# Educating the Nation in Ethiopia

Guidi Pierre

► To cite this version:

Guidi Pierre. Educating the Nation in Ethiopia. Centre français des études éthiopiennes. 2024, 978-2-11-172321-4. 10.4000/12iy3. hal-04691846

HAL Id: hal-04691846

https://hal.science/hal-04691846v1

Submitted on 13 Jan 2025

HAL is a multi-disciplinary open access
archive for the deposit and dissemination of sci-
entific research documents, whether they are pub-
lished or not. The documents may come from
teaching and research institutions in France or
abroad, or from public or private research centers.

L'archive ouverte pluridisciplinaire HAL, est
destinée au dépôt et à la diffusion de documents
scientifiques de niveau recherche, publiés ou non,
émanant des établissements d'enseignement et de
recherche français ou étrangers, des laboratoires
publics ou privés.

<figure><img src="image_1.png" /></figure>
PIERRE GUIDI

EDUCATING
THE NATION
IN ETHIOPIA

State, Society and Identity in Wolaita
(1941–1991)

<figure><img src="image_2.png" /></figure>

Translated from French by Simon Dix

Ad'É BOOKS

አዴመጻሕፍት

CONTEMPORARY

የአፍሪካ ቀንድ

HORN OF AFRICA

የአሁን ጊዜ ታሪክ

Centre français des études éthiopiennes
# Educating the Nation in Ethiopia

## State, Society and Identity in Wolaita (1941–1991)

Pierre Guidi

Translated by Simon Dix

DOI: 10.4000/12iy3

Publisher: Centre français des études éthiopiennes

Place of publication: Addis-Abeba

Year of publication: 2024

Publication date: 17 octobre 2024

Series: Ad'É Books, Contemporary Horn of Africa

Digital ISBN: 978-2-11-172320-7

<figure><img src="image_3.png" /></figure>

OpenEdition
Books

https://books.openedition.org

**Print edition**

ISBN (Print version): 978-2-11-172321-4

Number of pages: 355

## DIGITAL REFERENCE

Guidi, Pierre. *Educating the Nation in Ethiopia*. Translated by Simon Dix, Centre français des études éthiopiennes, 2024, https://doi.org/10.4000/12iy3.

**Cover metadata**

**Caption**

Addis Ababa schools sports parade (detail), 1950s.

**Credits**

© Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University.

This text was automatically generated on 19 octobre 2024.

<figure><img src="image_4.png" /></figure>

The PDF format is issued under the Creative Commons - Attribution - Partage dans les Mêmes Conditions 4.0 International - CC BY-SA 4.0 license unless otherwise stated.

<figure><img src="image_5.png" /></figure>

The ePub format is issued under the Creative Commons - Attribution - Partage dans les Mêmes Conditions 4.0 International - CC BY-SA 4.0 license unless otherwise stated.
## ABSTRACT

In analysing the educational dynamics of the Wolaita region in Ethiopia, this book traces the history of the nation-state from the perspective of its margins, between 1941 and 1991. From Haile Selassie's divine right monarchy to the Derg's Marxist-Leninist military regime, it looks at the ways in which the inhabitants of a region incorporated at the end of the nineteenth century reacted to their dominated position within the national structure by negotiating with schooling—its successive ideologies, its knowledge, its languages of instruction, and its practices of power—in order to take their place in the national political community. By focusing on everyday feelings of belonging and ordinary nationalism as manifested in school dynamics, this book bears witness to the way in which nations are constructed and reshaped in the interaction and tensions between various social groups and the state. The ways in which the Ethiopian governments appropriated the North American and then Soviet schooling models offer a special insight into Ethiopia's changing positions vis-à-vis the outside world in the context of the Cold War as well as the forms of translation at work right down to the local level. Featuring a wide range of actors—women and men, urban graduates and peasants, national and local civil servants, North American Peace Corps workers and East German advisers, Catholic and Protestant missionaries—this book will appeal to a much wider audience than Ethiopia specialists alone.

## EDITOR'S NOTE

This book is the English translation of: Guidi, Pierre. 2020. *Éduquer la nation en Éthiopie. École, État et identités dans le Wolaita (1941-1991)*. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes; Montpellier: IRD Éditions. https://doi.org/10.4000/books.pur.159562.

This translation was funded by the Robert Mallet Prize for the History of Education and the “Open Science for African Studies” project (https://www.ouvrirlascience.fr/soea-2/).

## PIERRE GUIDI

Pierre Guidi is a researcher at the Ceped (université Paris Cité, IRD). His current research focus is on the history of education, women's education and women's activism in Ethiopia, on which he has published a number of articles and chapters. Guidi recently coedited (with Ellen Vea Rosnes and Jean-Luc Martineau) the book *History through Narratives of Education in Africa*, Leiden: Brill, 2024 and (with Jean-Luc Martineau and Florence Wenzek) *L'école en mutation. Politiques et dynamiques scolaires en Afrique (années 1940-1980)*, Toulouse: Presses universitaires du Midi, 2024.
<figure><img src="image_6.png" /></figure>
<figure><img src="image_7.png" /></figure>
Educating the Nation in Ethiopia
Ad'É Books, Contemporary Horn of Africa

አዴመጻሕፍት
የአፍሪካ ቀንድ
የአሁን ጊዜ ታሪክ

Series editor:
Jean-Nicolas Bach

© Centre français des études éthiopiennes, 2024

https://books.openedition.org/cfee/

ISBN: 978-2-11-172320-7

ISSN en cours
Pierre Guidi

Educating the Nation in Ethiopia

State, Society and Identity in Wolaita
(1941–1991)

*Traduit du français par Simon Dix*

Centre français des études éthiopiennes
Guidi, Pierre. 2024. *Educating the Nation in Ethiopia. State, Society and Identity in Wolaita (1941–1991)*. Ad'É Books, Contemporary Horn of Africa. Addis Ababa: Centre français des études éthiopiennes. https://doi.org/10.4000/books.cfee.xxxxx.

All texts in this book are published under the Creative Commons license CC-BY-SA 3.0: "Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported."

See: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

"You are free to:

- Share — copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format

- Adapt — remix, transform, and build upon the material for any purpose, even commercially.

Under the following terms:

- Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses you or your use.

- ShareAlike — If you remix, transform, or build upon the material, you must distribute your contributions under the same license as the original.

No additional restrictions — You may not apply legal terms or technological measures that legally restrict others from doing anything the license permits."

*Archiving of web pages:* The mention “[archive]” in notes and bibliographies indicates an archived version of the web document in the Wayback Machine (https://web.archive.org).

ISBN (printed version): 978-2-11-172321-4

ISBN (digital version): 978-2-11-172320-7

Open Access HTML version to be read online at: http://books.openedition.org/cfee

Published with the support of the CUIP (*Comité universitaire d'information péda-gogique*) and Open Science for African studies, a programme selected and funded by FNSO2 (*Fonds national pour la science ouverte, call for projects no. 2*)

Proofreading and formatting: Bastien Miraucourt & Rosebelle Otieno

Cover design & Page Layout: Laurent Leclair

Cover image: Addis Ababa schools sports parade (detail), 1950s © Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University.

© 2024, Pierre Guidi.

This book is the English translation of: Guidi, Pierre. 2020. *Éduquer la nation en Éthiopie. École, État et identités dans le Wolaita (1941-1991)*. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes; Montpellier: IRD Éditions. https://doi.org/10.4000/books.pur.159562.
This translation was funded by the Robert Mallet Prize for the History of Education and the "Open Science for African Studies" project (https://www.ouvrirlascience.fr/soea-2/).

The *Centre français des études éthiopiennes* (French Centre for Ethiopian Studies) is a French, publicly-funded research institute, located in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

CFEE
Ambassade de France en Éthiopie

P.O. Box 5554 – Addis-Abeba, Ethiopia

https://cfee.cnrs.fr/
# Contents

Foreword: Deciphering Education at the Heart of the Nation
by Rebecca Rogers .................................................................................... 15

Acknowledgements .................................................................................... 21

List of acronyms .................................................................................... 23

Note on transliteration ............................................................................ 25

General Maps .................................................................................... 27

General Introduction .................................................................................... 29

1. Wolaita at the edge of the nation? .................................................... 29

2. The nation and its “modernity”.................................................... 30

3. The school: imaginary and materiality of the nation.................... 33

4. School dynamics in Wolaita in the light of power relations............ 35

PART 1. THE CONTRADICTIONS OF THE ASSIMILATING SCHOOL
UNDER HAILE SELASSIE (1941–1974).................................................... 41

Chapter 1. Thinking about the Purposes of the National School System:
The Ethiopian State, the USA and Wolaita........................................ 45

1. School education before the Italian occupation of 1936 .................... 46

2. The establishment of the national school system from 1941............ 56

3. Bogale Wallelu in Wolaita: assimilation against oppression ............ 63

Conclusion.................................................................................... 73

Chapter 2. From Homogeneity to Diversification of School Pupils in
Wolaita: Classes, Genders and Generations (1941–1974) .................... 75

1. Resistance.................................................................................... 76

2. The first generation: the children of settlers and Wolaita state
employees (1941 to the mid-1950s) .................................................... 81

3. The educational action of Governor Germame Neway (1958–59):
schooling the dominated.................................................................... 84

4. Protestant schools, the alternative path for the dominated............ 88

5. Wolde-Semaet Gebre-Wold: education, planning, integration ......... 94

6. The timid dynamics of schooling for girls ............................................ 97

Conclusion.................................................................................... 100
Chapter 3. History, Civic Education and Literature: Defining the

<table><tr><td><strong>Nation's Identity and Projecting its Destiny</strong></td><td>101</td></tr><tr><td>1. The Semitic and Christian nation</td><td>102</td></tr><tr><td>2. The deified emperor</td><td>107</td></tr><tr><td>3. Rulers to admire, governed to imitate</td><td>114</td></tr><tr><td>4. Progress or capitalist industrial society</td><td>119</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>123</td></tr></table>

Chapter 4. The State Homogenisation Project and Social Heterogeneity:

<table><tr><td><strong>The School Space in Tension</strong></td><td>125</td></tr><tr><td>1. The diversity of the teaching staff</td><td>125</td></tr><tr><td>2. Teachers: social status and working conditions</td><td>129</td></tr><tr><td>3. The authoritarian and martial school space</td><td>132</td></tr><tr><td>4. School sociabilities: the violence of assigned identities</td><td>139</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>148</td></tr></table>

<table><tr><td><strong>Chapter 5. The Nation's Leaders: From Fidelity to Revolt</strong></td><td>149</td></tr><tr><td>1. The loyal generation of the 1940s and 1950s</td><td>150</td></tr><tr><td>2. A hijacked school space: the circulation of dissident ideas</td><td>154</td></tr><tr><td>3. The campaign to eradicate thieves</td><td>159</td></tr><tr><td>4. Wolaita students, the nation and the revolution</td><td>165</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>168</td></tr></table>

<table><tr><td><em>Interlude 1. Schools and the Nation in the Mid-1970s: Negotiated Identities</em></td><td>171</td></tr></table>

PART 2. EDUCATION UNDER THE DERG: EMANCIPATION AND

<table><tr><td>ENCADREMENT (1978–1991)</td><td>175</td></tr></table>

Chapter 6. The School Environment and The Revolution: From Political

<table><tr><td><strong>and Educational Mobilisation to the Red Terror (1974–1978)</strong></td><td>181</td></tr><tr><td>1. Revolutionary events and the seizure of power by the Derg</td><td>181</td></tr><tr><td>2. The <em>zemecha</em> experience: the revolution in the provinces</td><td>186</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>205</td></tr></table>

Chapter 7. The Literacy Campaign: A Matrix for the New Society?

<table><tr><td>(1979–1985)</td><td>207</td></tr><tr><td>1. Eradicating illiteracy: the method</td><td>207</td></tr><tr><td>2. Teaching: knowledge and languages</td><td>212</td></tr><tr><td>3. Mobilising the masses</td><td>217</td></tr><tr><td>4. Educational dynamics: the masses arrive on the scene</td><td>223</td></tr><tr><td>5. What does reading and writing mean?</td><td>227</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>233</td></tr></table>
Chapter 8. The Movement Towards Schools: Between Coercion and

<table><tr><td><strong>Social Demand (1978–85)</strong></td><td>235</td></tr><tr><td>1. Increasing the school network: a state move to conquer rural areas?</td><td>236</td></tr><tr><td>2. Community participation</td><td>245</td></tr><tr><td>3. The drivers of demand for schooling</td><td>251</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>256</td></tr></table>

Chapter 9. Teachings: Breaking with the Past and Projecting the Future 259

<table><tr><td>1. Rereading history: modes of production and the class struggle</td><td>260</td></tr><tr><td>2. The masses: instruments of “socialist” progress</td><td>277</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>287</td></tr></table>

Chapter 10. School Experiences: Openness and Violence 289

<table><tr><td>1. The end of the cultural domination of the north?</td><td>289</td></tr><tr><td>2. The pedagogy of the dictatorship</td><td>294</td></tr><tr><td>3. “Educating for a socialist consciousness” in action</td><td>302</td></tr><tr><td>4. Education through work: school gardens</td><td>311</td></tr><tr><td>Conclusion</td><td>315</td></tr></table>

Interlude 2. School and the State in 1991: Identities Reconciled? 317

<table><tr><td>1. Dropouts: Famine, war and education (1984–91)</td><td>317</td></tr><tr><td>2. The appropriated school?</td><td>321</td></tr></table>

General conclusion 325

<table><tr><td>1. Young Protestant Wolaita: the conditional nation</td><td>326</td></tr><tr><td>2. Girls, education and the nation</td><td>328</td></tr><tr><td>3. Language and the written word: the battleground of the fight for legitimacy</td><td>329</td></tr><tr><td>4. Margins redefine the nation?</td><td>330</td></tr></table>

Sources 333

<table><tr><td>1. Archives</td><td>333</td></tr><tr><td>2. Source works</td><td>334</td></tr><tr><td>3. Printed sources</td><td>334</td></tr><tr><td>4. Textbooks and teaching aids</td><td>337</td></tr><tr><td>5. Statistics</td><td>339</td></tr><tr><td>6. Press</td><td>339</td></tr><tr><td>7. Interviews</td><td>340</td></tr></table>

Bibliography 345

<table><tr><td>1. Dictionary</td><td>345</td></tr><tr><td>2. General works</td><td>345</td></tr><tr><td>3. About Education</td><td>346</td></tr><tr><td>4. About Ethiopia</td><td>348</td></tr></table>
Contents

<table><tr><td>5. About Wolaita and the Ethiopian south</td><td>351</td></tr><tr><td>6. About Education in Ethiopia</td><td>352</td></tr></table>
List of Figures

Fig. 1. Provinces of imperial and revolutionary Ethiopia. Source: Prunier (2007). Map design: Éric Opigez, Ceped/IRD.

Fig. 2. Wolaita and its *wereda*. Source: Planel (2008, *carte*3). Map design: Éric Opigez, Ceped/IRD.

Fig. 3. Students before the Italian occupation, probably in the 1920s. Source: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa University.

Fig. 4. Bogale Wallelu. Source: Addis Zemen, Genbot 22, 1977 EC (31 mai 1985).

Fig. 5. Ligaba Beyene School. Photograph by Pierre Guidi, 10 September 2009.

Fig. 6. School children at work in the 1950s. Source: Ministry of Information, *Education in Ethiopia* (Addis Ababa: Patterns of Progress, 1964).

Fig. 7. Promoting industrialisation and mechanisation. Source: MOEFA, History for Young Ethiopians, Grade 7 (1970), 106–10.

Fig. 8. Haile Selassie in majesty and as a “benevolent father”. Sources: Left: ታሪክና ምሳሌ ፌኛ መጽሐፍ (*Tarikenna Messale* [*Stories and Fables*], book 3) (1965 [1942]); Right: MOEFA, ታሪክና ምሳሌ ፌኛ መጽሐፍ (*Tarikenna Messale* [*Stories and Fables*], book 1) (1973 [1941]).

Fig. 9. Scouts students. Source: Sylvia Pankhurst (1995).

Fig. 10. School sports ceremonies for boys and girls. Upper photo, the text reads: “Young students at a major sporting event.” Lower photo, the text reads: “Young girls in physical education class.” Source: MOI, ትምህርት በኢትዮጵያ (*Education in Ethiopia*) (1968 [1960 EC], 47–49.

Fig. 11. Departure for the zemecha. Source: MOI, *Ethiopia in Revolution* (1977), 22.

Fig. 12. The ravages of the feudal system in a Derg school textbook. Source: MOE, *History Grade 10* (1979), 265.

Fig. 13. Ethiopian partisans in a school textbook. Text reads: “Anti-Fascist and Anti-Imperialist Patriotic Elements.” Source: MOE, *History Grade 10* (1979), 259.
<figure><img src="image_8.png" /></figure>
To Weyzero Etenat Fekadu,
Ato Tesfaye Belay
and their wonderful family
<figure><img src="image_9.png" /></figure>
# Foreword: Deciphering Education at the Heart of the Nation

In 2018, at a time when educational issues are constantly being debated in the public arena, it is easy to understand that school policies are fundamental issues for a society. In France, the link between education and politics has evolved over a long period. The Ferry Laws (1879–86) responded to the revolutionary projects of the 18th century by introducing free, compulsory and secular primary education, outlining a vision of citizenship in which school played a fundamental role. During the 20th century, schools were invested with democratic hopes and perceived as actors of social transformation. In the post-war period, education lay at the heart of leaders’ concerns, as human capital had to be trained for the needs of a booming economy. On the international side, both UNESCO and NGOs proclaimed the importance of education for development, and the voices of humanists and feminists responded to these technical and economic objectives. Education is understood to be a resource capable of transforming individuals, encouraging the dominated—be they women, children, people with disabilities or from other minorities— and helping them to become more self-reliant. Educational issues have been taken up in a multitude of discourses on political, economic, social and even identity-related issues, encompassing issues that go beyond the nature of school curricula, who attends school or the characteristics of teachers. The school has become a prism for understanding how a state functions, revealing not only the objectives of its leaders but also the hopes of its citizens. For historians, education is a precious laboratory for understanding how our modern states are constructed.

Pierre Guidi’s book opens with the public debate in southwestern Ethiopia generated by the promulgation in 1999–2000 of a new administrative and school language, WoGaGoDa, which was supposed to reconcile the four languages spoken in the surrounding regions. The petitions sent to the government drew upon the region’s history, its marginalisation under Haile Selassie’s regime (1930–74) and its gradual integration under the Marxist-Leninist Derg regime (1974–91), followed by the federal regime of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front. According to the petitioners, being educated
and able to address the administration in the Wolaita language, a privilege
that had only been obtained six years earlier, was a hard-won right that did
not endanger the existence of both a Wolaita and an Ethiopian identity. The
book moves back in time to discuss this process of identification with the nation
and the educational dynamics that accompanied it. It seeks to understand how
schools and aspirations to an education contributed to the integration of a
peripheral region into the “Amhara” culture of the centre. Finally, it considers
how the marginalised and voiceless have participated in the creation of the
modern Ethiopian nation, even when they spoke in the Wolaita language in
order to do so.

In France and French-speaking Switzerland in recent years, the history of education has attracted talented historians who have taken the promises of education to heart, launching investigations in areas that have been worked on less extensively than the development of schooling in Metropolitan France. The French colonies are the subject of new research; within Europe, studies explore the transnational circulation of school models, and the history of progressivism in the United States is enjoying renewed interest<fnref n="1" />. Pierre Guidi’s book on Ethiopia complements this scholarship, offering not only a pioneering educational study of the country, situated within its tormented political trajectory, but also a fine example of the role played by schools in shaping national identities. By approaching this history through the “peripheral” region of Wolaita, Pierre Guidi brings to light school dynamics, similar to those seen in revolutionary France and the Third Republic; these dynamics reveal how education participated in power politics, while also offering a space where individuals and groups constructed an imaginary and identities that were the “matrix of the nation.”

The relationship between the construction of a sense of national belonging
and the school experience is addressed in this book using tools forged in
historical communities that have nourished the emergence of a new world
history attentive to the voices of the weak. Through his numerous interviews

<footnote n="1">¹To mention just a few recent publications: Luc Capdevila, *Femmes, armée et éducation dans la guerre d’Algérie. L’expérience du service de formation des jeunes en Algérie* (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2017; https://doi.org/10.4000/books.pur.154622); Thuy Phuong Nguyen, *Écoles françaises au Vietnam, de la mission civilatatrice à la diplomatie culturelle 1945-1975* (Amiens: Encrage, 2017); Sébastien-Akira Alix, *L’éducation progressiste aux États-Unis. Histoire, philosophie et pratiques (1876-1919)* (Grenoble: Presses universitaires de Grenoble, 2017); Damiano Matasci, *L’école républicaine et l’étranger. Une histoire internationale des réformes scolaires en France, 1870-1914* (Lyon: ENS Éditions, 2015; https://doi.org/10.4000/books.enseditions.3851); Joëlle Droux and Rita Hofstetter (eds.), *Globalisation des mondes de l’éducation. Circulations, connexions, réfractions (xixᵉ et xxᵉ siècles)* (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2015; https://doi.org/10.4000/books.pur.89995).</footnote>
with actors in the school system, former pupils and peasants with low literacy
skills, Pierre Guidi gives voice to their vision of the past, the school, its rituals,
and its messages. His sympathetic and nuanced portrait of the effects of
schools and their “national pedagogy” reveals how education participates in
relations of domination in terms of language, class and gender: his study also
shows, however, how the lessons of school can mitigate, or even challenge, this
domination. During the literacy campaigns of the 1970s and 1980s, the poor
learned to read, and especially to sign, in Amharic. The testimonies in the book
reveal how important this mastery was for the people concerned, allowing
them to cope with the demands of a paper-based administration. Although
the Derg regime (1978–91) was not especially sensitive to democratic rights, it
nevertheless promoted schools and schooling, which led one farmer who was
interviewed to say: “It is the Derg that opened the door to freedom among
humans. [...] It made humans equal; it made the small and the big equal.”

This exploration of the dynamics of schooling poses questions about a
period that was rife with political turbulence, where the question of equality
resonated differently according to gender or social groups in Wolaita. From
1941 onwards, Haile Selassie sought to impose a national school system.
Pierre Guidi opens a broad window on the differentiating effects of this
unifying policy. As one reads, one discovers some remarkable figures, such
as Bogale Wallelu, who contributed greatly to an ideal of assimilation into
the culture of the political centre in the 1940s. As in many colonial contexts,
Wallelu wanted to use educated elites capable of countering the hold of an
aristocratic class in order to fight “the power of darkness.” After him, the
Governor Germame Neway—a young aristocrat who was educated in the
regime’s elite institutions, and later in the United States at the Universities of
Wisconsin and Columbia—arrived in Wolaita in 1958. A zealous reformer,
he set up hundreds of literacy centres and left a deep imprint on the
local collective consciousness as the first high-ranking official at the centre
to promote the interests of the dominated against the local elite. He was
succeeded by Wolde-Sema’et Gebre-Wold from 1963 to 1972. Working with
the Swedish International Development Agency, he financed school buildings
and promoted a sense of national unity in order to compete with Protestant
schools. At the time of the fall of the regime in 1974, progress in schooling
was undeniable but, as Pierre Guidi writes, schools still remained a male-
dominated space.

The years of the Red Terror (1974–78) had repercussions in Wolaita, with
the Maoist-inspired zemecha movement that mobilised tens of thousands of
revolutionary university and high school students in literacy and land reform
campaigns. Oral histories reveal the educational convictions of these young
men and women, and the way girls’ schooling gradually became a stake in
school policy alongside that of boys. The Marxist-Leninist Derg regime that
imposed itself in 1974 promoted schooling of the masses, brought girls into the school system, made school a way of life and placed the state at the heart of communities. Through a policy of building schools and literacy campaigns, the Amharic language spread among peasants on the periphery, despite the violent manner in which it was imposed; in the process, schools participated in the construction of national identities.

There is no retrospective angelism in Pierre Guidi's analysis, even though his assessment of the utopian dimension of the Ethiopian socialist project is very powerful. The dictatorship's pedagogy was exercised through the vertical transmission of knowledge, which was supposed to contribute to autonomy. The teachers' memories are uncompromising. For Elias Damtew, a teacher, school headmaster and civil servant in the Wolaita Zone Cultural Development Offices, communication was one-way, pupils had to listen and there was no room for discussion. In the socialist school in Wolaita, girls were much more present—they made up 40% of the pupils in both primary and secondary schools at the end of the Derg regime—but female teachers were still a very small minority: in 1990, 26% of the primary teaching staff and 6% of the secondary teaching staff were women. The school environment remained dominated by men, and there was gender-based violence, as the respondents testify, ranging from verbal insults to physical aggression. And yet, schools provided the tools that enabled adult women to organise themselves subsequently. Pierre Guidi offers the example of the “girls’ clubs” run by female student teachers in the 1990s–2000s as proof of this.

One of the great successes of this study is that readers are taken into schools and the agricultural countryside when urban youth from the capital arrived during the literacy campaigns. In this way, school policy is portrayed at ground level. The reader watches the day begin with the raising of the flag, or discovers theatrical productions under Haile Selassie. Guidi describes the *zemach’s* “literacy kits” in the 1970s and the school gardens the Derg instituted to promote education through production. The dynamics of schooling are understood by the materiality of the school space, by the rituals that punctuate it and by the authority relationships that are established.

History as a school subject is referred to in particular in order to gain an understanding of how a sense of national belonging was forged. Under Haile Selassie, unsurprisingly, the regime's discourse made a hero of the enlightened monarch, but it also used textbooks imported from England or the United States because of a lack of resources. Other textbooks conveyed moral lessons. For young girls, the British nurse Florence Nightingale was held up as a model of female devotion. In spite of this openness to foreign models, the discourse vaunting the imagined Semitic and Christian nation constructed as well its own bogeymen, notably Muslims. The Derg's rise to power transformed the national representation, and the past was reviewed
through a teleological historical materialism that justified the choice of
socialism and the power of the Derg. The Amharic textbooks, which promoted
integration through language, spoke of equality, fraternity and openness
(or transparency?); however, even in the regime's educational tools, this
"egalitarian" world remained marked by gender representations in which
women were subordinated to men and confined to the roles of mothers and
wives. As historians have shown in the case of European socialist countries,
the Ethiopian socialist revolution did not succeed in erasing the hierarchy of
the sexes.

Always sensitive to differences in social origin and gender, Pierre Guidi
shows how the different groups accommodated, appropriated or resisted the
sirens of a schooling method that tended to integrate the Wolaita into the
Ethiopian nation through the Amharic language, history lessons or working
in the fields. The book reveals the complexity of the relationship between
different groups and the requirements of a central power, analysing how
young Protestants adhered to the educational project under Haile Selassie,
or girls under the Derg regime. By going to school, obtaining teaching posts
and acquiring positions in hospitals, the administration or commerce, the
people of Wolaita participated in the redefinition of the Ethiopian nation. By
encouraging us to look closely at this school system, with all the ambiguities
surrounding its imposition from above, Pierre Guidi tells a masterful story
from below and from the margins. May his method and message win over
more disciples, allowing our history libraries to grow with studies that reveal
the richness of education as an entry point into society.
<figure><img src="image_10.png" /></figure>
Acknowledgements

Colleagues and friends have read and criticised early drafts of this book, enabling me to renew my questions and overcome the obstacles that have marked this work. I want to thank them for their advice and friendship: Pierre Boilley, Rebecca Rogers, Bernard Schlemmer, Pascale Barthélémy, Shiferaw Bekele, Françoise Blum, Ayda Bouanga, Emmanuelle Bouilly, Marie-Laure Derat, Hélène Charton, Étienne Gérard, Henri Médard, Fabrice Melka, Sabine Planel, Ophélie Rillon, Alexis Roy, Elena Vezzadini, and Anaïs Wion.

I would also particularly like to acknowledge all the people in Wolaita who took the time to share their experience, knowledge and analyses with me. The final analyses remain my own, but I owe them a great deal. I cannot list them all here, although their names appear in the sources section at the end of the book. I would like to make a special mention here of Desalegn Tanga and Euel Heramo from the Wolaita Cultural Association, Abebe Fola, the late Gebre-Mikael Kuke, Zebdewos Chama, Yemesrach Alula, Habtamu Lemma and Asela Gujubo. Thank you all!

The French Centre of Ethiopian Studies in Addis Ababa backed the translation and editorial process of the book. I want to thank particularly Marie Bridonneau, Jean-Nicolas Bach, Anne-Lise Goujon and Hanna Siyoum Tadesse for their support and trust.

Finally, many thanks to Simon Dix for translating this book from French into English, and to Bastien Miraucourt and Rosebelle Otieno for their editing work.
<figure><img src="image_11.png" /></figure>
List of acronyms

AAU: Addis Ababa University

BBC: British Broadcast Corporation

CELU: Confederation of Ethiopian Labour Unions

CIA: Central Intelligence Agency

COPWE: Commission for Organizing the Party of the Working People of Ethiopia

CSA: Central Statistic Authority

CSO: Central Statistic Office

EDU: Ethiopian Democratic Union

EOTC: Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church

EPLF: Eritrean People Liberation Front

EPRDF: Ethiopian People's Revolutionary Democratic Front

EPRP: Ethiopian People Revolutionary Party

EWLP: Experimental World Literacy Programme

GDR: German Democratic Republic

HSIU: Haylä Sellasé I University

IES: Institute of Ethiopian Studies

IEG: Imperial Ethiopian Government

LTPCEE: Long Term Planning Committee for Ethiopian Education

ME'ISON: Amharic acronym for the All-Ethiopia Socialist Movement

MOE: Ministry of Education

MOEFA: Ministry of Education and Fine Arts

MOI: Ministry of Information

NALE: National Archives and Library of Ethiopia

NDRE: National Democratic Revolution of Ethiopia

NOE: National Organization for Examinations

PMAC: Provisional Military Council

PMGE: Provisional Military Government of Ethiopia

POMOA: Provisional Office of Mass Organizational Affairs

PRDE: Popular Democratic Republic of Ethiopia

REWA: Revolutionary Ethiopian Women Association

SIDA: Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency

SIM: Sudan Interior Mission

TGE: Transitional Government of Ethiopia

TPLF: Tigray People's Liberation Front

TTC: Teacher Training Center
TTI: Teacher Training Institue

UNDP: United Nations Development Program

UNESCO: United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization

UNICEF: United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund

US: United States

USAID: United States Agency for International Development

USSR: Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

WADU: Wolaita Agricultural Development Unit

WPE: Workers' Party of Ethiopia

WZEO: Wolaita Zone Education Office
## Note on transliteration

Instead of the academic transliteration system, I have chosen to use a simple transliteration system for ease of reading. Therefore, I have thus used “e” for both the first and sixth orders, and I have not indicated the glottalized syllables.

As for the names, I have chosen to use the forms applied by the Ethiopians themselves. For instance, ወልደ ሰማዕት ገብረ ወልድ is written “Wolde-Semaet Gerbre-Wold,” and not “Wäldä Säma’et Gäbra-Wäld.” ሠለጠነ is written “Seletene,” and not “Sälätänä.”

The important concepts in Amharic whose meaning is discussed are all written directly in the Amharic syllabary, as are the quotations.

The translations from Amharic to English are mine. They have been checked and corrected by Kidane-Mariam Wolde-Giorgis and Brook Beyene.

The translations from Wolaita to English are from Asela Gujubo, who worked with me as a translator and assistant for the interviews with farmers. I would like to thank him sincerely for his invaluable help in contextualizing and interpreting the information gathered. Of course, I take sole responsibility for the final interpretations.
<figure><img src="image_12.png" /></figure>
General Maps

<figure><img src="image_13.png" /><figcaption>Figure 1. Provinces of imperial and revolutionary Ethiopia</figcaption></figure>
<figure><img src="image_14.png" /><figcaption>Figure 2. Wolaita and its *wereda*</figcaption></figure>
# General Introduction

## 1. Wolaita at the edge of the nation?

In 1999 and 2000, the inhabitants of the Wolaita region of southwest Ethiopia rose up against the introduction of a new administrative and school language, WoGaGoDa, a form of “Esperanto” created from the four languages spoken in northern Omo. WoGaGoDa is an acronym of Wolaita, Gamo, Goffa and Dawro. The reform came after the Wolaita language had been in use in administration and schools for six years, in the wake of the new language policy established by the 1994 Federal Constitution. The movement started in the cities, which were the first to receive textbooks printed in the new language, and spread very rapidly across the school network to reach the majority of the population (Data 2006). Petitions sent to the government at the time emphasised respect for the new constitution, which guaranteed every “nation, nationality and people of Ethiopia” the right to promote their culture; they explained that the introduction of WoGaGoDa was a step backwards in history, as the Wolaita had only recently finally gained their rightful place in the nation after a century of oppression (Guidi 2012). They highlighted the violence of the conquest of their kingdom in 1894 by the armies of Ethiopian Emperor Menilek II (1891–1913) and the oppression and marginalisation they had experienced under Haile Selassie’s regime (1930–74). Their status had only been improved very recently: first under the Marxist-Leninist military regime of the Derg<fnref n="1" /> (1974–91), and then under the federal regime of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF). The authors of the petitions noted that despite these decades of oppression, the Wolaita had always served Ethiopia.<fnref n="2" /> They thus reaffirmed their belonging to the nation, while recalling that this belonging also required respect for their identity. Building on the evolution of their status since integration into Ethiopia in 1894, and affirming both an Ethiopian and a Wolaita identity, they posed the question of how their group might exist in present-day federal Ethiopia.

This sense of dual belonging was formed over a fifty-year period between Haile Selassie’s 1941 policy of centralisation and the fall of the Derg in 1991.

<footnote n="1">¹The Derg (“committee” in Geez, an ancient Ethiopian language) was the military committee that gradually came to power during the popular revolution that overthrew the Haile Selassie regime in 1974. By extension, it also refers to the military government led by Mengestu Haile-Mariam (1974–91).</footnote>

<footnote n="2">²Wanna Wagesho, የወላይታ ሕዝብ ታሪክ (History of the Wolaita People) (Addis Ababa: Berhanenna Selam Printing Press, 2003), 172.</footnote>
Relations between the Wolaita and Ethiopia—its central state, its local administration and its dominant culture—were constructed out of convergences, divergences, hesitations and negotiations, and there are at least three main reasons why it is difficult to see how the big picture emerged: firstly, because a “nationality” is always structured by internal distinctions and hierarchies, even though its elites may present it as homogeneous for the purposes of promoting their claims; secondly, because the policies of the various governments have been less than unambiguous; and, finally, because Wolaita society has been reshaped in multifaceted ways over the course of fifty years. The social hierarchies and relationships of domination within local society have been transformed under the effects of external constraints and their own tensions, and these transformations have changed the ways of representing, being and acting within the national political community.

By treating school education as a meeting place between state policies and societies, and by analysing how reconfiguring the school acts on the structuring of power (Gérard 1997), this book seeks to understand how local identities have been reshaped within local, national and international dynamics since the first government school in Wolaita opened in 1941. It makes a contribution to the history of national construction as seen from the peripheries, and poses the question of how they play a part in redefining the nation.

## 2. The nation and its “modernity”

The protean idea of nationhood is at the heart of this work because nation-building has been the object of incessant tensions, as well as a challenge for successive governments, since the expansion of Ethiopia's borders at the end of the 19th century, a process that strengthened the diversity of an already heterogeneous kingdom. How does it stay together? On what material and imaginary basis should its existence be based? Under Haile Selassie, being Ethiopian meant speaking Amharic, adopting the Christian faith of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church<fnref n="3" /> and recognising oneself in the myths of northern Ethiopia. The Derg relaxed the cultural criteria for belonging to the nation, claiming that it wanted to put an end to the “oppression of nationalities.” Declaring itself to be Marxist-Leninist, it redefined the country in the direction of egalitarianism. Language, religion, culture and “nationality” were no longer discriminatory elements, at least in theory. The nation was to be developed in “masses” united by class solidarity and the struggle against internal and external enemies. The two regimes used two different strategies to cement the population horizontally and aggregate

<footnote n="3">³Tewahedo means “unified” in Geez, a reference to the unity of the nature of Christ.</footnote>
it vertically to the state. Centralisation increased, but the way the centre
dominated the peripheries changed.

Historians who have attempted to theorise the concept of “nation” have
always come up against its evanescent nature, which defies any attempt at
a definition that might offer an exhaustive meaning. As Eric Hobsbawm
says, it is impossible to provide a universal definition based on “objective”
criteria such as language, territory, history or cultural traits, as these criteria are
themselves vague, and never fully overlap (Hobsbawm 1992, 5–6). Therefore,
in the absence of a clear definition, approaches based on representations
appeared to be the most functional. The most famous example was proposed
by Benedict Anderson: nations are “imagined communities,” “members of
even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet
them, or even hear of them, yet in the mind of each lives the image of their
communion” (Anderson 2006 (1983), 6). This perspective invites us to think
of nations as entities in perpetual construction. How are national imaginaries
formed and reproduced? Needing to be alive in the minds of its members, and
taking shape in individuals, the nation is then the object of constant political
education.

The history of education proposed here is absolutely consistent with
Anderson's perspective when it comes to understanding the sources of a
national imagination, but two reservations must first be applied to both
Anderson's and Hobsbawm's positions. A concept of the nation as eminently
“modern”—without ever really knowing what the word “modern” means—
has led both these authors to situate its birth in the supposed cradle of
“modernity”—Europe—to which Anderson adds the “Creole States” of
America. Anderson's point of departure is that “nation-ness, as well as
nationalism are cultural artefacts” that “became ‘modular,’ capable of being
transplanted” (Anderson 2006 [1983], 4). For his part, Hobsbawm argues
that “the modern nation, as a state or as a set of people aspiring to become
one, differs in number, extent and nature from the communities with which
human beings have identified over almost all historical time;” its “fundamental
characteristic... is precisely its modernity” (Hobsbawm 1992, 91, 35). Two
things stand out here: the first is the Eurocentric perspective of these claims,
and the second is the rapid and confusing use of the term “modernity.” It is
unclear whether it describes a historical period—the contemporary era—or
whether it is an analytical category, in which case, what does “modern” mean,
and why would the nation be “modern?”

First of all, it will be helpful to mention Partha Chatterjee's reservation
about Anderson's theory: "If nationalisms in the rest of the world have to
choose their imagined community from certain 'modular' forms already made
available to them by Europe and the Americas, what do they have left to
imagine?" (Chatterjee 1993, 5). The British historian Christopher Bayly adds
that “the most vigorous stirring of nationality in the late 19th century was a global phenomenon. It emerged contemporaneously in large parts of Asia, Africa and the Americas, rather than first in Europe, later to be exported ‘overseas.’” This is why “in future, the theorists of nationalism will have to bring the extra-European world into a central position of their analyses, rather than seeing it as an ‘add-on bonus.’” (Bayly 2007, 327) Those of us who study Ethiopia can only agree with Bayly’s suggestion.

The Ethiopian case goes even further. Not only did 19th century Ethiopia experience a burst of nationalism as a reaction to European imperialism, but national sentiment based on a common imagination also already existed. Marie-Laure Derat has shown how as early as the 15th century, the state used the network of churches to homogenise the population under its authority by creating, cementing and renewing a collective imagination (Derat 2002, 45). Two people living at opposite ends of the kingdom were aware that they had the same sovereign, and that they shared the same myths and the same sense of historical continuity; in short, they belonged to the same political community.<fnref n="4" /> This is why, after recalling with Perry Anderson that no European medieval state was founded on nationality, Donald Donham stresses the fact that “whatever else can be said about Abyssinian society, it was founded upon a nationality” (Donham 2002, 13). This was because the correspondence between a government, a territory and a population was established; because a national imagination existed, rooted in Ethiopian history, which owed nothing to European “modernity.”

It is true, however, that, from the beginning of the 20th century, and more particularly from 1941 onwards, the schools opened by the Ethiopian government were places where European knowledge was imported for the purpose of centralisation, which was presented as “modernisation” leading to “development.” Until 1974, the Western capitalist world (the USA was the main supporter of Haile Selassie’s government) was an inspiration to the Ethiopian elites. After the 1974 revolution, however, the Derg turned to the Eastern Bloc. The USSR, the GDR and to a lesser extent Cuba became the regime’s main allies, and school objectives and curricula were changed accordingly. Capitalism and the Soviet form of socialism were both presented as models for attaining “modernity.” Although it can in no way be used as a category of analysis for research, “modernity”—and its corollary modernisation—was therefore a powerful framework for interpreting the world that determined the actions taken by the actors. The state lent itself legitimacy by claiming to be the custodian of the “modern,” and therefore of the future of the nation.

<footnote n="4">⁴Drawing on discussions with Marie-Laure Derat, I take the liberty of crossing the line between the state's desire to unify and the reality of a popular feeling of common belonging.</footnote>
The governed appropriated this concept as an aspiration for a better life. Both the opposition to Haile Selassie's regime in the 1960s and the revolution of 1974 were staged in the name of progress and conceptualised by discourses that contrasted backwardness with modernity. The word "modernity" should therefore be understood as a set of representations that were understood by actors in a plurality of ways.

Like the idea of “modernity,” the idea of nationhood was not advanced by the state alone. Based on Stalin’s theory of nationalities, the Ethiopian student movement, which developed in the 1960s, proposed the idea of a multicultural, multilingual and multiconfessional nation in opposition to Haile Selassie’s homogenising vision. The definition of the nation and its criteria for inclusion and exclusion lay at the heart of tensions over the legitimisation or contestation of power, membership of the national political community or marginalisation. The aim here is not to study the formation of the “Ethiopian nation” based on a case study, but to question the multiple and changing relationships of the inhabitants of a region within the national whole. This involves looking at the various ways in which the idea of nation has been interpreted, questioned, negotiated, contested and redefined. In Wolaita, this process has been deeply rooted in the lived experience of integration in Ethiopia, and has been especially embodied in school education.

A history of education that looks at school dynamics in relation to the normative definitions of the nation and the realities of the national imagination cannot be properly accomplished by analysing discourses and representations alone, which are inextricably linked to modes and relations of production, as well as to the distribution and practices of power. The educational historian Carl Kaestle has recalled two essential methodological elements: the social structure and its transformations are an essential starting point for explaining educational dynamics and the trajectories of school systems; and the confrontation between the dominant ideology and those of subgroups provides a conceptual support for understanding how educational processes function (Kaestle 2000, 121).

### 3. The school: imaginary and materiality of the nation

School actors are located at the point where local, national and international dynamics converge. State school education is an iconic instrument of the political and cultural practices of a government *vis-à-vis* its citizens, as well as a place of negotiation where the symbolic and material aspirations of those who govern and those who are governed, and their respective interpretations of what the social world is and should be, meet, confront and transform each other. The school as an instrument for the legitimisation of power and normalisation that applies itself to shaping ways of thinking and being is used by the state to ensure that its concept of the nation materialises. First, as Pierre
Bourdieu has pointed out, “the major mission of educational institutions is to build the nation as a population endowed with [...] the same common sense” (Bourdieu 2003, 142). Second, a school education imposes linguistic and cultural criteria that give the nation a defined identity. Finally, it ensures that students become future governed people living in the time of the nation: it teaches a common past that has been reorganised or invented to make the political community a long-term reality, and it seeks to inculcate the idea of a community of destiny by conveying the myth of progress. From this perspective, receiving a school education in many ways means receiving a baptism of “modernity.” The school carries the binary division between tradition and modernity within it, and therefore the separation of the nation into two parts, one of which is “modern” and the other to be “modernised.” The “modern” and the “traditional” polarise the lack of agreement on what the nation should be as a community in the making.

After making the point that the nation is an act of imagination, Anderson adds that “all communities larger than the primordial villages of face-to-face contact (and perhaps even these) are imagined” (Anderson 2006 [1983], 6). The history of education suggests that while this idea should be retained, it should be somewhat reworked, or at least that the exclusivity of imagination should be reduced. Christine Chivallon has noted that while Anderson provides a remarkable demonstration of the fact that the creation of the imaginary is based on various types of material support—books, newspapers, museums, monuments and so on—he does not include the materiality of the nation according to its theoretical definition (Chivallon 2007, 131–72). However, looking at the link between the school as an institution and nation-building tells us that the imaginary and materiality are not dissociated from each other. The school is an instrument for shaping the imagination through the teaching of history, myths and knowledge in general. It is also endowed with great materiality through its books, its classes, its enclosed spaces and its entry and exit times. It exerts pedagogical actions and constraints on the minds and bodies of its pupils that are far from being imaginary. Its buildings, which are inscribed into the landscape, mark the physical presence of the state and the nation at points scattered across the governed territory. Finally, while the sense of common belonging is based on the imagination, entry into the nation is not a purely imaginary act. The relationship to the nation and the school is deeply rooted in the psychologically and physically experienced concrete social reality of power relations. The “real” and the imaginary cannot be separated.

It is through schools that increasing numbers of Wolaita have forced their way into the nation. Schools are one of the instruments by which the centre asserts power over its peripheries, but they are also a tool that enables the dominated to mitigate the most glaring aspects of domination by adapting to the structures imposed on them. Major state projects also do not have
the same meaning in the centre as they do in the context of a local area: perceptions change as the scale changes. The same is true of the polysemic categories that support these projects—such as nation, progress, development and civilisation—which actors invest in and operate in multiple registers of their own. There can therefore be a wide gap between the homogeneity of a school policy and the heterogeneity of the uses made of it by social actors, between the major projects of the former and the “everyday politics” of the latter. For the state, progress is conceived at a macro level: it may, for example, mean a centralised and efficient administration or an increase in national wealth. For an individual, a family or a social group, on the other hand, it may mean access to employment and a way out of a miserable agricultural life and of a status of domination. Others may embrace larger-scale collective projects, which may or may not be those proposed by the state. The relations a society maintains with the central power and the national political community are understood through these differences, and the school is a privileged place from which to observe them. The ways in which school discourses and practices are received and interpreted must therefore be investigated and analysed in detail, as they reflect the diverse and evolving ways in which people view state policies.

## 4. School dynamics in Wolaita in the light of power relations

Drawing on the work of the historian Maurizio Gribaudi, one of the main proponents of microhistory, Jean-Hervé Jézéquel has shown that, during the colonial period in French West Africa, the logic of schooling eluded linear explanations, and that approaches in terms of macro-variables were not enough to account for it. This is why he set out to “restore the role of local configurations”—i.e. the local fabric of social relations and affiliations—in the explanation of global historical processes” (Jézéquel 2003, 422). It is in line with works on the sociology, anthropology and demography of education, which gave new impetus to educational research on Africa from the second half of the 1990s by refining the analysis of the demand for school and the specific logic underlying it (Pilon & Yaro 2001). For her part, Hélène Charton has shown how schooling was a form of resistance that enabled some Kenyans to “appropriate the tools of domination” and thus gain a foothold in the new social and political space imposed by British colonisation (Charton 2002, 3). These two perspectives invite us to consider social structures and power relations as central determinants of schooling strategies. How have the different positions in the distribution of power in Wolaita helped determine the school practices of different individuals and social groups? The relationship with school provides information on the way in which the actors question social structures and the position they occupy within them.

In the manner of Michel Foucault’s “resistances,” school pedagogy acts as a revealer. It makes it possible “to highlight power relations, to see where
they fit in, to discover their points of application and the methods they use” (Foucault 1994, 225). On the one hand, the forms of power inherent in “school culture”—a set of *norms* that define the knowledge to be taught and the behaviour to be inculcated, and a set of *practices* that enable the transmission of this knowledge and the incorporation of these practices (Julia 1995, 354)—are a part of, and reveal, the power relations that prevail in the social environment. On the other hand, because “forms of power—generally the more microscopic ones—generate the social” (Dussel 2001, 208), school culture spreads beyond school walls. From both perspectives, the history of education makes it possible to understand how individuals and groups experience power relations, how they relate to them and how they transform them, knowingly or unknowingly.

The political, social, economic and cultural realities in Wolaita in the 20th century justify this approach. Wolaita is a crossroads region 300 kilometres south of Addis Ababa that was conquered by Emperor Menilek II in 1894. At the time, it was a powerful kingdom surrounded by vassal states, and occupied a position of regional hegemony (Planel 2008, 131–40). When it was forcibly integrated into Ethiopia, it lost its sovereignty and declined from a central to a peripheral position. Resistance to the Ethiopian army was severely punished. According to Bahru Zewde, Wolaita was incorporated after one of the bloodiest campaigns of the entire expansion process (Bahru 2001, 64). What had previously been a kingdom now came under the direct control of the Ethiopian administration. Land was distributed to Menilek II’s soldiers, together with the right to impose tributes and profit from the work of peasants. These soldiers did not own the land: they were concessionaires with extensive political and judicial powers, and exercised power on behalf of the government. Armed settlers sent from the north assisted them with controlling the conquered populations. This group of new masters was assisted by Wolaita personnel at the lower levels of the administration. Under the close control of the conquerors, they were responsible for collecting taxes and ensuring justice and policing at village level. Finally, the new system rapidly integrated the large local families, including the royal family, who, like the conquerors, enjoyed rights to huge estates (Planel 2008, 159). Following liberation from the brief Italian occupation between 1936 and 1941, the government launched a land privatisation movement. Some of those who were entitled to the proceeds of the land and the people who worked it gradually became landowners, while others remained concessionaires. Nevertheless, this movement did not significantly change the distribution of power or the way it was exercised. According to Sabine Planel, the situation of the peasants actually worsened: on the one hand, it was they who bore the brunt of most of the new taxes created by the government to rationalise property taxes (Planel 2008, 152), while on the other, they had no legal ties to the land, as had been the case before, and could
be evicted by the owner at any time (Bahru 2001, 192). In short, they became
more vulnerable, while remaining just as miserable.

The society of settlers diversified after the Italian occupation. In Soddo, the
military garrison founded by the conquerors that gradually became the capital
city of Wolaita, and in smaller towns, small traders and civil servants gradually
joined the armed settlers and the new landlords. A small number of Wolaita
also slowly settled there. As the city was integrated into the national space, it
gradually became a place where people mixed in an “Amhara melting pot”:
in the city, Amharic was spoken and the townspeople joined the Ethiopian
Orthodox Tewahedo Church. The settlers who came to try their luck in the
south travelled from all over the country, not only from the north, but also
from Gurage and Oromo and their neighbours the Kambatta and Hadiya
(Almaz 1984, 24). Nevertheless, in the eyes of the rural inhabitants—who
made up the overwhelming majority of the population—the city remained
the territory of the conquerors, the location of the “Amhara” power. This
complexification of urban society, and the very fact that many landlords were
Wolaita, did not truly prevent a binary interpretation: actors on both sides
of the great power divide reified the categories “Amhara” and “Wolaita”
(Planel 2008, 162). The divisions between conqueror and conquered and
between “Amhara” and “Wolaita” overlapped, and formed a reading grid
according to which the actors interpreted the power relations under which
they lived. Therefore, speaking of this binary opposition should not prevent
finer divisions from being taken into account.

Political, economic and military domination was accompanied by a cultural
domination of northern Ethiopia based on Christianity, awareness of a
history dating back to antiquity, an emperor chosen by God, the Amharic
language and the practice of writing. When taken together, these elements
delimited a “civilised” space in the eyes of the conquerors, and at the same
time legitimised the subjugation of the conquered populations. The Wolaita
language and religion, and its identity in general, were relegated to a place
outside this space of civilisation, and were denied or humiliated. In short,
Wolaita corresponded to John Markakis’ definition of periphery: it was a
situation—and not a place—in which “powerlessness, economic exploitation
and cultural discrimination add up to a severe form of marginalisation, the
defining feature of the periphery” (Markakis 2011, 7). Periphery is therefore
defined less by geographical distance than by a position in the distribution of
the power and resources originating from the centre. Thus, while the rural
areas of Wolaita were in a peripheral position, this was much less true of
the city of Soddo: Wolaita society was itself crossed by the dividing line that
separated the centre from the periphery.

The issue here, based on a historical analysis of educational dynamics,
is therefore to place the formation of the national imagination within the
materiality of social life and the political, economic and cultural relations of domination. Almost thirty years ago, Donald Donham recalled that while the 20th century history of Ethiopia as seen from the centre was relatively well known at the time:

> Another story remains untold, for there were many “others” who helped make twentieth-century Ethiopia. These other Ethiopians lived their lives mostly in the periphery rather than at the political center; they were governors sent from Addis Ababa, northern settlers out to seek their fortunes at the frontiers and, most of all, they were the common peasants, tenants, and slaves created in the wake of Menilek’s expansion into the south. (Donham 2002, 3)

His interpretation is still relevant today. The historiography of southern Ethiopia suffers from a limited number of works and is caught up in weighty political stakes. A history based on a “multi-centred” and “inclusive” narrative of the nation’s past is struggling to emerge (Triulzi 2002, 276). On the one hand, academic history is having difficulty moving away from the national level (Clapham 2002a, 37–38), while on the other, the history of the south is currently dominated by nationalist authors, notably Oromo, who write history according to their own plans for political independence. The history of education we propose here has been placed as close as possible to the lived experience of individuals and groups, and is sensitive to the effects of power relations, as well as to micro-phenomena linked to national and international dynamics. It contributes to rediscovering the history of these silent actors, these “others” whom Donham speaks of, away from the great simplifying schemes.

This research is based in particular on some forty oral interviews conducted in Wolaita and Addis Ababa, which have made it possible to go back as far as the opening of the first school in 1941. Administrators, teachers, former students from various social backgrounds and peasants with very little schooling granted interviews as witnesses, actors or individuals with specific knowledge of one field or another. Finally, the interviews reveal how the actors interpret their history, and that of their group, their region and their country. The interviews were semi-directive, relatively free discussions on themes or events I proposed to the people I consulted. Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan reminds us that the course of an interview depends “on the strategies of the two (or more) partners in the interaction,” “on their cognitive resources” and on the context within which the relationship is situated (Olivier de Sardan 2008, 56). I therefore paid particular attention to the interactive nature of the interview and its knowledge effects. This oral history was collected in the particular context of struggles for the recognition of minority cultures and access to the centre’s resources in federal Ethiopia. Ten years after the revolt against WoGaGoDa I referred to at the beginning, the school question, and especially the issue of the languages of instruction, continued to crystallise
powerful political stakes between cultural recognition through the Wolaita
language and national integration through Amharic, against a backdrop of
social mobility and struggles for a monopoly of legitimacy (Guidi 2015). The
views of the people I consulted guided their perceptions of the past, and invited
me to be cautious about my own interpretations. However, the political issues
that constitute my data collection also allowed me to add new elements and
greater detail to the questions I was asking about the past. My hope is that
this historical perspective will help us to better understand the present by
both adding to and shedding new light on the research on “ethno-linguistic”<fnref n="5" />
federalism.

These oral sources explain and complete a varied corpus of written sources.
The official curricula and reports produced by the Ministry of Education
illustrate the aims of the school system, the ways in which the government
included education in its political projects. The organisation of teaching, the
general objectives and the more specific purposes of each subject reveal the
knowledge, skills and values to be inculcated. The school literature, especially
on history, geography, civics, political education and reading, shows how
the Haile Selassie and Derg regimes, respectively, shaped the nation's past
and projected its future, and how education legitimised their power and
political projects, defining the criteria for joining the nation as well as the
values and behaviour to be adopted. Finally, school songs were collected orally
and from the press. Singing was a very present activity in the pupils' daily
lives throughout the period being studied. Written especially to be accurately
memorised, these songs bear detailed messages with a direct political impact
and a considerable power of incorporation. All these oral and written sources
make it possible to approach the school system from multiple perspectives:
from those of the Ministry of Education officials to the inhabitants of
the villages, including teachers and pupils, from the small towns and the
provincial capital. Comparing them reveals the different ways in which actors
at various levels of the school system interpret and appropriate knowledge,
representations, values and behaviours to be inculcated, and bear witness on
how meaning is constructed and how imaginations are forged.

<footnote n="5">⁵Ethiopian “ethno-linguistic” federalism is based on the Nationalities Report produced by Stalin at Lenin’s request. It was translated into Amharic, and served as the basis for the studies of the Institute for the Studies of Ethiopian Nationalities (ISEN), which was established under the Derg in 1983. the EPRDF regime, which came to power in 1991, also adhered to Stalin’s theory of nationalities, considering the mother tongue as the main marker for defining a nationality, and divided the country into regions established according to language.</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_15.png" /></figure>
# Part 1

## The contradictions of the Assimilating School under Haile Selassie (1941–1974)
<figure><img src="image_16.png" /></figure>
Between the establishment of the national school system in 1941 and the 1974 revolution that overthrew Haile Selassie, the official aims of education were to train the personnel needed for centralisation, to create a homogenous nation and to bring about “progress.” The Ethiopian state, its partner, the United States, and the Wolaita local education authority considered these aims from a variety of angles. The emperor aimed to build his autocracy by creating a loyal administrative staff. The United States wanted to train Ethiopian elites to defend its model of society in the context of the Cold War. The pioneer of education in Wolaita, Bogale Wallelu, sought to promote his marginalised region within the nation through education (Chapter 1). For their part, the members of Wolaita’s local society—the priests of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, the local political elites, the Wolaita farmers, men and women—welcomed the new institution in different ways and for different reasons. The dynamics of education were shaped by local power relations: some wanted to retain their power, others wanted to escape marginalisation through social advancement (chapter 2).

The teaching, particularly history, conveyed and tended to impose a conception of the nation established according to the criteria of belonging defined by northern Ethiopia: its language, its religion and its founding myths. Particular attention was paid to the cult of Haile Selassie's personality as the embodiment of the nation and its future. There was a strong emphasis on dedication and a sense of duty in the context of a teleology of progress, represented by centralisation and capitalist industrial society (chapter 3). In the school environment, the pedagogical relationship, rituals and forms of socialisation generated a socialisation in tension, made up of contradictory messages. Pupils' and teachers' experiences of schooling were marked by discrepancies between a discourse of assimilation and practices of distinction between classes, nationalities and genders (chapter 4).

As schools were at the interface between local and national spheres, the political effects of school education and socialisation could be understood in terms of both local power relations and national political movements. The generation educated in the 1940s and 1950s believed in the virtues of assimilation and were loyal to the regime. While the regime could still harbour aspirations for progress, the national space was seen as a resource for escaping marginalisation. The next generation, educated in the 1960s and 1970s, became increasingly anti-establishment. As the regime entered a phase of stagnation,
the school network became a place where revolutionary ideas inspired by
Marxism were disseminated, reaching the pupils of Wolaita. Placed at the
heart of a contradiction between school discourse and the social realities of
their region, these students conceived their protest activities at the junction of
the local and national spheres (chapter 5).
Chapter 1

Thinking about the Purposes
of the National School System:
The Ethiopian State, the USA
and Wolaita

Following a timid investment in education at the beginning of the 20th century, the Ethiopian government established a national school system in the 1940s and 1950s, following the Italian occupation (1936–41). Understanding the objectives of school education involves looking at the reformist logic at work. At the end of the 19th century, an intensification of colonial pressure accelerated the movement towards the centralisation of power that had been initiated a few decades earlier by Emperor Tewodros II (1855–68). First Menilek II (1889–1913) and then Regent Tefari (1917–30), who became Emperor Haile Selassie in 1930, decided to reform the government by importing European administrative, fiscal and repressive techniques. The centralisation process was temporarily interrupted by the Italian occupation, but experienced an unprecedented acceleration after the liberation, and required the construction of a national school system. The role of the United States was central to this process: the US wanted a reliable ally in the Horn of Africa as part of its policy of containing communism, and was Haile Selassie's main supporter.

Government schools did not emerge in an educational vacuum. The
Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church had a large school network that
had trained the kingdom's scholars for centuries. Catholic and Protestant
missionaries had also begun to open schools at the end of the 19th century,
but in the 20th century, the state was in increasing need of education as
a response to its new political projects. School education was embedded in
national, international and local issues. The aim of this first chapter is to
understand how the actors at the various levels of the school system thought
about its aims. I analyse the objectives assigned to schools by the state and
its American advisers based on official documents (including reports, school
programmes, brochures published by the government and speeches) and press
articles. The educational thinking of the local school administrator, Bogale
Wallelu, is approached through official letters, his literary work, the press and oral sources.

# 1. School education before the Italian occupation of 1936

Until secular power became involved in education, literacy training was provided by the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (Haile Gabriel 1994, 617). There were also Muslim schools in Ethiopia, notably in Harar and Wello (Hussein 1986), but they were left on the margins because of their lack of ties to the central power of the Christian kingdom.

## 1.1. *Schools of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church*

The origin of literacy education provided by the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church can be traced back to the introduction of Christianity in Aksum in the 4th century, but it was particularly developed and codified between the 13th and 15th centuries, when the Christian kingdom was strengthened after the so-called Solomonic Dynasty came to power (Teshome 1979, 10). The monasteries that had the largest libraries and the most prestigious teachers gradually became points of reference that gave a sense of homogeneity to the education on offer. The fact that there was a multi-level curriculum and a hierarchy of education centres also makes it possible to speak of a real system. Its political function was threefold. Firstly, it trained priests and clerics in the service of secular power. Secondly, because of how religious and political power were interwoven, Christianity and the network of religious institutions were used by the emperors to ensure the cohesion of the kingdom by having them communicate imperial directives and by using preaching and teaching as an ideological cement (Derat 2002). Finally, the advance of the frontiers of the Christian kingdom was accompanied by the building of churches to maintain and strengthen the links between the centre and the newly-conquered peripheries (Deresse 2011).

Pupils, most exclusively male, began their education in the village church, where they learned to read and write in the liturgical language, *Geez*, before memorising passages from the Epistle of John and the Symbols of the Apostles (the “creed”). The end of this first stage, which lasted between two and four years and made it possible to pursue a career in the lower clergy, was marked by memorisation of the Psalms of David. This was the point at which the vast majority of students ended their studies (Teshome 1979, 13). Those who wished to continue entered monasteries, where *zema*, music and liturgical dances, were taught, as well as an even higher level, *qené*, a poetic art that cultivated the art of double meaning and mystical mystery. The highest level of study was called *Metseaft Bet* (House of Books), and students, who were considered by society as scholars and by their masters as peers, specialised in interpreting the Old or New Testaments, dogma, law and philosophy.
The reference works they used were the *Metsahafe-Felsafe Tabiban* (Book of the Wise Philosophers), which consisted of excerpts from figures such as Plato, Aristotle and Cicero (Paulos 1976, 81); *Tarike Negest* (History of the Kings), which included royal chronicles; *Kebre Negest* (Glory of the Kings), the Ethiopian national epic; and *FethaNegest* (Law of the Kings), the legal code that was in force from the 13th century to the middle of the 20th century.

The study of philosophical, historical and legal works at a higher level testifies to a concern for training men whose areas of ability stretched beyond the religious framework. Those who had completed advanced studies were in demand from kings, princes and the great aristocracy (Paulos 1976, 85). The written word had various functions in the practice of power: literate men were responsible for producing and distributing historical and ideological texts such as royal chronicles; the exercise of justice was partly based on texts; transfers of property were recorded in charters and donations; the incomes of the large royal and feudal estates were reported in writing; and the transmission of royal directives was ensured by exchanges of letters, as were diplomatic communications with foreign powers. This varied set of writing practices exercised by a learned elite does not, however, make it possible to think in terms of a bureaucracy: those who made their skills available to the political powers were neither organised into a constituted body nor “inscribed in a solidly established hierarchy of function” (Weber 1971, 294) as, for example, Chinese mandarins might be.

The aim of the socialisation process at work in these schools was to inculcate devotion to the church, the emperor and the country (Messay 2010, 27), and the teaching of *Kebre Negest* was a characteristic example of this. This text, which was produced by the church to give legitimacy to the Solomonian Dynasty, and is commonly thought to date from the 15th century, supported the two founding myths of Ethiopia’s Christian national imagination and political power. It referred to Ethiopian Christians as the chosen people because Menilek I, son of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon, brought the Ark of the Covenant to Ethiopia by an order of God. It also claimed that the same Menilek I founded the dynasty of Ethiopian emperors that descended from King Solomon in a direct line. In addition to spreading these nationalist myths, religious education instilled respect for social norms and hierarchies. The pedagogical relationship and school and religious rituals were intended to incorporate the deference, obedience and reserve that was expected by the authorities (Paulos 1976, 80).

Marie-Laure Derat has clearly highlighted the unifying role of the church by showing how in the 15th century, King Zara Ya'eqob used the network of religious establishments to disseminate his political theology for the purposes of doctrinal, religious and political unity, while also legitimising his own power, in order to unify his kingdom (Derat 2002, 45). Deresse Ayenachew
showed how, again in the 15th century, the army and the church were
the two key institutions responsible for establishing the power of Ethiopian
kings in the southern peripheries. As outposts of faith in a “pagan” territory,
religious institutions were to promote Christianity while strengthening the
links between the centre and the conquered region (Deresse 2011, 54). This
practice was taken up again by Emperor Menilek II during the conquests of
the late 19th century.

Government schools gradually supplanted the Church as the national
educational institution. From the end of the 19th century, the state allowed
European and American missionaries to establish schools before it invested in
education itself. This process was linked to a desire to reform the country's
government in the colonial context.

1.2. *Strengthening the state and avoiding colonisation*

The state’s investment in education from the beginning of the 20th century was the result of the emperors’ policy of centralisation, an endogenous dynamic that was accelerated by colonial pressures. The Ethiopian government undertook reforms of a kind commonly labelled with the polysemic term “modernisation” to protect the country’s independence. To this end, from the beginning of the 20th century, and more particularly from the 1920s onwards, a section of the Ethiopian political and intellectual elites militated for the state to become an agent of social transformation.

The victory of Menilek II's armies over the Italian colonial troops at Adwa
in 1896 had prevented the colonisation of Ethiopia, but the country was still
surrounded by European possessions. From the reign of Menilek II, and
even more during the regency period (1917-30), the aristocratic elites were
divided on the position to be adopted towards Europe. In the 1920s, a first
group, gathered around Empress Zeweditu, who exercised little power but
was surrounded by powerful figures such as the *fitwerari*<fnref n="1" /> Habte Giyorgis,
advocated for an isolationist foreign policy and opposed European-inspired
reforms: it was only by maintaining its identity intact—a guarantee of its
strength—that Ethiopia would be able to resist foreign threats as it had in the
past. The second group, gathered around Regent Tefari, was open to reforms
and the establishment of relations with the European powers (Addis 1975, 62).

To these two forces must be added a third group, which was allied to
the second, and whose early representatives appeared at the turn of the
20th century: the reformist intellectuals (Bahru 2002). Prolific and influential
in the 1920s and early 1930s, they defended their ideas in the columns of the
weekly newspaper sponsored by Regent Tefari, *Berhanenna Selam* (Light and

<footnote n="1">¹The highest military rank, the leader of the vanguard.</footnote>
Peace). They had received their school educations in missions, neighbouring colonies, Europe or the first schools opened by the Ethiopian government, and were strongly advocates of the establishment of state-run schools; for them, education and independence went hand in hand. In order to be able to resist the colonial threat, they believed, the state needed to reform its administration and therefore pay attention to education. In this respect, they saw Europe as both a threat and a model, but given the urgency of the situation, it was vital to draw on it, as Gebre-Hiwot Baykedagn argued in his 1924 treatise *Mengestenna YeHezbAstedadder* (The Administration of the State and the People) (Bahru 2007, 243).

Like Japan, Ethiopia needed to borrow know-how and techniques from Europe if it was to be able to stand up to it. Although it has been shown that the intellectuals of the 1920s had only a rudimentary knowledge of Japan (Bahru 1990), the country was nonetheless considered to be a source of inspiration. In the international context of the race between nations, where the most learned was also the strongest, acquiring the knowledge of the dominant seemed to be a matter of survival. On the opening day of the Tefari Mekonnen School in 1925, Hakim Workneh Eshete<fnref n="2" />, the school bursar and a regular contributor to *Berhanenna Selam*, summed this idea up very clearly before an audience of pupils, parents, teachers, high-ranking dignitaries and foreign diplomats:

> የፍጥረት ሕግ ነውና ማናቸውም ሰው ወይም ሕዝብ ባለው አኳኋን ብዙ ጊዜ ሊቆይ አይችልም ወይ ወደፊት ይገፋል ወይም ወደኋላ ይቀራል። ወደኋላ የቀረ እንደሆነ ግን ከርሱ የበለጠ ሥልጣን ባለባቸው ሰዎች ይሰጥማል። [...] የጃፓንን ሰዎች የሕዝባቸውን ሕይውትና ነፃነት ከጥፋት ያዳን ይህንን ዋና የሚያሻቸውን ነገር በጊዜ ስላወቁት ነው። ስለኑሮአቸውም ታግለው ድል ለማድረግ ቢፈለጉ የኤሮጾችን እውቀት ማወቅ ሶሱም በቶሎ ማወቁ ግጽ እንደሆነ ተረጅተው በተጋት መሥራት ጀመሩና በዓለም ታሪክ ሌሎች ሕዝብ ለመድረሱ ብዙ ዘመን ወዳስፈለጋቸው ደረጃ እርሳቸው በጀ ዓመት ደርሱበት ዝሬ ጃፓኖች እንደማናቸው የአውሮፓ ሕዝብ ያህል ወደፊት ያሉ ኃይለኞች የሠለጠኑ ናቸው ዢ

It is a natural law: neither an individual nor a people can remain passive for long; they must either go forward or stay back. But if they stay behind, someone more powerful than them will bring them down [...]. The men of Japan have saved the lives and freedom of their people by understanding this imperative necessity in time. In order to emerge victorious from this fight for their survival, they had to assimilate European knowledge quickly. They set to work with effort and, where other people took centuries to reach the level they wanted, it took them sixty years. Today, the Japanese are as powerful as the most advanced of the European peoples.

<footnote n="2">²An important political and intellectual figure of the 1920s, Hakim Workneh Eshete, who was also known as Dr Charles Martin, was educated in India and Scotland, where he qualified as a surgeon (Bahru, 2002: 37).</footnote>
In terms of European learning, the intellectuals of the 1920s referred to
the knowledge and know-how that made it possible to build and maintain
a strong economy and state. Logically, the school lay at the heart of the
project, and through it, it was possible to give Ethiopians the skills needed
to run a centralised administrative apparatus, a professional army and a
capitalist economy. Gebre-Hiwot Baykedagn warned his contemporaries that
if Ethiopia decided to transform its economy into a market economy without
qualified people, it would fall prey to imperialism. If the Ethiopians themselves
were not able to hold the reins of the national economy, Europeans would
do so, and they would undoubtedly bring the country under their control.
This was why the education of young Ethiopians had to form the "basis of
government."<fnref n="3" />

Finally, these reforms had to be undertaken from the top down. Reformist
intellectuals believed that only an authoritarian state could lead the country
along the path of progress. The right emperor for Ethiopia therefore had
to be "a friend of progress and absolutism" (Caulk 1978, 572-73). Seeing
Tefari as an enlightened monarch who would be able to implement their
reform programmes, they allied themselves with him. Thanks to them, Teferi,
who was already shaping his progressive image and presenting himself as
the future of Ethiopia in the face of a dangerously conservative aristocracy,
had the intellectual support necessary for his march towards absolute power.
In concrete terms, the establishment of schools directly administered by the
government would make it possible to train new elites who would be more
loyal than the aristocratic elite and have fewer ties to regional powers than
clerics trained under the less centralised religious system. In the shorter term,
it was essential to train Ethiopians in European languages in order to maintain
diplomatic relations with the colonial powers that encircled the country,
thereby protecting its independence (Tekeste 1990, 1). Indeed, it even seemed
essential not to have to depend on foreign translators, because on the one hand,
they were often suspected of being not only translators but also spies, while
on the other, no one had forgotten how Italy had made a biased use of the
translation of the Treaty of Wechale to justify its attempted invasion in 1896
(Bahru 2002, 75).

In this context, Regent Tefari and reformist intellectuals saw the education
provided by the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church as anachronistic and
unsuited to the challenges posed by European expansion. It was not, however,
a question of abolishing the teachings and precepts of religious education:
advocates for the establishment of government-run schools were thinking of a
mixed education, both Ethiopian and European, that would allow Ethiopia

<footnote n="3">³Gebre-Hiwot Baykedagn, *ምንግስትና የሕዝብ አስተዳደር* (*The State and People's Administration*) (Addis Ababa, Berhannenna Selam, 1953 EC [1916 EC]), 67.</footnote>
to reform without losing its identity. European tropism was obvious, but
the “European spirit” that Gebre-Hiwot Baykedagn called for was aimed
at regeneration, not elimination. Ethiopia’s future had to build on its past,
and these intellectuals emphasised the ancient greatness of Ethiopia, a once
powerful nation that needed to revitalise itself (Tekeste 1990, 2).

1.3. *Missionary schools*

Although the role of Catholic and Protestant missionaries was less important in Ethiopia than in other African countries, it should not be underestimated. Catholic Lazarist and Capuchin missionaries established schools from the second half of the 19th century (Teshome 1979, 27–28). Protestant missionaries from the Swedish Evangelical Mission (SEM) moved to Addis Ababa in 1904 (from Eritrea, where they had been active since 1866) and opened a school there in 1905 (Norberg 1977, 69). By 1935, 119 missions of all faiths were operating in the country, with 6,717 students attending missionary schools (Teshome 1979, 82). During the 1920s, the missionaries expanded their activities, and were able to enjoy the support of Regent Teferi, who was occupying the role to ensure continuity after Emperor Menilek II. The relations of the two monarchs with the missionaries were similar to those they had with Europeans in general: they were welcome if their intentions were to serve Ethiopia and not to subjugate it (Teshome 1979, 81–82). Missionaries were allowed to establish schools to impart academic knowledge and teach European languages. Teaching was carried out separately from evangelisation, which was subject to serious restrictions. Missionaries were only allowed to convert non-Christians, so that they would avoid competing with the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church and did not undermine the official religion, which was considered a pillar of national identity. Schools provided primary education centred around reading, writing and arithmetic (Norberg 1977, 68). The teaching of English and French also had an important place, reflecting a desire to have government staff trained in the languages of the colonial powers. Finally, the missionaries instilled respect for the king, the country and religion, values that were appropriate for training those who would carry out the work of a monarchy along the road to absolutism (Tekeste 2006, 13). In short, the missionaries were involved in the creation of the new elites the Ethiopian government needed.

1.4. *Secular power invests in education at the beginning of the 20th century*

The first school to be directly controlled by the government was founded by
Emperor Menilek II in 1908 and named after him. In 1925, Regent Teferi also
established a school named after him: the Tefari Mekonnen School. In 1936,
on the eve of the Italian invasion, there were twenty schools across the country,
most of which had been opened in the 1930s (Ethiopia Observer 1958, 130).
Between 1908 and 1936, the Menilek II School alone is estimated to have taught about 3,000 pupils (Tekeste 1990, 1). In a speech given on 8 July 1933 at the end-of-school-year ceremony, the headmaster of the Menilek II School recalled that many of the ministers in office at the time had sat on the benches of his school.<fnref n="4" /> At the opening ceremony of the Tefari Mekonnen School at the beginning of May 1925, Regent Teferi recalled its purpose:

> ለኢትዮጵያ ነጻነትና ጽናት ወሰንዋን ጠብቆ አሳፍሮ አስከብሮ ለማኩራትና የሕዝዕ ልብ የታመነ ኃይል እንዲኖረው ለማድረግ መሣሪያው ትምህርት መማር ነው። [...] በዚች ተማሪ ቤት ያቆምሁት የውጭ ቋንቋና ጥበብ ብቻ አይደለም፣ የሀገራችንም ቅዱሳት መጻሕፍት ወልድ ዋህድ ሃይማኖት የሚነገርበት ናት። የሀገሩንም ትምህርት ጽሕፈት ቋንቋ እንድሚገባው የማያውቅ የውጭውን እማራልሁ የሚል ምሳሌው ቀዛፊ እንደሌለው ታንኳ ነው።

Education is essential to safeguard Ethiopia's independence, to ensure that its borders are respected and made inviolable, to make it proud and to make the people aware of its strength. [...] It is not only to teach foreign languages and sciences that I founded this school but also to teach the holy books of our country and faith in the only son of God. Anyone who wants to learn foreign education before learning enough of the literature and language of his country is like a boat without oars.<fnref n="5" />

The pedagogical teams and curricula of the Menilek II and Tefari Mekonnen schools reflected this desire to impart knowledge without a loss of identity and without being educationally dependent on a particular colonial power. The headmaster and teachers at the Menilek II School were Copts who had been educated in Egypt under British rule. The fact that the Egyptian and Ethiopian churches were theologically close and institutionally linked—the Patriarch of Ethiopia was appointed by the Patriarchate of Alexandria—reduced the fear that foreign teachers might engage in religious propaganda (Teshome 1979, 31). The subjects taught were French, English, Italian, Arabic, Amharic, history, geography, mathematics, drawing and physical education (Bahru 2002, 4). The team at Tefari Mekonnen School was highly cosmopolitan. From 1925 to 1936, it was administered by French headmasters and Ethiopian stewards, while the teachers were of various nationalities: Ethiopians, Armenians, Indians, Egyptians, Syrians, Russians, English and French,<fnref n="6" /> a diversity that reflected both the effects of opportunity and a desire to counterbalance different foreign influences.

<footnote n="4">⁴Berhannenna Selam, 3 August 1933.</footnote>

<footnote n="5">⁵Berhannenna Selam, 7 May 1925.</footnote>

<footnote n="6">⁶Henri Rebeaud, a teacher at Tefari Mekonnen School, reported: “Mr Aïntaplian, the Armenian English teacher, is riding his mule. Mister Bombay, the Hindu master of carpentry [...] passes in turn. Then Captain Ditrich, the Russian drawing teacher. Then Mr. Raphael, the Egyptian professor of Arabic. Then French, English, Swiss and Syrian professors. With its teaching staff, our school is a bit like the Tower of Babel.” (Rebeaud 1934, 139)</footnote>
In the first year, the subjects taught were French, English, Amharic, Geez, drawing and music. Between 1925 and 1930, arithmetic, science and history were gradually added.<fnref n="7" /> However, it was the learning of European languages that received the most attention. At Tefari Mekonnen School, pupils chose between the “French” and “English” curricula (Seid 1983, 15–16). In general, the teaching provided in these schools reflected a desire for a more outward-looking approach than Ethiopian religious education, so that government officials would be adapted to the new international environment in which Ethiopia found itself. After learning to read, write and acquire skills in English or French, former students moved on to the widely-available jobs as interpreters, clerks or civil servants (Bahru 2002, 33).

Children from aristocratic families attended these schools alongside young people of more humble origins. In his memoirs, Emmanuel Abraham, the Director-General of the Ministry of Education from 1950 to 1955, recalls the competitions that made him, a peasant child from Wellega, a pupil at Tefari Mekonnen School.<fnref n="8" /> The opening of the school to children from modest backgrounds corresponded to the idea of training new kinds of men. Some were sponsored by local dignitaries or directly by Regent Teferi, while others were left to their own devices. Emmanuel Abraham experienced all three situations in succession. Many of these figures thus occupied important posts for which birth had not predestined them. Before the Italian occupation, the embryonic school system was beginning to transform the means of access to power, initiating a process at the heart of the politics of centralisation: the replacement of aristocratic elites who owed their power to their ability to levy taxes and raise an army by civil servants who had gone through schooling.

Creating new elites meant an intensive process of political socialisation in order to instil loyalty and dedication. In this respect, the pre-Italian occupation schools were laboratories for the official propaganda that marked Haile Selassie's entire reign. While he was not yet emperor, Regent Teferi had speeches and practices ready that combined the ancient Ethiopian imperial ideology—the chosen emperor of God and the incarnation of an invincible and eternal Ethiopia—with the themes and techniques of 20th century authoritarian regimes: a personality cult, patriotism, the myth of progress and disciplinary training within a state institution. The transmission of ideology was ensured by daily, annual or more occasional school rituals that marked the life of the school: flag-raising, national holidays (such as the Feast of

<footnote n="7">⁷Merse-Hazen Wolde-Kirkos Fund, 18.06, NALE. Merse-Hazen was a teacher of Amharic at the Tefari Mekonnen School from 1925 to 1930 and then held various government posts. He collected many documents about the school, which are now in the National Archives of Ethiopia.</footnote>

<footnote n="8">⁸Emmanuel Abraham, *Reminiscences of my Life* (Oslo: Lunde forlag, 1995), 16–24.</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_17.png" /><figcaption>Figure 3. Students before the Italian occupation, probably in the 1920s</figcaption></figure>

the Cross, Epiphany, Easter, the celebration of the victory at Adwa and the birthdays of the emperor and empress) and visits by foreign dignitaries. Each of these occasions involved military parades and song, which instilled a sense of sacrifice and helped create an esprit de corps. Song was a favoured didactic tool for at least two reasons. The first was its social significance: songs occupy an important place in oral cultures, and this is very much the case in Ethiopia. The second was "its triple characteristic of brevity, density and coherence," which facilitated memorisation (Kita K. Masandi 2003, 200).

Every morning, at the flag ceremony, the children sang the national anthem, which had been written in the mid-1920s on the orders of Regent Teferi. These pupils were the first Ethiopians to sing it.<fnref n="9" /> The king, aided by divine power and enjoying the unconditional support of his united and heroic people, was the protector and guarantor of the country's freedom:

* ኢትዮጵያ ሆይ ደስ ይብለሽ : በአምላክሽ ኃይል በንጉሥሽ

* ተባብረዋል አርበኞችሽ : አይነካም ከቶ ነፃነትሽ

* ብርቱ ናቸው ተራሮችሽ : አትደፈሪም በጠላቶችሽ

* ድል አድራጊው ንጉሣችን : ይኑርልን ለክብራችን

<footnote n="9">⁹Merse-Hazen Wolde-Kirkos Fund, 18.06, NALE.</footnote>
O Ethiopia, Rejoice! By the might of your God, by the sovereignty of your king,
Your heroes stand united, your freedom enduring, beyond reach.
Unyielding are your mountains, fear not the encroaching foes.
Our King shall lead you to triumph, may He thrive for our honor!<fnref n="10" />

On 20 May 1927, the pupils of the Menilek II School welcomed the Duke of Abruzzo (at a time when Italy's aggressive intentions towards Ethiopia were well-known) with a song that ended with a call to sacrifice oneself for the freedom of the country. The visit continued at the Tefari Mekonnen School with a song that condensed the nationalist emperor-motherland-progress triptych, the sense of sacrifice and the fundamental role of education:

ዘላለም ያኑርልን
የነጻነት አምባችንን አምላክ ያጠብቅልን
ለሶስቱ ቀለሞች ፅናት ላገር ለሕዝባችን ልማት
እውቀት እውነት ሊነግሠብን ተፋሪን ያኑርልን
የተፋሪ መኮንን ትምህርት ቤት ተማሮች
ለኩራታችን ሶስት ቀለሞች
ለነጻነት ብሎ መሞት ይህ ነው የኛ ምኞት

May God preserve our King for eternity.
God protects the high plateau of our freedom.

For the strength of our three colours, for the progress of our country and people,
For the reign of wisdom and truth, may He keep Teferi alive for us!

We, pupils of the Tefari Mekonnen School

Dying for the dignity of our three colours and for freedom

Is our greatest aspiration.<fnref n="11" />

Freedom, knowledge and progress converged in the person of Tefari, who was the cornerstone of the whole ideological edifice. The cult of personality was transmitted both through sacredness and proximity: the protector, saviour and bearer of the national future, Tefari Mekonnen was also a benevolent father. Indeed, he endeavoured to create a filial bond between himself and his future elites through the practice of paternalism. Pupils' food was prepared in the palace kitchens and he regularly visited the schools at mealtimes, sitting at the end of the table to give advice to the pupils.

There are a number of elements that postulate the effectiveness of this political socialisation. School ideology has been based on endogenous traits that are open to restructuring, and which it has reactivated and inflected. The first is the political imagination of Christian Ethiopia. The Christian kingdom's society was politically integrated, with a common sense of belonging based on religion, a myth establishing a common origin and the idea of a shared

<footnote n="10">¹⁰Ibid.</footnote>

<footnote n="11">¹¹Berhanenna Selam, 26 May 1927.</footnote>
historical continuity of which the emperor was the symbol. The young pupils
from the aristocratic families of the Shewa and from the north in general
had already incorporated national myths and imperial mysticism, which
were transmitted through their family upbringing, as a shared sense. The
nationalism deployed in schools had therefore not been imported: it was a
reapplication of the discourses and content of a sedimented national ideology
with considerable historical depth. The time was also ripe for nationalism to
be intensified: colonial encirclement had reactivated patriotic fervour and an
urgency for unity, tightening the bonds around the person of the emperor.

The idea of progress could be based on the hierarchy of peoples as developed
by Christian Ethiopia. As Emperor Menilek II's letter of 1891 to Great Britain,
France, Germany, Italy and Russia revealed, Ethiopia saw itself as a Christian,
"civilised" island surrounded by "pagans." It was therefore unnecessary to
create a neologism to express the idea of progress as a race among nations,
as Amharic already had similar concepts that could be mobilised. ሥልጣኔ
(seltané), from the verb ሠለጠነ (sälätänä), which means "to be civilised" or "to
police oneself," but also "to take power" or "to gain power," can be translated
as "civilisation" and "progress," while its derived form ሥልጣን (seltan) means
"power" or "authority." By being extended to society, the term ልማት (lemmat)
from the verb ለማ (lemma), "to be fertile," which applies to the growth of plants,
made it possible to convey the idea of social progress and then "development"
from the 1940s. The notion of እድገት (edgät), from the verb አደገ (adägä),
"to grow," and also "to rise up the hierarchy" (Kane 1990), applied to both
humans and nations. Finally, the metaphor of knowledge dispensing a light
that dispels darkness, that awakens and invigorates, circulated from religious
knowledge to school knowledge. The Amharic language has a rich and precise
vocabulary concerning the acquisition and use of knowledge: መማር (memmar)
symbolises the learning process; ትምህርት (temhert) means education and its
content; እውቀት (ewqät) means knowledge, the knowledge of እውነት (ewnät),
truth or world order; and መርመራ (mermera) means curiosity, questioning and
investigation (Maimire 2010, 80).

While school was perceived as foreign, the ideology of schools was not
entirely new to Ethiopian students. It brought new knowledge such as foreign
languages or history and geography lessons that were not confined to Ethiopia,
but the school also provided a form of socialisation that was close to family,
community and religious socialisation.

## 2. The establishment of the national school system from 1941

The educational objectives of the 1920s and 1930s were taken over by the
central government in the new national and international post-war context.
The emperor-unity-progress trinity remained the ideological foundation of
the school system that was constructed in the 1940s and 1950s. Returning
to the imperial throne in 1941 after five years of exile in England, Haile Selassie immediately resumed his autocratic project, which reached its apex in the mid-1950s. The school system was to serve a political purpose by supporting the training of a controlled administrative staff and homogenising the various populations of the empire by disseminating the Amharic language, the political model and “Amhara values” (Girma 1984, 65). English remained the central language, however—although officially it was in second place after Amharic—as it was believed that knowledge of English gave access to most of the world’s literature.<fnref n="12" /> Implementation of the autocratic centralisation project was carried out in close cooperation with the United States, which provided Haile Selassie with resources for his policy. In the context of the Cold War, this provided the US government with a strategically positioned and stable client state. The strengthening of an Ethiopian nation-state and the mobilisation of modernisation and development concepts to this end were in the interests of both sides.

## 2.1. *Education, nation and progress in the service of autocracy*

The first emergency to be dealt with was reconstruction. As the Ethiopian pedagogue Maaza Bekele wrote in 1966, competent people had to be trained as quickly as possible for the administration, industry, transport, commerce, the army, the police, etc. (Teshome 1979, 56.) The first step was to rebuild the country. The central government's earliest aim was to reaffirm its authority, and the army was reorganised as early as 1941 (Bahru 2002, 207). In 1942, a decree was issued that set out the powers of the regional governors, who were no longer lords of their domains but representatives appointed by the emperor. They lost the right to levy taxes other than those ordered by the central government, could no longer appoint, move or dismiss an official and could not form their own police or armed forces. Finally, they had to submit a monthly report to the Ministry of the Interior, under whose authority the provincial administration was thereafter placed (Markakis 1974, 290–91). In 1943, two imperial orders announced the creation of eleven ministries (Bahru 2002, 203). As a sign of the crucial role of the establishment of the school system in this process of institutional strengthening, the Ministry of Education was established as soon as the emperor returned to Addis Ababa in 1941.<fnref n="13" />

Haile Selassie attempted to transform the multilingual and multi-denominational empire under his care into a homogeneous national state (Abebe 1992, 98–99). The construction of a national school system enabled him to envisage this homogenisation in concrete terms, including in the long term. Amharic

<footnote n="12">¹²MOEFA, *Curriculum for Ethiopian Schools Years 1–8* (1947), 113.</footnote>

<footnote n="13">¹³MOI, *Ethiopia Today: Education* (1973), 12.</footnote>
was the preferred language vehicle for uniformity. As the first school curricu-
lum developed in 1947 stated: "The Ministry of Education wishes to help unify
the Empire by means of the one language accepted by the Imperial Ethiopian
Government as the authoritative and official language of the country. Em-
phasis must first be placed on Amharic, which, it is hoped, will eventually
be the language of the whole of Ethiopia."<fnref n="14" /> Seven years later, in 1954, the
authors of the *Basic Recommendations for the Reorganization and Development of
Education in Ethiopia* recalled that universal basic education was a necessity to
consolidate the social and political unity of the empire through the mass spread
of Amharic.<fnref n="15" /> Moral education had the task of transmitting the religious values
of the Christian North. The 1947 curriculum specified:

Bible and Morals has been given a prominent place in the curriculum because of its importance for building up the fundamentals of a good national life, and its need in the life of the individual for true happiness and real prosperity. This curriculum in Bible and Morals is taught on the authority of a special committee appointed by His Imperial Majesty. It is a responsibility of the committee to see that the Bible is taught without partiality towards any particular group or sect, and that a child makes his own interpretations in accordance with his own conscience and will.<fnref n="16" />

This excluded Ethiopian Muslims, however, as it meant that the school
system was that of a Christian nation. Furthermore, the insistence that a child
should be able to interpret the Bible according to her or his own beliefs,
which on the surface appeared to defend an ecumenical view of religion, was
in reality deceptive: it was the moral and political precepts of the Ethiopian
Orthodox Tewahedo Church that were being taught (Yallew 1970, 1). Abebe
Fisseha made it clear how the regime's universalist discourse obscured its
particularist conception of citizenship, as was evident from the Education
Council, which was established in 1947. During its thirty-seven years of
existence until 1974, its main activities were the battle against Muslim schools
and the role played by the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church in the
regime's homogenisation project. Its members were exclusively followers of
the church (with the exception of the Protestant Emmanuel Abraham, who
only served for six months), despite the fact that about 40 percent of Ethiopians
were Muslims (Abebe 1998, 168–74).

In common with the school histories produced by all nation-states, the
history of Ethiopia as taught in its schools sought to disseminate the great

<footnote n="14">¹⁴MOEFA, *Curriculum for Ethiopian Schools Years 1–8* (1947), 89.</footnote>

<footnote n="15">¹⁵MOEFA, *Basic Recommendations for the Reorganization and Development of Education in Ethiopia—The First Report of the Long-Term Planning Committee for Ethiopian Education* (1954), 7–8.</footnote>

<footnote n="16">¹⁶MOEFA, *Curriculum for Ethiopian Schools Years 1–8* (1947), 91.</footnote>
national myths, to inscribe the present within a glorious past and to embody
the continuity (and the eternality) of Ethiopia. In the 1947 programmes,
history began with Haile Selassie and moved back into the past.<fnref n="17" /> The 1958
programmes also presented a history of Ethiopia dating back from the reign
of Haile Selassie to the founding myth of Emperor Menilek I, son of the
Queen of Sheba and King Solomon, who is said to have founded the dynasty
of Ethiopian emperors in the 10th century BC.<fnref n="18" /> In line with the aim of
inculcating loyalty to the emperor, the story proposed a mythical, linear
evolution of the political community that culminated with the reign of Haile
Selassie.

Those who received their education in this school system had to be able
to perform the typical functions of a “progressive,” “developing” nation.<fnref n="19" /> In
line with the pre-war period, the emperor’s entire political project was placed
under the banner of progress, the ideological driving force of centralisation
and homogenisation. As he recalled in a speech in 1963: “More and more
of the young men and women to whom the task of directing their nation
along the path of progress and enlightenment will one day pass are today
receiving formal education.”<fnref n="20" /> Ethiopia was no exception to the rule that
the idea of progress lay at the heart of the teleologies of nation-states, and
centralisation and homogenisation were seen as appropriate steps in this
direction. Heterogeneity, on the other hand, which was synonymous with
disunity and dispersion, was seen as detrimental. Hence, we see on the one
hand the normalising function of national school systems and on the other
the fact that they were rooted in the myth of continuous progress. This was
the theme of a booklet on education published by the Ethiopian Ministry of
Information in 1964:

> This booklet is intended to give a brief picture of the progressive unfolding of this revived post-liberation reform, which has done more than any other single factor to change Ethiopia. [...] Through the Emperor's initiative and unflagging support, education has been accepted by everyone as the key to development.<fnref n="21" />

Education was presented as a gift from the emperor to his subjects, as another
brochure produced by the Ministry of Information in 1973 shows:

> Ethiopia owes a great debt to Emperor Haile Selassie I [...] Throughout the pre-war and post-war development of a modern education system in Ethiopia,

<footnote n="17">¹⁷Ibid., 116.</footnote>

<footnote n="18">¹⁸MOEFA, *Elementary School Curriculum Years I-VIII* (1958), 109.</footnote>

<footnote n="19">¹⁹MOEFA, *General Information on Educational Policy, Legislation, and Administration* (1968), 2.</footnote>

<footnote n="20">²⁰MOI, *Education in Ethiopia* (1964), 1.</footnote>

<footnote n="21">²¹Ibid., 2.</footnote>
His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I has played a key role. He has promoted the development of some of the first of these new institutions and paid their expenses from his own purse. He has himself retained the Education portfolio [...] for many years, which is testimony to the importance he attaches to the question.<fnref n="22" />

It appeared that Haile Selassie was the sole craftsman of education. Christopher Clapham was correct, however, when he interpreted the fact that the emperor had reserved the post of Minister of Education for himself between 1947 and 1966 as an act aimed at perfecting his image as a moderniser and nurturing his cult of personality. In fact, he showed no particular interest in the post (Clapham 1969, 56). Education was thus used in at least two utilitarian ways: on the one hand, to provide the human means of centralisation, and on the other to create Haile Selassie's public image as a progressive, selfless benefactor.

## 2.2. *The United States: modernisation against communism*

The United States provided material and technical resources, advisors and unwavering political support. The school system was established, developed and consolidated under the auspices of first British and then American advisers in an international context that was marked by declining colonisation and the Cold War. Ethiopia had been liberated from Italian occupation with the help of the British army, and two treaties signed in 1942 and 1944 had made Ethiopia heavily dependent on Britain. The rapprochement with the United States was initiated by Ethiopia because the emperor wanted to break free of Britain's grip, and he considered the United States a more appropriate ally in the construction of his autocracy (Bahru 2002, 179–84). The transition of education from British to American supervision began in 1945 when two American educationists, Messrs Hambrook and Rucknick, were appointed school superintendents at the Ministry of Education (Paulos 2006, 80). From the early 1950s, US influence on Ethiopian government education through funding, curriculum design and administrative and teaching staff had no rivals. In 1952, Ethiopia and the United States signed the Point IV Program, a broad technical and economic assistance programme that included educational cooperation. Its objective was to solve economic problems through assistance with a long-term development project.<fnref n="23" />

It is important to understand the ideology and geopolitical strategy on which this programme was based. It took its name from the fourth point of President Truman's inauguration speech on 20 January 1949, which marked the beginning of the United States' involvement in international development.

<footnote n="22">²²MOI, *Ethiopia Today: Education* (1973), 4.</footnote>

<footnote n="23">²³"Point IV: Its Concept and Development," *Ethiopia Observer* (February 1959), 3-9.</footnote>
The president justified assistance for development by explaining that “half the people of the world [were] living in conditions approaching misery” and that “poverty [was] a handicap and a threat both to them and to more prosperous areas.”<fnref n="24" /> Aid was part of the US’s policy to contain communism. Helping a country by proposing a capitalist model of development meant placing it in the bosom of the “free world.” This is why the White House envisaged “orderly political, economic and social evolution” in Ethiopia that would contain the revolutionary push in the Horn: Addis Ababa was a strategic location not only in Africa, but also for the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean (Marcus 1995, 1). This explains the substantial military aid the United States gave Ethiopia, which was separate from the Point Four Program, which instead emphasised humanist values. Education was part of the cultural component of this containment policy. Washington became intensively involved in Ethiopian education with a view to training future elites who would be oriented towards the United States and defend its interests. Like the American Universities in Cairo and Beirut in their respective regions, Addis Ababa University was to be a centre from which the culture and political ideology of the United States would spread (Paulos 2006, 89).<fnref n="25" />

The team of educational advisers in the Point IV Program arrived in Addis Ababa in 1953 (Teshome 1979, 105). In November of the same year, the Long Term Planning Committee for Ethiopian Education (LTPCEE) was established within the Ministry of Education. Its duties were to analyse and make proposals on curricula and materials, teacher training, school organisation and educational objectives. In short, it was the body that decided on the direction of the entire school system. It comprised personnel from the Ministry of Education, Point IV Program advisers and school headmasters. In 1954, out of its nine members, four were Ethiopians, four were Americans and one was Canadian (Lucien Matte, the leader of the team of Jesuits that was running the University College at the time).<fnref n="26" /> In June 1955, the committee issued the “First Ten-Year Plan for the Controlled Expansion of Education in Ethiopia.” This document was drawn up by fourteen people, only four of whom were Ethiopians: the Deputy Minister of Education, the Director General of the Ministry of Education, the headmaster of the Amha Desta school and an Ethiopian member of the Point IV Program. The remainder, who were all Americans, were school headmasters and experts from the

<footnote n="24">²⁴“Inaugural Address of Harry S. Truman” (Thursday, January 20, 1949. https://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/truman.asp [archive]).</footnote>

<footnote n="25">²⁵Paulos Milkias further cites a 1963 letter from the US ambassador in which he states that one of the tasks of US teachers should be to introduce the history, culture, and customs of the United States to the people of Ethiopia (Paulos 2006, 89).</footnote>

<footnote n="26">²⁶MOEFA, *Basic Recommendations...*, 4–5.</footnote>
Point IV Program team and the Ministry of Education. In addition, fourteen “ helpers and advisers ” collaborated in the development of the plan, including only one Ethiopian.<fnref n="27" /> Through the LTPCEE, American expatriates exerted considerable power over the direction of the national school system. How did they see the role of education?

In the preface to the official curriculum of 1947, the American Robert W. Hambrook, who was an “Educational Adviser to the Imperial Govern- ment of Ethiopia,” wrote that the school system should provide an education that was adapted to the needs of the modern world, arguing that no nation could now live in isolation.<fnref n="28" /> The uniqueness of the world lay in “modernity,” as represented by the industrial society, and regions outside this sphere had to adapt to it, as difference was seen as backwardness and inadequacy. Similarly, the authors of the first report for the LTPCEE published in 1954 recalled that the time when Ethiopia could live in isolation was over and that its sur- vival as an independent nation required increasing international integration, knowledge of the “outside world” and technical skills.<fnref n="29" /> This view mirrored the theory of modernisation that was in vogue in the 1950s, which “seemed to spontaneously accept that American society [...] was the telos towards which the whole world was converging” (Cooper 2010, 158–59).

Modernisation theory postulated that well-articulated cultural, political,
social and economic transformations would bring progress by ensuring a tran-
sition from “tradition” to “modernity“ (Cooper 2010, 162). Official documents
of the Ministry of Education and scholarly articles by intellectuals at Addis
Ababa University show that the goal of the education system was to make
this transition: “The MOE envisages [...] helping the students to adapt to
the changing socio-economic pattern, from an agricultural to an industrial
way of life, from the traditional to the more modern.”<fnref n="30" /> A 1974 text by
Ethiopian pedagogues testified to the spirit that prevailed at the time: “The
most important service that an educational system can render is to change those
basic attitudes prevalent in our traditional society that are inconsistent with
the modern society that we are aspiring toward.” A few lines later, the same
authors explained that there were two types of attitude that corresponded to
two types of men: the “traditional” man, who was resigned and superstitious,
and the rational and scientific “modern” man (Girma, Abraham & Abba
Samuel 1974, 3).

<footnote n="27"><sup>27</sup>MOEFA, *A Ten Year Plan for the Controlled Expansion of Education in Ethiopia*, suggestions prepared by the Long Range Planning Committee attached to the Imperial Government of Ethiopia (1955), 1–2.</footnote>

<footnote n="28"><sup>28</sup>MOEFA, *Curriculum for Ethiopian Schools Years 1–8* (1947), 86–87.</footnote>

<footnote n="29"><sup>29</sup>MOEFA, *Basic Recommendations..., 1.*</footnote>

<footnote n="30">³⁰MOI, *Education in Ethiopia* (1964), 8.</footnote>
A text from the Point IV Program published in the journal *Ethiopia Observer* in 1959 also testifies to the adherence of American advisers to human capital theory. The authors wrote that education was an investment in people.<fnref n="31" /> Human capital theory is, as its name suggests, an economic conception of education as a present investment that should bring future gains. It was developed in the United States after the Second World War, in particular by the economist Theodore W. Shultz, and postulated an organic link between education and increased wealth (Shultz 1961, 1–17). The theory was exported internationally by agencies such as UNESCO. Finally, the article by the economist Assefa Bequele, “The Educational Framework of Economic Development in Ethiopia,” published in 1967 in the journal *Ethiopia Observer*, testifies to the adoption of the human capital theory by Ethiopian academics. After recalling “the pivotal role that investment in human capital plays in the development process,” he explained:

> For those underdeveloped countries which have committed to [...] "industrialism," it becomes incumbent upon them to consider the educational framework, which has certainly a great deal to do with the mental and intellectual transformations and economic ethos that underlie the dynamics of development. (Assefa 1967, 49)

In short, the conditions under which the national school system was set up and the different purposes attributed to it by the Ethiopian and American actors from the central government serve to explain its hybrid nature. On the one hand, the plan to centralise power through the administrative and repressive techniques practised in Western countries, the dependence on American aid and the idea that progress should follow the example of the capitalist industrialised countries led to the education provided being modelled on the American system. On the other hand, centralisation and homogenisation through Amharisation, which were the nationalist goals of the school system, gave it its “Ethiopian” character.

### 3. Bogale Wallelu in Wolaita: assimilation against oppression

While at the national level the school system was designed and built in accordance with the Ethiopian state's major projects and the geopolitical interests of the United States, understanding educational dynamics from the periphery involves looking at the perspective of local school actors. Compared to Addis Ababa and the central regions, the south was a latecomer to schooling. However, Wolaita was an exception to this rule. A school was opened in Soddo as early as October 1941, after the liberation, on the initiative of Bogale Wallelu, a native of Wolaita who had developed close links with the centre

<footnote n="31">³¹“Point IV: Its Concept and Development,” *Ethiopia Observer* (February 1959), 5.</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_18.png" /><figcaption>Figure 4. Bogale Wallelu</figcaption></figure>

through his educational career. Born in the village of Shanto in 1909, son of a priest from the “indigenous” Wolaita religion, he received his early education at a local Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church school.<fnref n="32" /> In 1925, he left for Addis Ababa, where his uncle lived (he had been taken as a slave by Menilek II’s soldiers), to continue his education. From there, he went to the Debre Libanos Monastery, a very well-renowned centre of religious education, before finishing his schooling at the Menilek II School on the eve of the Italian occupation.<fnref n="33" /> Having been educated and socialised in two of the country’s most prestigious religious and governmental institutions, Bogale Wallelu was both a product and bearer of their educational traditions in a peripheral region.

His thinking provides an illuminating entry point for articulating the local and national dimensions of education. It can be reconstructed from official letters written in his own hand in the early 1940s, extracts of which were published in two newspaper articles in the 1980s, from his history of Wolaita published in 1964 (Bogale 1964) and from statements attributed to him by former colleagues and pupils. As an education activist, he often spoke in public, at school ceremonies and at public gatherings such as weddings and religious festivals, where he used to convince families to send their children to school. Bogale Wallelu is an absolutely central figure: as a school builder, school administrator and teacher, he was a mentor to the school generations of the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s.

<footnote n="32">³²Fancho Fanta (lecturer in the Department of History and Heritage Management, Wolaita Sodo University), interview by the author, Soddo (Wolaita), 10 May 2016.</footnote>

<footnote>All the interviews quoted in this book were conducted by the author. They were conducted in English, Amharic or Wolaita—in the latter case Asela Gujubo was responsible for the translation. For full details, see the “Sources” section at the end of this book, subsection “Interviews.”</footnote>

<footnote n="33">³³Addis Zemen, 31 May 1985.</footnote>
**3.1. School education in Wolaita before the Italian occupation**

The first schools in Wolaita belonged to the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. Churches and monasteries had been established since the conquest in 1894, and they numbered about forty at the time of the Italian invasion in 1936.34 The church had two particular political roles. The first was to convert the aristocratic families of Wolaita in order to assimilate them into the new power, and the second was to legitimise the conquest. To this end, priests spread the story that appeared in the hagiography of Saint Tekle Haymanot, which had been produced in the monastery of Debre Libanos in the 16th century. According to this text, in the 13th century, the saint evangelised the people in the south of the Christian kingdom, in particular in a kingdom called Damot. By resuscitating this myth and equating Wolaita with Damot, Emperor Menilek II justified the conquest by claiming to restore Christianity to a region that had been lost to paganism for six centuries (Balisky 2009, 33–35).35 However, the priests who travelled down from the north did not seek a mass evangelisation of the population of Wolaita: the religious services they held were for the families of settlers and converted Wolaita families. They did, however, implant the educational tradition of the Tewahedo Church.

The first Catholic and Protestant missionaries arrived in Wolaita in the late 1920s. The French Capuchin Father Pascal de Luchon opened a school in 1929 that was teaching about 20 students by the early 1930s. This teaching consisted of literacy in Amharic and French for evangelisation purposes. The American Protestant missionaries from the Sudan Interior Mission arrived in 1930 and opened a school where they taught literacy in Amharic and Wolaita in order to teach the Bible to the first converts. Both schools were closed in 1937 during the Italian occupation (Demeke 1985, 1). In the decades after liberation, Catholic and Protestant missionaries played important but distinct educational roles, which will be discussed in the following chapters.

**3.2. National unity and Haile Selassie cult**

In his book *YeWollamo Hezb Tarik* (The History of the Wolaita People) published in 1965, Bogale Wallelu took up the official discourse of legitimisation of the conquest, according to which the churches established up to Gamo—"the southernmost limit of evangelization in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,"

<footnote n="34">³⁴Merigeta Tesfaye (a priest of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church), interview by the author, Soddo, 20 October 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="35">³⁵This narrative was also used by Menilek II to justify the conquest of kingdoms other than Wolaita; see Bouanga (2013).</footnote>
according to Jacques Burreau (Bureau 1976, 295)—attested to the ancient
Ethiopianness of Wolaita, Gamo-Goffa and Sidamo:

በአቡነ ተክለ ሃይማኖት ዘመን ከቡሌጋ ከመንዝ ከተጉለት ከጐንደር ከጐጃም ፣
ከትገሬ ከወሎ ፣ ከሌሎቹም ከኢትዮጵያ አውራጃዎች ወደ ወላሞና ወደገሙ ጉፋ
ወደ ሲዳሞም የገቡት በመምህርነትና በሰባኪነትም አገሪቱን ያሳመኑ የነበሩት በብዙ
ወሬሪዎች በመቌረት መገናኛ በማጣት አስተማሪዎችና ካህናት በጠላት ስለተገደሉባቸው
የሚያስተምራቸው አጥተው በቋንቋ መለወጥና በባህልም ተረሳስተው ነበር። ዳሩ ግን
ቀደም ብሎ እንደተነገረው ፣ ቤተ ክርስቲያኑና ንዋየ ቅድሳቱ እንደ ነበረ ስለ ተገኘ ፣
በአጹ ምኒልክ ዘመነ ምንግስት እንደገና ተቋቋመ።

Those who in the time of Abune Tekle Haymanot came from Bulga, Menz, Tegulet, Gondar, Godjam, Tegre, Wello and other regions of Ethiopia to Wolamo, Gamo-Goffa and Sidamo, and who were converting the locals through teaching and preaching, were separated and deprived of communication [with Ethiopia] by many invaders. The teachers and priests having been killed by the enemy, [the inhabitants of the converted areas] lost what they had learned, changed their languages and forgot their culture. Nevertheless, as mentioned earlier, remnants of churches and artefacts endured, and governance was reinstated during the reign of Emperor Menilek. (Bogale 1964, 21).

Although the presence of churches does not necessarily indicate any sig-
nificant Christianisation of the area (Deresse 2011), Bogale Wallelu presented
these regions as formerly Christian, and hence Ethiopian. The territorial
expansion carried out by Menilek II was not a series of conquests, but a reuni-
fication. He also wrote that the centuries spent outside the bosom of Ethiopia
had been a dark period. The conquest of Menilek II had ushered a return to
civilisation after centuries of oblivion. This was the framework within which
he defended the unifying role of education, which was responsible for restoring
the unity of the empire's peoples under the enlightened, sacred leadership of
Emperor Haile Selassie:

እኛም ልጆቻቸው እንደሳቸው እንድንሆን ያስፈልገናልና ለአገራችን ለምንግሥታችን በግርማዊ ቀዳማዊ ኃይለ ሥላሴ መሪነትና ሐዋሪያነት ትምህርት በመላ ኢትዮጵያ እንዲዳረስና እንድናስተዋውቅ አንድነታችንንም በፍቅርና በመረዳዳት እንድንገልጽ እኛ እኛን እንድንሆን እኛነታችን ያስድደናል ።

And we, the children of [Tekle Haymanot], must act like him for our country and our government. We must, under the guidance and apostolate of His Majesty Haile Selassie I, spread and publicize education throughout Ethiopia, and remind people of the proof of our unity, in love and mutual aid, to restore our true selves. (Bogale 1964, 21)

The purpose of education was to enable Wolaita to regain her lost Ethiopian identity. The affiliation with Saint Tekle Haymanot bestowed a sacred character on this goal of assimilative education. Teachers and administrators were to unconditionally support Haile Selassie in his effort to establish schools
and continue Tekle Haymanot's temporarily interrupted work. As a journalist from the official weekly *Berhannenna Selam* wrote in 1941: "The teaching troops [were] bearers of the apostolic spirit" (የሐዋሪያነት መንፈስ ያደረገበት የአስተማሪ ሠራቂ).<fnref n="36" /> But the messiah to whom these new apostles were to speak was Haile Selassie, and schools were the new churches. Based on the story of Tekle Haymanot, Bogale Wallelu translated the objectives of centralisation, assimilation and progress assigned to the national school system for local use. In addition, not content with merely developing a discourse, he located his educational work in the wake of Tekle Haymanot. After working in Wolaita, he was school administrator for the Sidamo region from 1944 to 1954 and then for the Gamo-Goffa region until 1961.³⁷ He built schools in all the areas where, according to his hagiography, the medieval saint had erected churches. The story that legitimised the incorporation of the south was the inspiration and the driving force behind his educational action.

### 3.3. Education for emancipation

For the central government, the story of Tekle Haymanot's ancient evange-
lisation of the south served to justify the domination it exercised over the
conquered peoples. For his part, Bogale Wallelu used it for the emancipation of
people who had been marginalised and exploited. To defend this idea, he put
forward his own example of a submissive Wolaita who became free through
education:

እኔ ባሪያ ነበርሁ ። እራሴ የተመለጠው ለመልከኛ እህሉን፤ ማሩንና ፤ እና ቅቤውን ስሸከም ነው ። አሁን ግን ስለተማርሁ ክባርነት ወጥቼ በደመውዝ ተቀጥሬ በደስታ እኖራለሁ ። እናንተም ብትማሩና ብትሠለጥኑ እንደኔ እንደኔ ትሆናላችሁ። ነፃነት ታገኛላችሁ።

I was a slave. I am bald because I have carried cereals, honey, and butter from the *melkegna* on my head. But now I am educated. I am out of slavery, I am paid a salary and I live happily. You too will become like me if you go to school, if you become more learned and skilled. You will attain freedom.<fnref n="38" />

Bogale Wallelu did not merely design the school according to its official objectives of centralisation and unification. He saw its role in the context of the power relations that were at work in the local society. Following the capture of Wolaita, the soldiers of the Ethiopian army were given the conquered land in the form of the right of *gult*. The *melkegna* was the grantee of this right, which gave the power to collect a tribute that was paid in kind and through menial labour by the peasants who lived on the land (Donham 2002, 9), the

<footnote n="36">³⁶*Berhanenna Selam*, 24 July 1941.</footnote>

<footnote>37*Addis Zāman*, 31 May 1984; *YeZareitu Ethiopia*, 19 March 1989.</footnote>

<footnote n="38">³⁸*Addis Zāman*, 31 May 1984.</footnote>
vast majority of whom had been reduced to the status of *gebbar*, people who paid tributes and were obliged to do drudge work. The conditions experienced of a *gebbar* and a slave, both of which were characterised by extreme political and economic dependence, were objectively very similar. In fact, the victors viewed the Wolaita as slaves. For Bogale Wallelu, the access to paid work made possible by schooling meant breaking the *gebbars'* dependency on the conquerors. For their part, by virtue of their own representations of the status of individuals and the slave-like nature of their society before the conquest, the Wolaita who had been subjected by force considered themselves slaves (Planel 2008, 162). Defeat and dependence were accompanied by a strong sense of collective decay (Baliski 2009, 101). In this context, Bogale Wallelu believed that the power of education enabled not only material emancipation but also psychological reconstruction. When he said "If you want to become somebody or a human being (*sew*), learn at school!"<fnref n="39" />, he was not only talking about social uplift. In 1980, a Wolaita confided to the researcher Jacques Bureau that "for the 'Amharas' of Shewa," the Wolaita were "not men; they were cattle at best" (Bureau 1987, 94). Remembering the first third of the 20th century, a 94-year-old peasant testified in 2010 that "30 to 40 families worked for a single *melkegna*" and that they were "forced to obey, like a herd."<fnref n="40" /> Consequently, when he said that education made it possible to become a *sew*, a human, Bogale Wallelu was talking about regaining dignity and lost humanity.

Social uplift, psychological reconstruction and regaining control of one's own existence: Bogale Wallelu expressed the means available to a school to move an individual away from slavery (ʿבርነት, barnet) to freedom (ነጻነት, netsanet) through the verb ሠለጠነ (seletene). On both sides of the Italian occupation, Ethiopian intellectuals used this term and its derivatives to signify the idea of achieving a higher level of civilisation through political, social, economic and cultural reforms.<fnref n="41" /> However, if it is simply translated as "civilising" or "modernising," it loses its semantic richness. ሠለጠነ (Seletene) which can be applied to an individual or a society, means "to be or become competent, capable, efficient; to become famous, known; to become powerful, to prevail; to be empowered, to be invested with the authority to govern or lead; to know how to learn or do something quickly; to be acculturated, to be refined in clothing and/or eloquence" (Kane 1990). All these attributes are considered

<footnote n="39">³⁹YeZareitu Ethiopia, 19 March 1989.</footnote>

<footnote n="40">⁴⁰Anjulo Agago (farmer), interview, Dubbo (Wolaita), 10 December 2010 (in Wolaita; translation by Asela Gujubo).</footnote>

<footnote n="41">⁴¹Before the occupation, the term was used very frequently in the columns of the newspaper *BerhannenaSelam*. After the occupation, see for example Kebede Mikael, ጃገኘን እንዴት ሰለጠነች (How Japan Modernized) (Addis Ababa, Berhannenna Selam Printing Press, 1946), 128 p.; Kebede Mikael, የሥልጣኔ አየር (*The Breath of Civilization*) (Addis Ababa, Aynalam Editor, 2008 [1958]).</footnote>
those of a ruler and an honourable man. By transmitting these technical,
cognitive, political, social and cultural skills and characteristics, schools could
enable the Wolaita to revitalise themselves and take their place in the nation's
space.

Improving material lives and restoring dignity was achieved by integrating
into the society of masters, victors and free people. Although Bogale Wallelu
did not share the northerners contempt for the Wolaita, he was nevertheless
a fervent nationalist who believed in the superiority of the Christian North,
and therefore in the virtues of national unification and assimilation. It was not
by rebuilding its own identity but by returning to the cultural melting pot of
Christian Ethiopia that Wolaita society would be regenerated. The Wolaita
had to go to school in order to become the equals of the “Amhara.”

3.4. *Uniting against opposition from the local aristocracy*

This political potential of education was very quickly perceived by the
“settlers” and Wolaita state employees. In a letter to the Ministry of Education
dated 10 November 1942, Bogale Wallelu wrote of their opposition, just one
year after he opened the first government school:

የሕዝቡን መሬት ቀምተው የሕዝቡን ጉልበት ግጠው ያልጠገቡ ባላባቶች መሳፍንትና መኳንንት ሕዝቡ እንዲማር አልፈለጉም። በአገራችን አንዱ ለሌለው ባሪያ ሆኖ እንዲያገለግል ሕዝቡን በጭቁና ለመግዛት ለመንዳት የሚያስቡ ባላባት ሞልተዋል ።
[...] ይህም ይታወቅ ዘንድ ፉጋም ። ባሪያም ። ቀጥቃጭም ። ሸማኔም የመሳሰሉት ሁሉ ልጆቻቸውን ተማሪ ቤት እያስገባን በማስተማራችን ባሮቻችንን ነፃ አወጡብን ከድንቁርና ወደ ብርሃን መሩብን እያሉ ረቂቅ በሆነ ነገር በአንድነት ያብራሉ። ገባር ሁሉ ከተማረ ደንቆሮ የት ይገኛል ። ጥቅማችን መቅረቱ ነው እያሉ በጥብቅ ይቃወሙኛል ።

After having ravaged their land and ruthlessly exploited their workforce, the *ballabat*, princes, and aristocrats now resist the idea of educating the people. Our country is replete with *ballabat* who believe in maintaining a hierarchical structure where one is subservient to the other, and they advocate for governing the people through oppression. To articulate their stance, they collectively assert: "If we admit the children of potters, slaves, blacksmiths, weavers, and all their peers into schools, our own knowledge will emancipate them from our control; they will transition from ignorance to enlightenment, to our disadvantage. If peasants acquire knowledge, where will we find a pool of ignorants?" They staunchly oppose my efforts, claiming it is not in their interest. (*YeZareitu Ethiopia*, 19 March 1989)

*Balabbat*, princes and aristocrats all opposed the education of craftsmen and,
by extension, of dominated classes. Balabbat were local chiefs who had been co-
opted by the conquerors in order to associate them with the system of political
control and economic extraction (Markakis 1974, 106). They received land and
titles, and served as intermediaries between the provincial administration in
the cities and the predominantly rural populations. They were indispensable
cogs in the conquerors' power structure. The families that had benefitted from incorporation into the Christian kingdom were keen to maintain the social hierarchies as they were. The "princes and aristocrats," on the one hand, were members of the northern aristocracy and descendants of the soldiers of the armies of Menilek II who had been rewarded for their military service with *gult* and titles. They had been sent by the central government, and they were all representatives of the state who enjoyed substantial political and economic benefits. From the conquest in 1894 to the Italian invasion in 1936, the settlers and *balabbat* monopolised the exercise of power. They practised politics almost exclusively on the basis of force and, as Bogale Wallelu's letter shows, they did not see an alternative. At the time of the liberation in 1941, they had a vested interest in ensuring that the social hierarchies and modes of government that had prevailed before the war continued.

Their opposition to educating the dominated shows that they viewed the issues of education from a political standpoint. What kind of knowledge were the dominant referring to when they spoke of “their” knowledge? Since they were opposed to its being transmitted to the dominated, what ties did it have to the forms of domination they exercised? The settlers were convinced that their domination was not merely based on their material and military supremacy: they saw themselves as proponents of a superior civilisation with a long and glorious history. According to their national epic, *Kebre Negast* (Glory of the Kings), their government was sacred and their emperor, who was God’s chosen one, was a descendant of Solomon. They considered themselves a people descended from Israel who enjoyed divine election. They believed that their religion endowed them with superior humanity. As a religion of the book, Christianity also meant several centuries of literate culture. As the historian Teshale Tibebu puts it, the north displayed the superiority of its civilisation, Christianity and writing over the “barbarity” and “paganism” of the “others,” and felt that these “others” lacked a history (Teshale 1995, 14). This legitimised the granting of a right of conquest and domination over the *dar ager*, the “surrounding countries”: that is, populations who were viewed as savage and lacking a history, whose ignorance and “paganism” allowed them to be subjugated. This idea was spread in the capital’s elite schools before the occupation. In 1925, Hakim Workneh Eshete, the intendant of Tefari Mekonnen School, explained to the pupils the reasons that had made expansion of the empire and domination over the peripheral populations possible:

> የጋሎች እና የወላሞዎች እንዲሁም በዙሪያችን ያሉ የሌሎችንም ጥቁሮችን ምሳሌ እስቲ እንመልከት። በምን ምክንያት ነው ልንገዛቸው የተቻለን ። የኛን ያህል ብልሆች የኛን ያህል ኃይለኞች የኛን ያህል የሠለጠኑ ባለመሆናቸው ነው።
"Let us take the example of the Galla [sic], Wollamo [sic] and other Blacks around us. Why can we govern them? Because they are not civilized as we are."<fnref n="42" />

The fact that a cultivated and humanist mind such as Hakim Workneh Eshete would put forward these arguments attests to the fact that they were a part of the shared view of the Ethiopian elites.

In addition to being the ideological justification for power itself, the written word as an instrument of government was superimposed on it. Although various procedures, such as leases between the *melkegna* and the *gebbar*, were oral (Lefort 1981, 23), the new masters immediately began to use the written word to administer the conquered territories. The proclamations (*awaj*) read in the markets by civil servants, which had the force of law, were written down first. In disputes, testimonies were recorded in writing before the judge reached his decision. The power of the written word impressed the Wolaita, who neither used it nor knew it before they were conquered (Balisky 2009, 86–87). With the unprecedented acceleration of centralisation after 1941, the written word became increasingly present. Under Ethiopian rule, Wolaita society became a place where the written word represented the attributes and monopoly of power exercised over an illiterate population. Reading and writing also gave access to the Amharic language. Expressions such as “Amharic, the language that punishes you!” or “the language that keeps making you pay taxes”<fnref n="43" /> leave no doubt about how the Wolaita perceived it: Amharic was a language of domination. They also testify to the link established by the Wolaita between power, the written word and Amharic: judgments and the payment of taxes were always accompanied by a document written in Amharic. Furthermore, as an official language, Amharic in its oral or written form was required for all communication with the authorities. Alain Gascon stressed “the fear of peasants who [entered] the city,” where “nothing good could await them: payment of taxes, fees and rents, summons and approaches to civil servants who [affected] not to understand them” (Gascon 1989, 440). A failure to master Amharic meant exclusion from the order of legitimate communication. The opposition between oral and written, Amharic and Wolaita, civilised and wild, and dominant and dominated all overlapped. The ruling class in Wolaita was well aware that the loss of a monopoly over the written word and Amharic would erode its power.

Bogale Wallelu's letter also shows us that as early as 1942, the local political elites were conscious of the fact that education would replace membership of

<footnote n="42">⁴²*Berhanenna Selam*, 15 May 1925. “Galla” and “Wolamo” are derogatory terms used to describe the Oromo and Wolaita respectively; these are the terms used in the source.</footnote>

<footnote n="43">⁴³Zebdewos Chama (teacher, missionary school director, district governor), interview, Soddo, 3 November 2010.</footnote>
the nobility as a route to power. The local aristocracy, which represented the
central government, was in regular contact with it and was informed of its
decisions, knew that the political transformation towards bureaucratisation
that had begun at the beginning of the 20th century would accelerate. It
also understood that the skills needed to gain access to power would become
more demanding, and that schools were the places where they were acquired.
A school-educated Wolaita, Bogale Wallelu was an example of these newly-
educated men who were competing for power with the aristocracy for the first
time.

3.5. *Guiding the people towards unity and progress*

Bogale Wallelu believed that the school-educated elites needed to coordinate
their efforts against the class interests of the aristocracy. In a second letter
written to the Governor of the Sidamo region on 10 February 1942, he urged
his superiors to join him in advancing the educational cause. He saw schools
as the outposts of a progressive power in a region where people's ignorance,
division and oppression went hand in hand. He emphasised unity and progress
as two major goals:

ሕዝቡን እርስ በራሱ እያሟገትን የልማት ሥራ መጐተት ለዚች ኢትዮጵያ አንዳችም ጥቅም የለውም ። ይልቅስ ሁላችንም ሕዝቡን ከጨለማ ወደ ብርሃን እንምራው ። የብርሃን ጫራ እስከወላይታ ድረስ ወጋጋኑ ይታያል ። መልካም ለሚሠራ መልካም ዋጋ እንዳለው የታወቀ ነው ። ይህም የታወቅ ዝንድ እኛ ከዚህ ወደናንተ እናንተም ወደኛ ኩራዝ ኩራዛችንን ይዘን የጨለማውን ኃይል ብንቃወመው ማሸነፋችን አይቀርም ።

People quarrel with each other and show absolutely no interest in working for Ethiopia's prosperity. Let us instead lead the people together from darkness to light. The light of dawn can be seen all the way to Wolaita. It is known there is good reward for the ones who do good. Knowing that, if we fight the power of darkness getting closer to each other, carrying our torches, we will not fail to win.<fnref n="44" />

The expressions “lead the people together from darkness to light” and “carrying our torches” expressed a forceful idea that was pervasive in schools from the 1930s until the revolution in 1974—that the school-educated elites had a mission to lead the country towards progress. This goal acquired a whole new dimension after the end of the Italian occupation. It was no longer a question of defending the country against colonisation, but of rebuilding it. For this task, the right to leadership unquestionably lay in the hands of those who had had the privilege of being exposed to an education in government schools. Bogale Wallelu adhered to the vision of those Ethiopian intellectuals who blamed Ethiopia's stagnation and backwardness on the incurable conservatism of the aristocracy. They believed that the aristocracy should be politically

<footnote n="44">⁴⁴YeZareitu Ethiopia, 19 March 1989.</footnote>
neutralised in favour of the educated elite (Messay 1999, 288–89). While the metaphor of light translated the aspiration for a better future without defining it, Bogale Wallelu also saw the role of the school, to be associated with other institutions, in a more concrete way:

ትምህርት ቤቶች ፣ ገበያዎች ፣ የእርሻ ጣቢያዎች ፣ ክሊኒኮች የአስተዳደር መ/ቤቶች ጐሳዎች ግጭት በሚያደርጉበት ቀበሌ እንዲቋቋም ፣ የየጐሳዎች ልጆች አንድነት ተሰብስበው ካንድ ክፍል ሲማሩ ቢውሉ ፣ ቢሠሩ ፣ ቢገበያዩ ከጊዜ በዋላ አስከፊውን ባህል ሊተዉ ይችላሉ።

Schools, markets, agricultural centres, clinics and administrations need to be set up in districts where tribes are in conflict. If children from different tribes are brought together in a classroom to learn, if they spend their days together, if they work, if they exchange, the harmful practices of fighting each other can later disappear.<fnref n="45" />

Here, he proposed a pragmatic vision of the role of the school as a federating institution that would help calm the discord among the various populations of southern Ethiopia. School was one of the institutions that would mark the presence of a peacemaking government and make people aware of their common interests. Schools would be responsible for transmitting habits of collective activities, knowledge and shared values from childhood. It was by proposing a common socialisation to children whom they considered educated with hostility towards their neighbours that schools would be the key institutions of the unification policy.

## Conclusion

The national school system that was set up after 1941 was conceived as a continuation of the types of schooling that had existed before the Italian occupation. Like those of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church, government schools were responsible for spreading national myths. They were to inculcate devotion to the king, God and homeland and in common with the schools set up by the government before the occupation, their function was to exalt patriotism, to spread the cult of the emperor's personality and to instil the myth of progress. After 1941, however, the project took on a completely different purpose. The education system was there to enable Haile Selassie to complete his project of autocratic centralisation and continue the cultural homogenisation of the southern regions that had been conquered at the end of the 19th century. The aim was to build a nation unified by the Amharic language, the values of the Christian kingdom, loyalty to the emperor and a belief in a common future of progress.

Beginning in the 1950s, US support and influence were instrumental in the establishment of the national school system. The concept of progress was

<footnote n="45">⁴⁵Addis Zemen, 31 May 1985.</footnote>
redefined by the theory of modernisation, which provided the framework
for the thinking and action proposed by the American advisers. It was
adopted by the Ethiopian pedagogues who were working in collaboration
with the Ministry of Education. By taking up the idea of a transition from
the traditional to the modern, they advocated a type of education that would
enable Ethiopia to enter a phase of modernity that took the form of a
capitalist industrial society. Importing a foreign development model was not
incompatible with Haile Selassie's ambition to legitimise his power through
education by fuelling his image as a progressive monarch. It could therefore
draw its legitimacy from both a past of national myths and a future represented
by modernisation.

These educational aims were interpreted differently by those who were
crafting education at the local level, who placed it at the crossroads of
the local and national spaces. For Bogale Wallelu, the opportunities for
social advancement offered by schooling would enable children from peasant
families to escape the system of oppression that had been established in Wolaita
after its incorporation into Ethiopia. Moreover, Bogale Wallelu was convinced
that the central government represented emancipation and progress against
oppressive and reactionary local elites, and advocated assimilation into the
culture of the centre. It is interesting to see how his own path informed his
opinions. He was a Wolaita who owed everything to his school-education.
He adhered to the cult of Haile Selassie's personality and believed in the
progressiveness of his regime. This is why this Wolaita school administrator's
thinking combined loyalty to the state and the emancipation of the dominated
Wolaita.
## Chapter 2

# From Homogeneity to Diversification of School Pupils in Wolaita: Classes, Genders and Generations (1941–1974)

The first school in Wolaita, the Wollamo Soddo Elementary School, opened its doors in October 1941, just six months after the liberation (Demeke 1985, 2); this was quite early if one considers that the school system did not begin operating until February 1942 (Teshome 1979, 55). Forty pupils attended on the first day. They were at varying levels—some had been educated at Orthodox Tewahedo Church schools or the Italian School during the occupation—and so they were immediately divided into four separate classes, which were known as grades 1-4 (Demeke 1985, 4–6). In 1950–51, the school provided a complete elementary curriculum up to Grade 8, at the end of which the first national examination was held. At that time, the school had 500 pupils, a number that had risen to 1,300 by 1963–64 (Demeke 1985, 20). In 1964–65, the creation of a Grade 9 class marked the beginning of secondary education. After Grade 12 opened in 1969–70, pupils were able to take the Ethiopian Secondary School Leaving Certificate. Two thousand students were enrolled at that time (Demeke 1985, 32–33). In the 1940s and 1950s, 14 government primary schools were established in the small urban centres of Wolaita.<fnref n="1" /> Rural areas were neglected until the late 1950s, when Protestant primary schools tied to the Sudan Interior Mission (SIM) were established in villages. There were 140 of these schools in 1974 (Elias 2004, 13). From the mid-1960s, the Wolaita school system thus consisted of a secondary school in Wolaita Soddo, government primary schools in the little towns and Protestant schools in the countryside. There were links between government and Protestant schools, which resulted in a relatively tight school network. The data, which on the surface show significant development, actually conceal a far more mixed reality. Enrolment rates remained low: they were 13.5 percent nationally in 1973 (Teshome 1979, 170), and probably a little higher in Wolaita because of the missionary schools. It took some time for the institution of schooling to take hold. In the 1940s and 1950s, the first to engage with it were urban families, settlers

<footnote n="1">¹WZEO, የትምህርት ተቋማት ዝርዝር ፣ መቼ እንደተሠሩ የሚግልጽ መረጃ (List of schools and construction dates) (2010).</footnote>
and Wolaita state employees, a situation that was transformed from the late
1950s onwards by the ambitious policies of two governors, Germame Neway
and Wolde-Samaet Gebre-Wold, and by the spread of Protestant schools.
Schooling for girls, on the other hand, remained extremely marginal in both
urban and rural areas until the end of the regime.

Schooling a child means looking to the future. It depends on what the social world allows and what we believe we can expect from it. Actors have developed their uses of schools within both local power configurations and national political transformations. This does not mean, however, as Maurizio Gribaudi points out, that it is appropriate to postulate that “each group secretes a coherent and widely-shared model which guides the overall behaviour of its members” (Gribaudi 1996, 117). It is simply a matter of circumscribing the reasons for schooling embedded in power configurations that constitute both constraints and resources. This chapter examines the driving forces behind the transformations that have taken place in the social composition of schoolchildren as a group.

**1. Resistance**

From acceptance to hostility or indifference, there was a broad spectrum of representations and attitudes towards the new school institution. In western countries, universal, free and politically-controlled education developed with the nation state. While this particular type of school has since taken on a natural force, it is not at all self-evident. This methodological precaution is mentioned here a priori so as to avoid positive or negative value judgments of the various representations and attitudes towards school. In particular, distrusting or refusing to attend school must not be treated as an anomaly. In 1941, the state school was a novelty in Wolaita. The churches and monasteries that had been established after the conquest had a monopoly over transmission of the written word, which they exercised very sparingly. The missionaries who arrived in the late 1920s had opened literacy centres to teach the Bible, but they were a marginal presence. Social actors in Wolaita perceived school from their own social position.

**1.1. *Wolaita peasants against the school of the conquering power***

The distance between peasant farmers and schools was a wide one, due on the
one hand to the economic constraints imposed by subsistence farming and the
high level of taxation, and on the other to the negative representations brought
about by the close relationship between the written word and power:

በኛ ጊዜ ወደ ትምህርት ቤት የሚመጡ ልጆች ብዙ አልነበሩም። እና ሲመጡ “ለምን ትምህርት ትማራላችሁ” ይባሉ ነበር ። እኔ አሁን ለምሳሌ ወደ ሳባተኛ ክፍል በምደርስበት ወደ ቤት ለመሄድ ጥያቂው ይሰለቸኙ ነበር። እዛ ስሄድ በምንገድ ያለው
ሁሉ አያስኬደኝም። ሰላም ይለኛል “ደህና ነህ ከየት ነው የምትመጣው?” ከትምህርት ቤት። “ሆሆ ትልቅ ሰው ሆነህ እስካሁን ትምህርት ተማራለህ እንዴ! ለምን ወደ አባተህ መሬት አትመለስም? ለምን ሚስት አግብተህ አትቀምጠም? ምን አንተ? ልብህ እንደ ሰው አይደለም!” ይሉኛል።

In our time [the early 1950s], only a few children used to come to school. And when they did, they were scolded, with people asking, “Why do you go to school? What’s the use?” For example, when I was in grade 7, every time I returned from school, I grew weary of hearing the same question. Those I passed on my way home wouldn’t let me go in peace. They would greet me with a “hello,” to which I would reply, “hello.” Then they would inquire, “How are you? Where are you coming from?” “From school,” I would answer. Following that, they would remark, “Uh-oh! You’re all grown up and still going to school? Why don’t you go back to your father’s field? Why don’t you get married and settle down? Who do you think you are? Your heart is not a man’s heart.”<fnref n="2" />

Schooling was initially viewed as an unnecessary luxury, a waste of time at the expense of agricultural work. For peasants who were subjected to the necessities of an economy of scarcity, schooling was incongruous, and the top priority was to ensure subsistence for the family. What was taught at school was too far removed from the future social obligations expected of young men, which were to marry, have children, feed their families and help their parents. Going to school was perceived as an abandonment, and the demonstration of an amoral attitude. If in the eyes of the former school actors the peasants of the time “did not know the usefulness of school,”<fnref n="3" /> it was because they did not perceive it as a possible means of social advancement. The peasants’ hostility to school was also based on political arguments, however: their experience of the written word was limited to the administrative and fiscal practices of the conquering power. Dominated peasants could therefore only look with suspicion on a literate civil servant produced by a school. To know how to write was to participate in domination. This is a dialogue between Desalegn Tanga and Gebre-Mikael Kuke, both pupils in the early 1950s. It is taken from the same interview and follows on immediately from the previous excerpt:

Desalegn: ሌላ ደግሞ የሀያ ጸሐፊ ልትሆን ነው ወይ!

Gebre-Mikael: አዎ! እሱ እንዳለው የሀያ ጸሐፊ ማለት መጻፍ እና ማንበብ የሚችሉ ልጆች ትልቅ ገበያ ሄደው ገበሬዎች ከብት ሲገበያዩ ውል ያፈራርማሉ፤ ያቺን ውል አፈራርመው ከገሢም ከሻጭም ሀያ ሀያ ሳንቲም ይወስዳሉ። ያቺን ሳንቲም ለመውሰድ ገበያ ለመሄድ ነው ይላሉ ።

<footnote n="2">²Gebre-Mikael Kuke and Desalegn Tanga (retired teacher and agricultural engineer respectively), interview, Soddo, 12 November 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="3">³Wanna Wagesho (founder of the first government school in Wolaita, teacher and school administrator), interview, Soddo, 3 November 2010; Girma Bekele (retired teacher), interview, Bedessa (Wolaita), 9 December 2010; Abraham Worku (teacher), interview, Gesuba (Wolaita), 2 January 2011.</footnote>
Desalegn: And on top of that, you're going to become “one who writes 20!”

Gebre-Mikael: Yes! When he says “one who writes 20,” he is talking about young people who knew how to read and write, who used to go to the big market and made farmers sign contracts to trade cattle. And they took twenty cents from both the seller and the buyer. They said, “You go to the market just to earn that 20 cents.”<fnref n="4" />

The insulting expression “one who writes 20” expresses the idea that the written word taught at school was used to exploit the fruits of peasant labour. When construction of a bureaucratised administration began in the 1940s, civil servants gradually replaced the armed settlers, but their task was still to maintain order and collect taxes, and they may also have had the right to collect the fruits of peasant labour. Under these circumstances, it is hardly surprising that an educational institution organised by the government to train these people—the civil servant viewed as a predator—might arouse suspicion. Schoolchildren would fall into the same camp as the new masters. In the particular context of the Wolaita, hostility towards school overlapped with a rejection of the occupying authority and its practices.

<figure><img src="image_19.png" /><figcaption>Figure 5. Ligaba Beyene School</figcaption></figure>

<footnote n="4">⁴Gebre-Mikael Kuke and Desalegn Tanga, interview, November 2010.</footnote>
## 1.2. Priests of the National Church against the “Catholic” school

Another criticism, this time from the Orthodox Tewahedo Church priests, was primarily religious in nature. The suggestion here was that the government school was a roundabout way of introducing Catholicism:

> ዘመናዊ ትምህርት የኮቶሊክ ትምህርት ነው ይባል ነበር። “የኮቶሊክ ትምህርት ትማራላችሁ? ሀይማታችንን ለማጥፋት ነው አይደለም? ሃይማኖት ለመተው እኮ ነው”። መጀመሪያ ላይ ማህበረሰቡ በተለይም ሃይማኖተኞች ዘመናዊ ትምህርት እንዲስፋፋ አይፈልጉም ነበር። ምክንያቱም ዘመናዊ ትምህርት ከተስፋፋ ወጣቶች ሃይማኖት ይተዋሉ ብለው ስለሚያስቡ ነው።

It was said that the modern school was a Catholic school. Do you go to Catholic school? Isn't it to destroy our religion? It's to abandon your religion. In the beginning, people and especially the religious people did not want the modern school to expand. They said that young people were going to abandon religion.<fnref n="5" />

Until the 1974 revolution, Tewahedo Christianity enjoyed its status as the official religion, and was a pillar of the identity of the Christian kingdom. The accusation of Catholicism levied against government schools was aimed at its exogenous character as a school of the *farenjoch* (whites) that would undermine the cultural foundations of Ethiopia. Did the priests really believe that a government school might be able to destroy Ethiopian identity? Certainly, some of the knowledge was imported, the English language was important and the stated aims were not religious. But in Wolaita, as in other schools in the country, what was taught in the first three years was almost exactly the same as what was taught in religious schools, and moral education was provided by priests of the Tewahedo Church. In short, Tewahedo Christianity had the status of a state religion in state schools. It is more important to draw attention to the fact that the government school appeared to threaten the political balance that ensured the position of the church in the apparatus of power, a position that was based on a monopoly over the use and transmission of the written word, with which the government schools competed.

In all the regions that had been incorporated by the end of the 19th century, churches and monasteries symbolised the cultural domination of the (Christian) conquerors over the conquered (“pagan”) peoples. Priests also feared that schooling the conquered populations would call the distribution of power into question:

> ሰዎቹ ይህንን የኮቶሊክ ትምህርት ከተማሩ ሃይማኖት ይተዋሉ የሚል ስጋት ነበርባቸው ። በተለይ በአማሮቻ ላይ። ኢትዮጵያ 85 ብሔረሰብ እኮ ነው ሥልጣኑ በአማራ እጅ ነበር። ባለሥልጣኑ አማራ ብቻ ነው። እስከ ቀበሌ ባለሥልጣን አማራ ነው ። ሌላ ሰው ሥልጣን አይሰጥም ነበር።

<footnote n="5">⁵Lemma Didana (retired teacher), interview, Soddo, 14 December 2009.</footnote>
They were afraid that people would abandon [their] religion if they learned in this Catholic school. Especially the “Amhara.” Ethiopia is 85 nationalities! But the power was in the hands of the “Amhara.” The one is power was only the “Amhara.” They didn’t give power to other people.<fnref n="6" />

Within the societies of the south, priests were also members of the group of settlers whose domination over the defeated populations was legitimised by the assertion of their cultural superiority. In the long run, educating the dominated meant that they would no longer be able to justify their subjugation from an ideological standpoint. The clerics’ opposition to government schools was thus to some extent similar to that of the civilian settlers and their Wolaita employees, as we saw in the previous chapter.

**1.3. *A girl's place is not at school***

Similarly, the attitude towards schooling girls oscillated between indifference and hostility.<fnref n="7" /> Between 1941 and 1945, there was a boys' school and a girls' school in Soddo. The girls learned the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic and household management—cooking, sewing and hygiene. Since the knowledge and skills being taught were already being passed on within the family, why send a daughter to school? As a future wife and mother, she learned everything she needed to know by helping her mother at home, and mothers had no interest in depriving themselves of valuable support for the many tasks in daily life. In this respect, therefore, schooling was considered unnecessary and counterproductive. In addition, the co-educational school established in 1945 conflicted with the rules of male and female socialisation. School was a public space where by being with boys and men all day, girls would undoubtedly develop bad habits, and suspicions and accusations of prostitution were frequent until the 1970s.<fnref n="8" /> While girls were expected to be virtuous, they were also considered to be weak and vulnerable.

Many mothers shared this general opinion, including Ayelech Tekle-Mariam's mother, who sent Ayelech to school after refusing to send her eldest daughter because “it [was] not right to go to school with the boys.”<fnref n="9" /> School was no place for a respectable young girl. Ayelech went on to say that it was thanks to the pugnacity and authority of her father, who was a teacher, that the second daughter and her younger sisters went to school. Some mothers who were in favour of their daughters having a school education were not happy with the pressure exerted by the community. They worried about gaining reputations

<footnote n="6">⁶Ibid.</footnote>

<footnote n="7">⁷Wanna Wagesho, interview, November 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="8">⁸Belaynesh Antonios (teacher, in charge of women's affairs at the Soddo town hall), interview, Soddo, 2 November 2009.</footnote>

<footnote n="9">⁹Ayelech Tekle-Mariam (teacher), interview, Soddo, 19 November 2010.</footnote>
as bad mothers as much as their daughters as bad girls. It was they, rather
than their husbands, who were blamed. Belaynesh Antonios, who was also at
school in the 1960s, remembers the criticism levelled at her mother about her
schooling. She reports that when her mother went to the river to wash clothes,
the other women would tell her: “Your daughter goes to school. What is a
girl worth who spends all her days walking the streets surrounded by boys?”<fnref n="10" />
This attitude stemmed not only from the most widely-shared opinion on the
harmful effects of coeducation, but also from the disconnection between school
and society. Within the school walls, the teachers were attentive to the morality
of their pupils, and discipline was strict, but the population had a very distant
relationship with the school as an institution: the reality of what was happening
there was then turned into fantasy by imagining the worst. In addition, a school
education had a reputation for making girls arrogant, lazy and temperamental,
thus socialising them in a way society would not expect. Once at school, they
would no longer be discreet and obedient, they would no longer want to carry
out the burdensome daily tasks of a wife and mother and they would have
expensive tastes. A proverb that was very widespread at the time bears vivid
witness to this idea: “An educated woman and an overly well-fed mule develop
bad habits” (ሴት ከተማረች በቅሎ ከተገበች አመል አወታች ሴት ከተማረች በቅሎ
ከተገበች አመል አወታች) (Seyum 1986, 9). Finally, in the context of a school
system designed to train civil servants, being educated meant gaining access to
a position of power, which was unthinkable for a woman.

## 2. The first generation: the children of settlers and Wolaita state employees (1941 to the mid-1950s)

In the 1940s and 1950s, as a result of the peasants' negative perceptions of state schools, opposition from local elites to schooling the dominated and the very presence of schools in urban centres, the pupils who attended were from families which were a part of the power structure. Alula Anjiyo, who belonged to the first generation of schoolchildren in the early 1940s recalls: "*Kegnazmach*<fnref n="11" /> Wadelo Merid came on a mule [...] escorted by his servants. And there was also one called *Kegnazmach* Lemma. They were *balabbat* sons, with all the typical behaviour of spoiled children."<fnref n="12" /> Alula Anjiyo came from a Wolaita family, and his father was a judge. Gebre-Mikael Kuke, who is himself a Wolaita son of a *cheqa shum* (village chief), remembers that at the turn of the 1940s and 1950s, the pupils were "children of the town, some of

<footnote n="10">¹⁰Belaynesh Antonios, interview, November 2009.</footnote>

<footnote n="11">¹¹A military title meaning “commander of the right wing.”</footnote>

<footnote n="12">¹²Alula Anjiyo (retired teacher), interview, Soddo, 15 December 2009.</footnote>
them children of civil servants, some of them children of *balabbat* and some of them children of high officials.”<fnref n="13" />

For these groups, schooling was part of a strategy of reproduction, or upward social mobility. From the time he came to power, and especially from 1941 onwards, Haile Selassie's plan was to replace the feudal lords with educated civil servants. For the aristocrats, not taking over the school meant losing their social status. Teshome Wagaw is only partly right when he writes that the nobles considered school to be useless for their children, who were destined for power by birth (Teshome 1979, 31): in fact, some members of the aristocracy adapted to the changes in policy and engaged with schools in order to remain in power. Christopher Clapham showed that aristocrats still made up the majority of senior central government officials in the 1960s (Clapham 1969, 72). They had gone through the capital's elite schools, and some had studied abroad. The same practices were followed in the provinces. Many pupils from the very first generation were members of the aristocracy, and as in the schools of Addis Ababa before the Italian occupation, they went to school with all the pomp and circumstance of their class, with a mule and an escort (Rebaud 1934, 138).

Those civil servants who were not members of the aristocracy owed their status solely to their education, whether it was government or religious. Since their functions necessarily implied mastery of the written word, transmission of their social status required that their children attend school. This was even more imperative for the children of village chiefs, who had auxiliary status, and had not attended school.<fnref n="14" /> They were appointed by the local elites, and depended on them entirely. Lacking the ties of kinship from which the aristocracy benefitted, and deprived of the educational capital of civil servants, their position was all the more precarious, and was subject to the goodwill of their superiors. Schooling allowed these families to free themselves from this situation by becoming civil servants rather than mere auxiliaries. In this way, they secured their position of power upon the more solid foundations of educational capital.

Efforts of the school administration to enrol children from poor families were not entirely in vain. Their numbers were small, but they were not totally absent from classes.<fnref n="15" /> Wanna Wagesho, who helped Bogale Wallelu found the first school before becoming its principal, remembers the methods they used in the 1940s: “We set up the student police, we sent the student police to gather children they found in the market or in the fields, and then we taught them.”

<footnote n="13">¹³Gebre-Mikael Kuke and Desalegn Tanga, interview, November 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="14">¹⁴This is the case, for example, with Gebre-Mikael Kuke.</footnote>

<footnote n="15">¹⁵Gebre-Mikael Kuke, interview, November 2010.</footnote>
[...] We tried to convince their fathers, and that's how we did it."<fnref n="16" /> They also encouraged poor children by donating clothes, soap and school materials:

በዚያን ጊዜ ድሆች ነበሩ ። ድህነታቸው ተመሰክሮ ልብስ፣ ደብተር፣ እንዲሁም መጽሐፍ፣ ይሰጣቸው ነበር። እዲስ ልብስ ተሰጥቷቸው የለበሱትን ተማሪዎች ከተማም ገጠርም ሆነው የሚያዩ ልጎች ትምህርት ቤት ለመምጣት ዋጭሉ። ደብተር እና መጽሐፍ በነፃ በሚሰጣበት ጊዜ ልጎች ለትምህርት እንዲጓጉ ያደርጋል ።

During that period, there were impoverished individuals. Once we confirmed their poverty, they received donations of clothes, exercise books, and textbooks. Observing children, those who were not attending school, witness their peers adorned in new attire, their enthusiasm to enrol in schools surged. Offering exercise books and textbooks for free serves as a motivation for children to pursue education.<fnref n="17" />

This practice attracted poor children who saw a change in status, although they still needed to live in the city or close to one of the few schools in the small towns. Others owed their schooling to their own desire to go to school or to a combination of circumstances. The case of Lemma Didana, who entered the government school in 1949, is interesting in this respect:

ከ ዋንዳራ ለመጀመሪያ ጊዜ ዘመናዊ ትምህርት የጀመርኩት እኔ ነኝ። ምክንያቱም ታላቅ ወንድሜ ዲያቆን ስለነበር በሱ ምክንያት እኔም ቁስ ትምህርት ጀምሬ ነበር ። እሱ ከአንድ መሪጌታ ጋር ከ ዋንዳራ መጥቶ እዚህ ተክለ ሃይማኖት ገዳም የቤተክርስቲያን ትምህርት ጀመረ ። ከዛም ታላቅ ወንድሜ የመስቀል በአልን ለማክበር ወደ ቤተሰብ በመጣበት ወቅት ከሱ ጋር ጠኞቹ መጣሁ፤ ከዛም የቁስ ትምህርት ጀመርኩና ዲያቆን ለመሆን ዜማ ጨረስኩ። እንድ ካሳው የሚባል ቁስ ሲቀድስ ዜማው ደስ ይለኝ ስለበር ቁስ ለመሆን እፈልግ ነበር በዚህም ምክንያት የግዕዝ ቋንቋን እወድ ነበር ። የቁስ ትምህርት ተማሪዎች እዛው ቤተክርስቲያን ነው የሚያድሩት ። ወደ ቤተሰብ አካባቢ ከሄድ የስጋ ምኞት ያስባል መንፈሳዊነትን ይተዋል ተህሎ ይታሰባል ።ስለዚህ... በመቃብር ቤት እንዲያድር ይደረግ ነበር። እኔም ስድስት ወር በመቃብር ቤት አድሬያለሁ ። ወላጅ አባቴን በሞት ያጣሁት ነፍስ ሳላውቅ በመሆኑ እናቴ ብቻዋን ነው ያሳደገችኝለእናቴ ዲቁና ለመማር ወደ እዲስ አበባ መሣዴ ነው ብዬ ነገርኳት ። “ወደ እዲስ አበባ ልሄድ ነው” ብዬ ስነግራት “ለምን?” አለችኝ “ዲቁና ለመማር” አልኳት “አትሄደም” ብላ ተቄጣች “አትሄደም እዚህ ዘመናዊ ትምህርት ተከፍቻል እዚህ ዘመናዊ ትምህርት አለ አይደለም?” አለች። በመጨረሻም አዲስ አበባ ሄጄ ድቁና መማሩን ትቼ ዋንዳራ አላላ ትምህርት ቤት ሄጄ ትምህርት ጀመርኩ።

I am the first person from Wandara to have attended a modern school. I initially began my education at the priests' school because my older brother held the position of a deacon. He arrived in Wandara with a merigeta (head of religious singing) and started attending Kes TemhertBet (a religious non-formal school) at the Tekle Haymanot monastery. During the Meskel holiday, when my brother returned home, I decided to run away with him and come here. I enrolled in Kes Timihrt

<footnote n="16">¹⁶Wanna Wagesho, interview, November 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="17">¹⁷Gebre-Mikael Kuke, interview, November 2010.</footnote>
Bet and progressed to a level where I could graduate as a deacon. There was a priest named Kassaw whom I admired for his rendition of religious songs, and he inspired me to become a teacher. He also instilled in me a love for the Geez language. Students attending Kes Timihrt Bet stayed overnight in the nearby church. It was believed that if a student returned to their family, they might be tempted by worldly things and forsake spiritual life. Therefore, students were compelled to sleep in small houses or caves built in the church cemetery. I spent six months sleeping in one of these cemetery houses. Since my father passed away when I was a young boy, my mother raised me as a single parent. When I informed her of my intention to go to Addis Ababa to study and become a deacon, she objected, stating that a new modern school had opened locally, questioning the need to travel so far for education. Faced with her opposition, I abandoned my plan to go to Addis Ababa and instead enrolled in the modern school in Wendara Alala.<fnref n="18" />

Lemma Didana, a future teacher with a Master's degree in English, went to the government school because it was close to his family home, and his mother refused to let the last child she still had living with her go to study in a faraway monastery. He was attracted to religious school because of his fondness for the liturgy, and ended up going to the "modern" school by default, for lack of anything better, because it was not far from his home. Ultimately, however, few children from poor families attended school until the end of the 1950s. It was not until the administration of Governor Germame Neway that a large-scale education campaign aimed at the children of peasants took place.

**3. The educational action of Governor Germame Neway (1958–59):**
**schooling the dominated**

Known in contemporary Ethiopian history for organising the failed coup against Haile Selassie in 1960 with his brother Mengestu Neway, Germame Neway was the first governor of Wolaita. Because the collective memory, which is still very vivid today, made him a local hero, it is not easy to separate the myth from the reality (Guidi 2013). His educational work remains very much alive in the collective memory:

> Germame Neway came, appointed by the emperor. He was a very educated person and he came [...] to the very remote countryside. Even at that time [...] he tried to change the country. He was a very good person, and he tried to change by education. Education was the means. [...] He rearranged the structures of the whole of Wolaita and in each village, he created a non-formal education centre. There were about three hundred of them throughout Wolaita. The education centre means that he employed young people with a third and fourth grade education as teachers for thirty ber [the Ethiopian currency]. And... the people made this kind of room from grass and wood. Everything was done by the people,

<footnote n="18">¹⁸Lemma Didana, interview, December 2009.</footnote>
and they were very happy. “This is for your children to learn, to be educated,” and the people came… they did it quickly. And then, one teacher for… no number was decided because there could be a hundred or fifty or whatever, children from the village. They learned the Amharic alphabet.<fnref n="19" />

It would be helpful to take a look at Germame Neway as a character. He arrived at his post as governor at the age of 34, and was a young intellectual and a progressive administrator (Bahru 2007, 237). Born into the high Shoan aristocracy, he was first educated at the Tefari Mekonnen and Haile Selassie I schools in Addis Ababa. He then moved to the United States, where he obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Wisconsin and a Master of Arts degree in Social Sciences from Columbia University in 1954. The pan-African atmosphere there had a lasting influence on him (Bahru 2007, 241), and he came to believe that the educated elites had a duty to guide the nation along the path of progress (Greenfield 1965, 340–41). Three years after his return to Ethiopia, he was appointed governor of Wolaita (1958–59), and then of Jijiga<fnref n="20" /> (1959–60). In both these assignments, his reformist ambitions aroused opposition from the local elites and led to his being dismissed by the emperor. These disappointments led to the attempted coup d'état and his suicide after the coup failed. In 1958, governors of this type

<figure><img src="image_20.png" /><figcaption>Figure 6. School children at work in the 1950s</figcaption></figure>

አዲስ የወደስርት የጀመርዎች በትወደስርታችው ላይ ግ

<footnote n="19">¹⁹Abebe Fola (teacher), interview, Soddo, 18 November 2009.</footnote>

<footnote n="20">²⁰A city in the east of Ethiopia, on the border with Somalia.</footnote>
were rare, and it seems that the emperor deliberately gave him the mission of reforming Wolaita in order to better integrate it into the central state.

Germame Neway's actions in the education field were therefore part of a more general project to rationalise local government. He initiated reforms in the areas of political representation, infrastructure, access to land and education. At his first meeting with about a hundred local leaders, he announced that elections would be held so that the villagers would be able to choose their representatives, with whom he would hold regular meetings (Wanna Wagesho 2003, 140–41). There were various reasons behind this: to bypass the balabbat and the village chiefs, whose arbitrary practices were all too well-known, to acquire a good knowledge of the region, to be in direct contact with its citizens and to organise reforms as efficiently as possible. These regular meetings were accompanied by daily tours throughout the province. This showed a willingness to put an end to abuse of power, as well as to centralise in order to ensure enhanced control, in the tradition of authoritarian modernisation under state control. His second action was to settle day labourers on vacant government-owned land in the less-populated Wolaita lowlands. His 1954 Columbia paper on the Kikuyu land grab by English settlers in Kenya demonstrates his great interest in the links between land issues and social justice (Greenfield 1965, 341–42). The policy involved breaking the peasants' dependency on their lords without paying them any compensation. In the truck used to take them to their new place of residence, the peasants sang a song, dreaming of an inverted world: “Oh my master, shave off your hair and go to your field. Oh my mistress, take off your beautiful dress and prepare *kotcho* to feed your husband.”<sup>21</sup> This action contributed greatly to his great popularity in Wolaita. Finally, he set up hundreds of literacy centres where the Amharic alphabet and arithmetic were taught. Young people with a primary education were employed as teachers. Equipped with a blackboard and chalk, they had to go to villages and bring children together in churchyards, in small, rapidly-built thatched wooden houses or in the shade of a tree to teach their classes. The aim was to provide education to as many people as possible at the lowest possible cost. It seems that at first the children were taken to literacy classes against the wishes of their parents, who did not see the point of a school education when they needed help to support the family. Abraham Worku, who later became a teacher, remembers how he entered the classroom:

> When children reached school age, they entered [...] every home. [...] They looked at the boys and girls, mostly boys, who should be taken to school, they said. The parents did not want to send their children to class because they had no idea about

<footnote n="21"><sup>21</sup>Zebdewos Chama, interview, November 2010.</footnote>
education at that time. So the government school forced them. [...] I myself went to class in this way.

Question: Your parents were not happy...

Abraham: They were not happy!

Question: Because they wanted you to work there, on the farm...

Abraham: They wanted me to help them.<fnref n="22" />

It is hard to know how much authoritarianism and how much voluntary participation by the population was involved, but at least Germame Neway's policy left a very positive memory among the peasant population: "Germame was the first official to enter each village... He pushed us to be partners. Everyone contributed by working on roads, bridges and schools... Even though he stayed for only a few years, it made us aware, gave us a social and moral conscience. It was a mass mobilisation."<fnref n="23" /> The reforms it brought were seen to benefit the most marginalised sections of the population, whose lot was to be improved through greater integration into central government, as shown by its educational policy of spreading Amharic. In fact, it was against the interests of the local holders of power, who led a campaign in Addis Ababa, accusing him of acting against the government and seeking to stir up the population, and succeeded in having him removed from office.<fnref n="24" />

Despite the short period of time of a year and a few months, Germame Neway left deep traces in the local collective consciousness. He is seen as the first senior civil servant from the centre to have carried out reforms that favoured the dominated against the local elites. For the first time, a representative of the central government included the exploited rural population in a political project. His popularity reflects the ambiguous relationship of marginalised groups with the central state, which is perceived as both an oppressor and a resource, and which both attracts and repels. Germame Neway was also a source of contradiction in Haile Selassie's government, which combined the semantics of progress through bureaucratic rationalisation with maintaining the feudal structures of local power. In the end, after sending a governor to integrate Wolaita more effectively into the central state, the emperor agreed with the competing local potentates.

How was this school experience sustainable? First of all, there were links between these centres and formal education. Literate people equipped with a certificate could enter government schools. According to Abraham Worku, of

<footnote n="22">²²Abraham Worku (teacher), interview, Gesuba, 2 January 2011.</footnote>

<footnote n="23">²³Mana Madibo (farmer), interview, Gesuba, 6 December 2010 (in Wolaita; translation: Asela Gujubo).</footnote>

<footnote n="24">²⁴Wanna Wagesho, “ወላይታ ሕዝብ ታሪክ (History of the Wolaita People)” (Addis Ababa, Berhanenna Selam Printing Press, 2003), 147–48. Abebe Fola, interview, November 2009; Zebdewos Chama, interview, 3 November 2010.</footnote>
the approximately one hundred pupils who went to school with him, about fifteen went on to continue their education.<fnref n="25" /> Access to education was also encouraged very soon thereafter by the policies of Governor Wolde-Samaet Gebre-Wold between 1963 and 1973, to which we shall return. But the main driving force behind rural schooling was the missionary schools linked to the Sudan Interior Mission, which multiplied from the late 1950s onwards.

**4. Protestant schools, the alternative path for the dominated**

The spread of Protestantism under Haile Selassie's regime was a peculiar phenomenon in southern Ethiopia. In 1960, the Sidamo, Arsi and Wellega regions alone accounted for 7,829 of the 10,090 pupils enrolled in missionary schools across the country.<fnref n="26" /> Wolaita, from where Protestantism spread to Sidamo, had nearly 140 missionary schools in 1974 (Elias 2004, 13). It was through these schools that rural children entered the school system. Because of their geographical proximity—they were the only schools in rural areas—and because of the religion's greater cultural proximity, Protestantism represented an element of identity regeneration in the face of the domination exercised by the conquerors. They were rural schools and the schools of the dominated at a time when government schools were in cities and were an expression of power, and they played the role of bridges to the government schools. In fact, the network of Protestant schools was not completely separate from the government system, and it provided an important part of primary education.

**4.1. *Wolaita Protestantism: moral and political regeneration***

Barbara Cooper, who has studied the activities of the Sudan Interior Mission (SIM) in southern Niger, recalls that it belongs to the “fundamentalist” branch of North American Protestantism (Cooper 2006). As its name suggests, the SIM's objective was to evangelise the people of “Sudan,” which as far as missionaries were concerned was an area covering the vast African region between southern Sahara and the equator. The first team arrived in Addis Ababa in 1927, and in Wolaita in 1929. Its leader, Dr Lambie, had been in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan since the end of the 19th century, entering Ethiopia via the Wellega in 1919 and arriving in Addis Ababa in 1922. There, armed with his medical knowledge and determined to use it to gain the trust of the authorities, he forged close ties with the future emperor, Haile Selassie, who was then Regent Teferi. Wishing to make the best use of the missionaries' skills, the regent entrusted Lambie with the task of raising funds to build a hospital, which opened in 1926 with the name Teferi Hospital (Tibebe 1999, 33). In exchange, following bitter negotiations with the Ethiopian

<footnote n="25">²⁵Abraham Worku, interview, January 2011.</footnote>

<footnote n="26">²⁶MOEFA, *Government, Mission, Private, Community and Church Schools 1959–60* (1961), 6.</footnote>
Orthodox Tewahedo Church, the SIM missionaries obtained permission to establish posts in the “pagan” regions of the south.

Leaving Addis Ababa for Jimma, the missionaries arrived in Wolaita in April 1928 and decided to settle there (Elias 1987, 21). The number of conversions they made between the time they arrived and their expulsion from Ethiopia by the Italian occupiers in 1937 was limited: just 48 Wolaita were baptised. But a major surprise awaited them on their return in 1943: according to the missionary and academic John Spencer Trimingham, at the time of the liberation, 20,000 people claimed to be Protestant and between 150 and 200 village communities had been formed, out of a Wolaita population he estimated at the time to be 50,000 (Trimingham 1950, 34–36). In the absence of the SIM missionaries, the new religion had spread at an impressive rate, and conversions continued to multiply thereafter.

How can we explain these rapid conversions, which were the result of the actions of local actors, and not foreign missionaries? It is an undeniable fact that the decentralised concept defended by the North American missionaries facilitated the new converts' move towards religion. In accordance with SIM policy, local churches functioned autonomously. A convert who had been baptised and trained in the basic precepts of Christian faith and practices formed a church, of which he then became the leader. The missionaries ensured that the doctrine was not distorted and that the converts were sincere, but they were not involved in organising or financing the parishes. Who were these converts? According to Tibebe Eshete, the SIM focused exclusively on the rural population (Tibebe 1999, 39–40). Missionaries were forbidden to compete with the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church or to attempt to convert the settlers or Wolaita families who lived in the cities, most of whom had converted to the official religion (Elias 1987, 27). To do so would have been viewed as a serious provocation, and would most certainly have led to the missionaries being expelled. On the other hand, the politically dominated, economically exploited and culturally despised peasant communities, who were also considered by the missionaries to be followers of demonic cults, were a formidable breeding ground for evangelisation. It is therefore more than likely that the first converts came from the poorest groups in Wolaita society (Elias 1987, 36), who would have liked this new teaching, which inspired strength and confidence.<fnref n="27" />

The adoption of Protestantism by the Wolaita is an example of the appropriation of an external cultural element that is then reinterpreted by local actors for whom the Protestantism brought by the missionaries was a resource that enabled them to thwart Abyssinian cultural domination. In this

<footnote n="27">²⁷Asela Gujubo, recorded discussion between him and Zebdewos Chama, 2 November 2010, Soddo.</footnote>
respect, it is interesting to note that in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, Lambie and his colleagues were a long way from achieving similar success. There, the religion they offered to the colonised was that of the colonial power, while in southern Ethiopia, the religion of the “colonial power” was that of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (Donham 1999, 91). As the former Wolaita teacher Bogale Gesamo points out: “The people were very much oppressed and humiliated. Therefore [...] [they] hate Christianity and the “Amhara.” They consider it as the Christianity of the “Amhara,” and the oppressed and the oppressor cannot worship the same God [...]. A chance to overcome was [...] Protestantism.”<fnref n="28" /> Ironically, “it took some time before the first converts realized that their religion had some relationship with that of their conquerors” (Donham 1999, 91). For the SIM missionaries, conversion implied a “rebirth,” which meant an individual transformation and liberation from the past (Tibebe 1999, 40). For the dominated Wolaita, “rebirth” meant a psychological break from a situation of moral decay and ridding themselves of the “psychology of the vanquished”.<fnref n="29" /> As Elias Awato explains: “The social, political and cultural subjugation seems to have made the people seek for a release in [the] spiritual realm” (Elias 1987, 52). Donald Donham goes further: “What Christianity offered to [the peoples of] southern Ethiopia was a way of [...] repositioning themselves in relation to local and global forces, a way of becoming Ethiopian with links to a powerful world religion—but without adopting the religion of their conquerors” (Donham 1999, 95). Wherever it sent its missionaries, the SIM’s goal was the establishment of industrious and self-sufficient local churches (Cooper 2006, 8). In Wolaita, the adoption of Protestantism was accompanied by the reorganisation of communities around local churches, providing an alternative to the past social structures that had been destroyed by the conquest. As a new kind of community cement, its appropriation allowed rural Wolaita to regenerate their identity, culture and politics based on foundations other than those of a conquering power. Since everyone was equal before God, it was possible to obtain a dignified place in Ethiopia by affirming one’s own identity and dignity without falling into the mould of the conquerors. At the same time, the converts never failed to remind the missionaries of the need to respect the autonomy of their churches. While the missionaries were among the organisers of the national conferences of Ethiopian Protestant churches until the early 1960s, they were mere spectators at the Wälliso conference in 1965 (Tibebe 1999, 50).

The adoption of a religion based on the Bible, and therefore on writing, was to have a significant impact on the relationship of the Wolaita with

<footnote n="28">²⁸Bogale Gesamo (a retired teacher, was a student in missionary schools in the late 1950s), interview, Soddo, 3 December 2010.</footnote>

<footnote n="29">²⁹Ibid.</footnote>