The Third Revolution

June 12, 2025

We Ethiopians do not know what we truly ask for—what we desire, what we pray for, what we wish upon this ancient land. Sometimes, our deepest longings are clothed in hope, but not yet guided by wisdom. I was born and raised in the rural highlands of Ethiopia, walking the same hard paths as any village child—wrestling with hardship, loss, and longing. In 1997, by the grace of God, I entered university and studied sociology at Addis Ababa University. That chapter of my life brought me physically closer to Entoto Maryam, a holy sanctuary nestled atop the Entoto Mountains— close to campus. Climbing that mountain, often alone or with dear friends, became my way of lifting both body and soul toward God. Entoto, with its crisp cold and sacred silence, gave me peace. I often went there after liturgy, when all was still. And in moments of sorrow, or during national chaos, I would climb that hill and pour out my soul with tears. Though the walk took more than thirty minutes uphill, it was a joyful journey—both a physical and spiritual ascent. Entoto, the highest point in Addis Ababa, feels like touching the sky. If you visit in April, a hot season, the air chills your skin like fresh milk. In those quiet, holy moments after Mass, when the compound fell silent, I often poured out my heart before God. I brought Him my burdens—personal, familial, and national. And many times, I saw miracles. I was delivered from trials, given clarity at work, and restored in moments of despair. It became my sanctuary of intercession. I remember vividly one particular prayer in 2018. Ethiopia was crumbling from within. During those days, based in Addis Ababa, I was leading projects in Oromia region Ambo area. The streets of Ambo were burning with unrest. The qeerroo movement spread unchecked. Schools were closed for almost three consecutive years. Fear and despair filled the air. The government had lost its grip. And perhaps for the first time in Ethiopia’s history, Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn voluntarily stepped down—choosing to be part of the solution rather than the crisis. He was right, and he deserves credit for that. It was a courageous and responsible act—a leader putting the safety of citizens above the allure of power. In truth, it is better to walk away from everything than to govern a country in chaos. It is better to live in obscurity—even to wander like a madman in a world obsessed with noise—than to rule in silence while your people suffer in poverty. That was a dark time. Children and young women were especially vulnerable. In the midst of it all, overwhelmed by love for my country and a desire for its future, I broke down. I cried. In that painful season, I climbed to Entoto Maryam, and there I prayed like any other citizen. I asked only one thing: that God would bring a peaceful solution for Ethiopia. That somehow, He would restore what had been broken. In that moment, I cried out to God for national healing—and specifically, I pleaded that a leader might rise who could bring order and unity to the nation. With tears streaming down my face, I ascended to Entoto Mariam that Sunday. I cried to the Virgin Mary. I cried to God. I pleaded for a change, for a solution, for Ethiopia to be saved. And then, something happened. Just two days later—on Tuesday—Dr. Abiy Ahmed was appointed chairman of the EPRDF. I had prayed specifically for him. ‹‹ I swear before the Living God: I fell to my knees and wept in prayer—earnestly asking that Abiy Ahmed be chosen to lead Ethiopia. I believed, with a trembling heart, that his election could be the beginning of healing for our wounded nation. Let this truth be written not just in ink, but on the pages of our history—as the opening chapter of this testimony, and a moment of hope I carried with faith and tears. Whether or not I live to see its full meaning unfold, may this book be remembered as a sacred vow from one soul who longed for Ethiopia’s redemption. ›› I believed, with a sincere heart, that Abiy was the answer. My face glowed with gratitude. I said, “Thank you, God.” My soul rejoiced. I believed my prayer had been heard. And like many Ethiopians, I was filled with overwhelming hope. At that time, the entire nation rejoiced. There were spontaneous rallies in cities across the country—Jiga to Jijiga, Moyale to Mekele, Gondar to Bahir Dar, Jimma to Dima, from Hawassa to Assosa from Ras Dashen to Dalol. Meskel Squares filled with music and slogans. Flags were raised, children cheered, and a million-birr banner of a kilometer long was unfurled for Abiy's rally, possibly breaking a world record. The Millennium Hall rang with celebration. Families sat around their televisions, clapping with joy just to hear Abiy Ahmed speak. Even children looked at the screen with love and admiration. He was a national light for a brief moment. We had asked. And God had answered. Or so we thought. But now, looking back, I tremble when I say: We did not know what we were truly asking for. We had prayed for salvation—and unknowingly welcomed destruction. The man who once ignited joy in the eyes of our children has now brought torment to the very people who welcomed him with ululation and song. Especially in the Amhara region—where I live—the betrayal is bitter and the bloodshed unthinkable. How distant those days seem. Now, we see what that answered prayer has become. A tragedy. A betrayal. Especially for us in the Amhara region, who welcomed him with open arms, only to suffer mass killings, displacement, and drone strikes. Never did I imagine that the leader I had prayed into power would become the very source of such profound national pain. This book, The Third Revolution, was born out of that anguish. It is not a political manifesto—it is my repentance. My contribution. My cry. A reckoning with the dangerous prayer I once offered. I no longer believe Ethiopia’s resurrection will come through festivals, concerts, colorful rallies, or hollow slogans. No. The rebirth of Ethiopia must be born from sackcloth and ashes, from long and painful prayers, from the anguish of spirit that says, “Lord, we do not know what we ask.” We must fall on our knees and cry out to Him—not for another leader, but for divine mercy. This is the very foundation of The Third Revolution. It is with this heartbreak that I now say: We do not know what we are praying for. I thought I had prayed for deliverance. But what arrived was desolation. I can no longer pray for leaders; I now pray for God’s will. I do not pray for political solutions; I pray for spiritual cleansing. I have come to understand that Ethiopia’s resurrection will not come through rallies or charismatic speeches or world record-breaking banners or Nobel Peace Prizes. It will come through sackcloth and ashes, through fasting and repentance. Today, as war rages, as mothers weep, as children scatter in fear, I hear the call of God louder than ever before: "Repent. Return. Awake." Ethiopia’s future will not be established through old political games or corrupt systems. It must begin from a clean plate. A new foundation. A new covenant. That is what this Third Revolution is: not a power struggle, but a spiritual uprising led by the army of light—those who pray, serve, struggle, fast, and love without seeking reward. This is a call to those who have not bowed to Baal, who have not sold their souls to foreign gods, who believe Ethiopia was born with a sacred purpose. Let us pray not merely for what we think we need, but for what God knows we need. Let us pray not to build false hopes, but to destroy idols. Let us pray not to repeat history, but to redeem it. This is the spiritual truth: Ethiopia’s rebirth will not be a festival—it will be a furnace. So, I say to my fellow Ethiopians and to all people of good conscience, I say, not in despair, but in holy defiance: Pray for Ethiopia! Pray for Ethiopia. Not for her comfort, but for her cleansing. Not for her rise to power, but for her return to God. Not for the Abiy of the past, but for the Light that is to come. Here stands The Third Revolution and its manifesto of Ethiopia’s renaissance. Here begins the new prayer. Let it rise from ashes. Let it be heard in heaven. Here begins the spiritual resurrection. May the Lord remember Ethiopia. The story of this Third Revolution begins with a cry from deep spiritual anguish—“We do not know what we are asking for.” Yet, I have not given up hope in Ethiopia. My prayer now, and the prayer of many burdened hearts, is this: that God will fulfill what He has allowed; that He will raise and crown a king of His choosing to rule this ancient and sacred land. This is no longer a distant hope—it is an urgent, pressing prayer. To ask God to lead us out of this broken world is not escapism; it is a spiritual awakening. It is a call for deliverance, a cry to save Ethiopia from the edge of destruction.