SUPPORT ETHIOPIA INSIGHT .wpedon-container .wpedon-select, .wpedon-container .wpedon-input { width: 200px; min-width: 200px; max-width: 200px; } As war and unrest sweep the nation, security—not quality—now dictates educational choices. Not long ago, the university where I taught shared on Facebook that it had become one of Ethiopia’s top ten choices for incoming students. I smiled at first. Although relatively new and part of the fourth generation of public universities, it had been guided with vision, and I was proud to have contributed to that journey.Then it struck me: was this truly about academic excellence, or something else entirely?The reality is stark: my former university didn’t rise on students’ preference lists because it had the best labs, faculty, or resources. It got there because it’s peaceful. Unlike many Ethiopian university towns, this university and its host city have had few, if any, reports of violence or unrest by comparison.That realization hit me hard. In Ethiopia today, security—not quality—determines educational choice. That should terrify us all.Ambition FrustratedI started my teaching career in 2018 with high hopes. Ethiopia has spent the past two decades building one of Africa’s most ambitious higher education systems, expanding from fewer than ten universities in 2000 to more than 45 today.These institutions are often categorized by “generation”. First-generation universities such as Addis Ababa and Jimma have history, resources, and strong reputations. Fourth-generation universities—like the one where I taught—are newer, built to serve underrepresented regions and expand opportunity.These institutions are vital. They bring education closer to home for thousands of young people. But they also face serious challenges: chronic underfunding, shortages of PhD-level staff, and limited facilities. Still, students came, full of ambition and promise.Conflict ShatteredFirst came the covid-19 pandemic. For an education system already under strain, it was a devastating blow. Most students had never touched a computer, yet when schools closed the only alternative was online learning. A handful from urban, upper middle class families managed to keep up. The rest—especially those from rural and underprivileged backgrounds—were effectively locked out.By the time I walked into my classroom that first semester, the damage was clear. I was tasked with teaching digital marketing, AI, and global e-commerce, a responsibility that felt both unfair and almost absurd. Still, we tried to find ways forward: creating Telegram groups to reach students at home, breaking down assignments into manageable steps. But once schools reopened, the system pretended nothing had happened. Students were expected to finish the syllabus in forty-five days, prepare for the job market, and move on.It wasn’t just rushed; it was reckless, and everyone knew it.Then came the Tigray war. By 2022, more than 1.42 million students were out of school, and thousands of schools were damaged or closed. As a teacher, I couldn’t stop thinking about what that meant: not just lost class time, but lost childhoods.Barely had we begun planning another recovery when conflict erupted in Amhara, where I’m from. Schools were the first to suffer: some were shut down, others occupied by armed forces, and in some places, students and teachers were caught in the crossfire, or worse.By April 2024, more than 4.1 million children in Amhara—about 35 percent of the region’s school-age population—were no longer in class. More than 4,000 schools had closed. Some were even hit by drone strikes.Education was not just in crisis; it was under attack.Shifting PrioritiesBefore all this, students across Ethiopia competed fiercely to enter top universities. The best and brightest aimed for places such as Addis Ababa, Bahir Dar, and Gondar. These institutions had the resources, experienced professors, laboratories, and networks to turn dreams into careers.But when those places became unsafe, priorities shifted. Students now aim for universities that are simply quiet, where they are not afraid to sleep at night or walk to class. I don’t blame them. But it changes everything.It affects which programs are available to them. A student who wants to study medicine may end up at a university without proper laboratories or access to referral hospitals. Some universities do not offer certain fields at all. Students adjust not according to ambition but to availability and safety.When admission no longer demands top grades because competition has thinned, motivation falls, talent is wasted, and potential goes untapped.This is not just about university preferences; it is about long-term inequality. If one region is disproportionately affected by school closures, damaged infrastructure, and the flight of educators, it will fall behind. Not just today, but for decades.And that matters. In a country like Ethiopia—where regional balance and representation already stir deep political questions—this kind of educational divide can create new fault lines. When one group becomes undereducated and underrepresented, justice itself comes into question.A ceasefire, if possible, would be a start. Even short of a ceasefire, one principle must hold: schools must be left alone. Students and teachers must be spared. Classrooms must never serve as cover for tanks or targets for drones.Restoring NormalcyThere are global frameworks meant to protect education in conflict zones. Ethiopia has endorsed the Safe Schools Declaration, committing to shield education from armed violence. Yet commitments are insufficient without enforcement.Immediate priorities include the removal of armed forces from schools, guarantees of safety for educators and learners, reconstruction of damaged institutions, and equitable access to quality education across all regions. New universities require investment in infrastructure, faculty, and services so that peace does not come at the expense of quality.I’ve heard the proverb many times: “If you want to destroy a nation, destroy its education system.” But what is happening in Ethiopia is not mere neglect; it is a slow, painful self-destruction.If we let this continue—if we allow students to grow up in fear and learn nothing but loss—we will build a future no one will want to inherit.The demand is simple: we must save our children, we must save our teachers, we must save our very future. The first step is to honor the principle that schools are sacred.Let classrooms be classrooms again. .wpedon-container .wpedon-select, .wpedon-container .wpedon-input { width: 200px; min-width: 200px; max-width: 200px; } Query or correction? Email us window.addEventListener("sfsi_functions_loaded", function(){if (typeof sfsi_widget_set == "function") {sfsi_widget_set();}}); While this commentary contains the author’s opinions, Ethiopia Insight will correct factual errors.Main photo: Students take lessons inside a partially destroyed classroom in Gulomekeda woreda, Tigray. Source: Tigray Communication Affairs BureauPublished under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International licence. You may not use the material for commercial purposes.The post Education Under Siege in Ethiopia appeared first on Ethiopia Insight.