In 1974, Ethiopia’s ancient monarchy was swept aside by a group of radical army officers calling themselves the Derg. They promised to build a just society, ending centuries of poverty and privilege with land reform, equality, and dignity for all. Yet within a few short years, the language of liberation gave way to fear as the new regime ruled by decree and suspicion.

No revolution ever runs out of enemies. At first, the Derg’s targets were the obvious ones: landlords, generals, and imperial officials. Properties were seized and prominent “class enemies” put on trial. What began as long-overdue reckoning for some soon became performance, show trials and public denunciations meant to display revolutionary vigilance.

But the appetite for control could not be satisfied with the defeat of the old order. The Derg’s logic of purity demanded new enemies to keep society in check and justify the growing power of its leaders. As rival leftist groups and even student activists began to challenge the pace or direction of change, they too were swept into the dragnet.

Suddenly, yesterday’s comrades found themselves accused of “counterrevolutionary” thought, as Mengistu’s security forces and local committees expanded their authority to arrest, interrogate, and punish anyone who deviated from the script. In the cities, the rhythm of life shifted, nighttime arrests and whispered accusations became the new normal, pushing fear deeper into every neighbourhood.

Red Terror
It was during the Red Terror of 1977–78 that this atmosphere of suspicion reached its terrible climax. Mengistu Haile Mariam, now the revolution’s unchallenged face, ordered his followers to “crush the enemy” with ruthless efficiency.

Militias and party youth swept through the streets, armed with lists compiled from rumours and private grievances as much as real dissent. Countless Ethiopians were executed, their families billed for the bullets, while survivors learned that silence and conformity were often the only protection against a sudden knock at the door.

The Red Terror’s full toll remains uncertain, some say tens of thousands, others far more, but its impact lingered everywhere, in the empty seats at dinner tables and the frightened eyes of those left behind.

This campaign was not confined to urban elites or political rivals; it seeped into the very fabric of daily life. The Derg’s web of block committees and neighbourhood informers encouraged ordinary Ethiopians to monitor each other, sometimes turning personal grievances into matters of life and death.

Disputes that once might have ended in harsh words now ended in prison, or worse, if one party convinced the authorities of the other’s disloyalty. Over time, trust thinned to the breaking point. Many learned to guard their words, knowing that even relatives or close friends might be forced by fear or circumstance to denounce them. What began as a revolution of solidarity mutated into a society of guarded secrets and careful silences.

The regime’s propaganda machine only deepened these wounds. Newspapers and radio constantly warned of “imperialist spies,” “saboteurs,” and “class traitors,” driving home the idea that betrayal could come from anywhere.

Public displays of loyalty, attending rallies, denouncing neighbours, repeating official slogans, became survival skills, not political acts. Even in the countryside, resistance to collectivisation was framed not as a consequence of failed policy, but as proof of internal sabotage, demanding a new round of purges.

Suspicion

As the years went by, the boundaries of suspicion shifted again and again, always expanding. Civil war and famine provided new excuses to invent scapegoats, separatists, smugglers, supposed “foreign agents.” Each crisis gave the Derg another reason to redraw the lines of loyalty, forcing people to constantly reassess whom they could trust and what they could say aloud. To stay alive required not just luck, but the relentless performance of conformity.

By the time the Derg fell, Ethiopia’s wounds ran much deeper than lost lives or ruined farms. Years of state suspicion had taught a generation to expect betrayal and to measure every word. The legacy of the campaign against “enemies of the people” was not just a trail of graves, but a society where the most basic human bonds, between neighbours, friends, and even families, had been frayed by fear.

This is the bitter lesson of rule by suspicion. In Ethiopia, the language of revolution became a tool for terror, turning neighbour against neighbour and teaching a nation to look over its shoulder, even after the slogans had faded and the streets were quiet once more.