by Sirak Kifle
How an Attempt to Dodge Genocide Questions Turned Into an Unintended Confession on Live Television
The world, and most stingingly Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, has now witnessed Getachew Reda’s interview with Al Jazeera. For Abiy, who had nurtured high expectations for Getachew’s loyalty, the appearance must have felt like a “kiss of Judas”; gentle enough in tone, but carrying the cold edge of betrayal only a former comrade can deliver.
Abiy had reportedly assumed Getachew would dutifully amplify the government’s grand narrative about Ethiopia’s so-called “existential” need for sea access – the national survival story that critics insist is more political theater than geopolitical reality.
But the interviewer had no interest in starring in Abiy’s script. Instead, he marched straight into the shadows of the Tigray war atrocities, and the word Abiy least wanted to hear echoed on international airwaves – genocide.
During the 2020–2022 conflict, Getachew Reda had accused Abiy of genocide with the ease of a man stating the weather. But on this day, under the bright studio lights, a strange new phenomenon emerged; hesitation.
The interviewer, detecting the wobble, cut straight to the point:
“Did genocide occur or not?”
Getachew swallowed, then answered: “Yes, genocide occurred.”
Then came the dagger:
“Did Abiy Ahmed commit the genocide?”
Suddenly, the once-fiery wartime spokesman morphed into a cautious legalist.
“I am a lawyer… I cannot answer that.”
The interviewer’s eyebrows practically said, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?
Out loud, he added:
“Were you not a lawyer during the war, when you did make these accusations?”
Getachew confirmed that he was.
Hence the next blow:
“What changed? Why can’t you repeat what you said before?”
Getachew froze, cornered by the echo of his own past declarations. The silence was heavy enough to count as an answer.
But then came the part of the interview that will likely haunt Getachew for years.
Desperate to escape the tightening noose around the genocide question, he tried to pivot:
“Abiy was my friend before he became Prime Minister.”
It was a clumsy detour – and the interviewer seized it like a gift.
“Ah. He was your friend before he committed genocide?”
Getachew blinked. The studio air thinned.
The interviewer pressed on, relentless:
“And is he your friend now?”
Getachew, astonishingly, replied:
“Yes.”
What followed was a line that will be replayed in political circles for years:
“So Abiy was your friend before the genocide, during the genocide, and after committing genocide?”
Getachew stumbled, reaching for a lifeline:
“We were fighting each other during the war…”
And with those words – halting, evasive, and painfully revealing – Getachew Reda managed to do the one thing he was clearly trying to avoid, he indirectly affirmed the very allegation he refused to repeat directly.
The moment was excruciating.
A political circle closed around him.
A narrative he tried to outrun snapped right back into place.
For viewers, the exchange was a masterclass in unintended confession.
Because no matter how tightly one tries to manage the storyline, no matter how carefully alliances shift and memories blur, there is a stubborn truth that resurfaces at the worst possible moment:
Lies have limits; and those limits arrive the instant a simple question cuts through the fog.
Discover more from Red Sea Beacon
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
