The Tapestry of Ethiopian Society and the Forgotten Manju
Ethiopian society is a vibrant and complex tapestry, where each thread represents a unique story, rhythm, and reality. Yet, some strands remain on the periphery, frayed by neglect and stretched thin by silence. These threads, though once vibrant, have faded due to indifference. It is our collective responsibility to ensure that these strands are not erased but rather embraced in their diversity, woven deliberately into the fabric of our national identity.
The story of the Manju people, an ancient and resilient group from southwestern Ethiopia, serves as both a reminder of this duty and a call to reimagine what unity truly means. For generations, the Manju have lived in harmony with the lush forests of their homeland, relying on them for hunting, foraging, and interpreting the natural world as sacred scripture. Long before modern boundaries shaped identities, the Manju existed in balance with their environment, understanding its language in ways few others can. However, with the country's modernization and the rise of settled agrarian life, the Manju were quietly pushed out of national discourse.
What began as cultural differentiation soon turned into something far more damaging. The Manju were labeled as unprogressive, dirty, and uncivilized. Their customs were misunderstood, their language suppressed, and their dignity gradually stripped away—not through violence, but through silence, exclusion, and marginalization. In a nation that prides itself on diversity, the irony is painful: the Manju have been kept from the table, their existence reduced to footnotes and caricatures.
This treatment is not just unjust; it is destructive. The quiet cruelty leaves no physical scars, yet it lingers in the periphery of one’s identity. Children born into the Manju community often face rejection early in life, learning to knock only to have doors slammed in their faces. They are mocked in school, assumed to be lesser by default. Their parents, who possess deep ecological knowledge and traditions, are dismissed as uneducated—not because they lack understanding, but because their knowledge does not fit within prevailing cultural norms.
Imagine being told that your way of life is wrong, that your food, clothing, accents, and music are things to be ashamed of. That no matter how hard you strive, you will always be seen as "other." This pain is subtle, yet constant, seeping into dreams and tarnishing hopes. It is not just about exclusion from resources, but exclusion from humanity itself.
This is not a story of villains and victims, but of systems that need reexamination, reimagining, and ultimately, transformation. The Manju have not asked for withdrawal, revolt, or conquest. They simply seek to be noticed, respected, and heard on their own terms—without being mediated through pity or caricature.
Their struggle mirrors that of many historically silenced groups worldwide. Most notably, it parallels the global women’s rights movement—a movement that demands acknowledgment of existing authorities rather than the creation of new ones. Both movements fight against invisibility, against the quiet violence of being ignored, unappreciated, and misrepresented.
Where women have sought to dismantle patriarchal myths that push them to the margins, the Manju must deconstruct ethnocentric myths that cast them as remnants of the past. Both narratives are about reclaiming truth, asserting worth in the face of systems that have withheld it for centuries. Most importantly, they show that true progress lies not in erasing difference, but in celebrating it.
So, how do we begin to repair this? How do we, as Ethiopians, journalists, educators, and citizens, respond to this quiet injustice?
First, we must unlearn before we learn. Education can restore us, but only if it shares the full story. School curricula must expand to include the histories, cultures, and worldviews of oppressed groups like the Manju—not as footnotes or sidebars, but as integral chapters of the national narrative. Children should grow up reading Manju folk tales, learning forest-based epistemology, and appreciating that civilization is not a single path but a landscape with myriad routes.
Second, cultural spaces—festivals, media, museums—must make room for Manju voices. Not as performances of exotica, but as co-creators and curators of their own narratives. Their drumbeat must resonate alongside the dominant rhythms of national discourse. Let their dances grace main stages. Let their poetry be featured in national anthologies. Let their elders be invited as panelists—not as gestures, but as thinkers.
Third, representation in government must be prioritized. Without political representation, cultural recognition remains ceremonial at best. Regional and city councils must ensure places for Manju representatives. Decisions affecting their land, education, and access to services must involve them—not be made for them. Self-advocacy must be preserved and promoted.
Fourth, economic inclusion must be part of the justice equation. Poverty and lack of opportunity often exacerbate marginalization. The Manju's skills in sustainable harvesting, herbal medicine, and conservation could form the basis of cooperatives, eco-tourism, and green development programs—if they are recognized as equals, not merely as laborers.
Fifth and most importantly, we must change the way we see. We must reprogram our perceptions so that when we gaze at a Manju child, we do not see an aura, but a spark. When we hear their words, we do not hear disarray, but song. When we observe their customs, we do not see artifacts, but roots.
There is an old African proverb that states, “The river does not hate the stone in its path—it goes around it and keeps flowing.” The Manju have endured, quietly and with dignity, like the stone that refuses to be removed. But why must they always bend, conform, and live in silence?
It is time for the river to pause. To see. To hear.
Let us not conflate silence with contentment, nor difference with deficiency. The Manju do not seek pity—they seek partnership. They do not ask to be lifted up—they demand the right to stand where they have always been.
As we move forward as a nation, we must ask ourselves: What kind of Ethiopia do we wish to build? One where identity is a narrow corridor or one where it is a wide-open field? One where belonging is earned through sameness or one where it is given because of shared humanity?
This is nation-building—not in uniformity, but in harmony. A symphony is not beautiful because all its notes are the same; it is beautiful because all its notes are different, yet each is indispensable. And so it is with us.
As we strive for a more just tomorrow, let us choose the courage to see each other more clearly. Let us embrace the stranger. Let us mend what has been torn apart—not by hiding the scars, but by respecting them. The Manju are not an addendum in the historical account of Ethiopia; they are a verse in its living poem. Only when every line is spoken is the song of our nation complete.