In recent weeks, something unexpected has begun to take root along the border areas between Eritrea and Ethiopia’s Tigray region. Two activists, one Eritrean, the other Tigrayan, have launched an informal initiative based on a simple yet powerful belief: peace between the two peoples should not have to wait for formal diplomacy or the slow pace of institutional politics. They named the project Engagement to emphasize the idea of direct, grassroots, spontaneous involvement.
From their personal dialogue, the initiative quickly expanded, reaching villages, border communities, and families divided by conflict. In some cases, public celebrations, peaceful gatherings, and small community events have already taken place, testifying to a shared desire to turn the page. In a region where every gesture can arouse suspicion, these images—smiling faces, extended hands, dancing and singing—carry profound symbolic weight. They speak of an alternative: a change that emerges from the margins and seeks to reconnect peoples long divided by war and unhealed wounds.
Mutual Wounds and Diverging Memories
To grasp the significance of this effort, one must consider it within the context of recent history. Eritrea took part in the Ethiopian civil war of 2020 to 2022, intervening at the invitation of the federal government in Addis Ababa against the Tigrayan forces. This involvement left behind a painful legacy: episodes of violence and substantial civilian and material damage. But Eritrea, too, bears a memory of suffering. During the war with Ethiopia over territorial disputes between 1998 and 2000, it endured serious losses, both human and infrastructural, which were never properly acknowledged or compensated.
These two memories do not cancel each other out; they overlap, feeding distrust, resentment, and reciprocal suspicion. This is precisely why the gesture made by the two activists and the local communities assumes such particular significance. It is not about erasing the past but confronting it without rhetoric, attempting to build a shared memory. During the recent celebrations, undoubtedly moving and sincere, a recurring message was emphasized: the idea that peace is possible because the two peoples speak the same language, share the same religion, customs, and traditions. While this cultural proximity is real and may ease the path to dialogue, it also risks reinforcing a perception that excludes parts of Eritrea that do not share those specific identities.
Eritrea is, in fact, a nation marked by remarkable diversity. Its internal cohesion and relative stability, even in the face of adversity, have long relied on the coexistence of various ethnic, linguistic, and religious groups. Christians and Muslims, highlanders and lowlanders, different cultural traditions have found ways to live side by side. The strength of the Eritrean social fabric lies not in uniformity, but in the capacity to hold together difference. This is why true peace cannot be reduced to shared origins or cultural familiarity. Peace is valuable in itself, regardless of whether people look, pray, or speak alike.
And yet, important questions remain: Are these wounds truly ready to heal? Is it possible to overcome trauma without restorative justice, or is there a risk that reconciliation will be perceived as forgetfulness?
Implicit Strategies and Political Ambiguities
It cannot be overlooked that this informal initiative also raises questions of a political nature. Although there has been no official statement, it seems likely that there is implicit consent, if not quiet support, from the Eritrean side to allow such dynamics to unfold. In the absence of direct dialogue with the Ethiopian federal government, the rapprochement between border communities might serve as a strategic buffer zone, a way to ease tensions without entering formal negotiations.
But this opens up delicate issues. Where is the line between genuine grassroots spontaneity and top-down instrumentalization? Who ensures that these informal channels will not be co-opted for political purposes? And how far can local communities take a peace process if institutional structures remain absent? Can this path truly lead to something lasting, or will it remain confined to the goodwill of a few? These are essential questions because they concern the viability of the initiative itself: if change lacks political grounding, it risks dissolving as soon as conditions shift.
A Fragile but Necessary Hope
And yet, despite the uncertainties and risks, the Engagement initiative stands as a signal that cannot be ignored. The region’s recent history is littered with missed opportunities, failed peace processes, and broken promises. If this attempt, too, ends in failure, it would represent perhaps the third or even fourth historic fracture in the last thirty years. And each fracture, as the history of interethnic and cross-border relations shows us, leaves behind not only rubble but also deepening disillusionment.
This is why, despite all necessary caution, it is worth believing in this beginning. Peace between the two peoples never arrives all at once: it is made of small gestures, rediscovered words, and faces learning once again to recognize each other. As Nelson Mandela once said, “If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to work with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner.” This may well be the spirit that animates the communities now involved: not a naive desire to forget, but a concrete will to coexist, to look ahead, to ensure that pain does not become permanent.
In a world that too often repeats its mistakes rather than learning from its silences, what emerges from below, from the margins, from the cracks left by war, deserves to be heard. Engagement is not yet peace, but it is its breath. And in certain corners of the world, where for too long only the language of force has been spoken, even a whisper calling for recognition may carry the weight of a true beginning.
