three decades of demonization, sanctions, and isolation, we will do more than just survive a flawed ranking—we will dismantle the logic behind it. It is the height of irony to label us “enslaved” when our entire national identity is a continuous act of liberation. These politically-motivated narratives may attempt to mislead the world and confuse the next generation with viral distortions, but they can neither re-shackle our people nor rewrite our history: our sovereignty is not for sale.

Sammy G. is a professional residing in Virginia, an active member of the Eritrean diaspora, and a father committed to correcting the digital record for the next generation.