The study of citizenship is as old as the ancient Greek philosophers, but we have seen a resurgence of focus on citizenship in western democracies as new challenges confront relatively stable and institutionalized democratic states. Key among these are globalization and migration, the power of markets in shaping political and economic life, and a constellation of security threats, both real and perceived – as well as the various actors implicated in each of these, including the state, groupings of citizens, and noncitizens residing within the state. This scholarship provides a rich and nuanced terrain on which to consider the modern manifestations of citizenship and the contestations over its expansion. Somewhat surprisingly, however, the analytical lens of citizenship has rarely been deployed in many parts of the developing world. This is problematic for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that challenges of citizenship in postcolonial contexts such as sub-Saharan Africa are distinct from those in the western liberal democracies with relatively defined political boundaries, developed capitalist economies, and political and social traditions of individualism and autonomy. It has also resulted in the primary focus on formal politics that are of limited usefulness in explaining contemporary political and social dynamics in Africa.

That does not mean that the discourse on citizenship in the west has no relevance to places such as Ethiopia or other parts of Africa, which are the focus of this study. Based on its relatively recent decolonization, its distinct cultural traditions, and its persistent authoritarian political traditions, the political, historical, and social context for African citizenship may be divergent from the west. But the framing of citizenship as a “set of mutual, contested claims between agents of states and members of socially-constructed categories” has tremendous explanatory power in analyzing some of the most intractable and critical moral and political debates on the African continent.

I conducted research in Ethiopia over the course of several years. My interest in the country began while I was living in Ethiopia’s southern neighbor, Kenya. While living in Kenya in 1997–1998, during that country’s second multiparty election, I observed the types of violence surrounding particularly electoral politics, as well as the tremendous conversation about ethnicity that happened, both on the national stage but also over tea or dinner, in office relationships, and neighborhood life. I was intrigued by the possibility of institutional solutions to the negative consequences of the entrenchment and politicization of ethnic identities. Although Kenya itself is such a complex and fascinating place to think about these questions, work-related travel to Ethiopia suggested to me that federalism was an important and innovative experiment that was actually much more relevant to the types of questions I had. Returning to the United States for my graduate work, I turned from Kiswahili to Amharic, from unitary and nationalist rhetoric to decentralizing and ethnonationalist discourse, from Kenya to Ethiopia. Early travel in 1998 and 2001 helped me frame questions and methods for my fieldwork, which was conducted from January to December 2003.

Once in Ethiopia, I focused on language policy. Because I was interested primarily in federalism and ethnic identity, language policy provided a discrete and slightly less politically charged way to go about analyzing the elements of decentralization proposed and underway and, particularly, to begin to collect perspectives on identity politics. The first six months was mainly concentrated on elite interviews – intellectuals, politicians, government officials, international representatives, and civil society activists and practitioners. This was accomplished through snowball sampling. These were done one on one, by me, and in English.

In the Shola neighborhood of the Ethiopian capital, Addis Ababa, there is a bustling local market. Just a few decades ago, Shola formed the outskirts of town, and much of its surrounding areas were open fields where children could play soccer and follow well-worn paths to school each morning. Now there are no fields for miles, and the edges of the city have moved out in all directions to new residential developments. Shola is now part of downtown Addis Ababa. It is also home to pockets of distinct ethnic communities, as are many of Addis Ababa’s neighborhoods. I lived in Shola for a year, and I was repeatedly told that “a lot of Sudanese live in Shola.” I did indeed observe many young men and some families who bore evidence of phenotypical difference from the Amhara, for instance, walking on the road near my home. In addition to crude phenotype differences such as skin color and stature, there were other cultural cues; for example, the women did not wear the natalas or hijabs more common among the Orthodox or Muslim women of my neighborhood.

Surely some of these individuals were Sudanese citizens – refugees, students, and residents – fleeing war in their country or seeking employment or educational opportunities in Ethiopia. In fact, I personally had a Sudanese friend who lived near Shola. He was a refugee and a student who struggled to make a living as a tutor to children of middle-class Ethiopian families interested in improving their children’s English-language skills. It was impossible, however, for these Sudanese citizens to be visibly distinguished from Ethiopian citizens of similar ethnic groups. Short of stopping them on the street and asking what their citizenship was, I could not conclusively prove what proportion were Anywaa, Nuer, or other ethnic groups, probably from the western region of Gambella, and what proportion were Sudanese nationals or refugees.

In a 2003 revision to the civics curriculum in Ethiopia, middle and high school students are introduced to a radical reordering of Ethiopian history and social life. In the second chapter entitled “The Rule of Law,” students are told that “before 1974, the political system in Ethiopia was set up on the basis of the divine right of kings. Monarchs claimed to be elects of God. Such belief helped the monarchs establish absolute power over their subjects by monopolizing legislative, executive and judiciary powers.” In the next chapter, students are taught that, because of the change of government in the early 1990s and the subsequent revision of the constitution,

While ethnic groups have pursued equal citizenship in the contemporary Ethiopian polity, Ethiopian women and their allies have been similarly active in advancing gender equality and meaningful citizenship for women in Ethiopia. The intersectional nature of ethnic and gendered inequalities in Ethiopia and the unique constitutional provisions related to both identity groupings provide critical insights into the ways that expanding citizenship can provide new opportunities and new challenges. As diverse and divided societies confront legacies of inequality and exclusion based on race, ethnicity, and national origin, rights for these communities at times have been resisted based on how they might disproportionately harm female members of the community. How are such competing rights claims to be resolved? Are these rights even “competing” at all? And in, particular, are women uniquely harmed by the protection of the rights of ethnocultural groups within the state?

This is particularly important in places where a history of social inequality is deep-rooted and where this inequality is somewhat equally distributed between women as a group and ethnic and racial communities as a group. It is also important because scholars have argued that African feminisms tend to be “corporate,” viewing individuals as members of interdependent human relations, including family and community, rather than individualist, as in the west.

In November 1999, the normally quiet trading town of Soddo in the Wolaitta region of southern Ethiopia erupted in violence. During what should have been a peaceful demonstration, police fired on unarmed protestors, and up to ten people were killed, hundreds injured, and as many as 1,000 arrested. In the wake of the protests, many teachers and other civil servants lost their jobs and many more were shuffled off to teach in other regions. The cause of the violence was the decision to combine four previously distinct languages of the region, Wolaitta, Gamo, Gofa, and Dawro, into one Esperanto-style language called Wagagoda. Suggested as early as 1992, the move by the regional authorities to force teachers and students to implement the hybrid language in their classrooms, and the refusal of the regional or central government authorities to formally address these requests, led to the demonstrations. Although the violence was short-lived, as was the effort to use Wagagoda in the classroom, the incident illustrates the potency of language identity to Ethiopians and requires explanation because it seemingly defies a strategic characterization of ethnolinguistic identity.

The challenge for scholars of citizenship and democracy in a place like Ethiopia is that language choice should be a relatively straightforward policy matter. Ethiopia is home to some seventy-five to eighty distinct language communities. It is also an incredibly poor country. It ranks 174 out of 187 countries in the world on the United Nations Human Development Index. The dominance of one language, Amharic, for most of the last century and up to the present time might also lead one to expect citizens’ language choices to reflect a desire to speak the language that guarantees the greatest access to political and economic opportunity.