Ethiopia’s health workers: this is not just a strike—it’s a cry for survival

Black Lion Hospital, Ethiopia’s largest and most renowned public hospital in the capital city, Addis Ababa, is overwhelmed—but not with patients waiting in emergency wards or treatment rooms. Instead, its administration office is flooded with desperate patients, speaking loudly, asking for treatment, and complaining that no doctor has seen them since the morning. These are not new arrivals; they were in the emergency rooms, outpatient departments, and hospital corridors—but without a single doctor, nurse, or health professional attending to them, their only option was to seek answers from the hospital administration. 

This chaos unfolded on the first Monday following the launch of a partial strike by Ethiopian health professionals, organised under the Ethiopian Health Professionals Movement. These professionals—doctors, nurses, and other critical health workers—have been demanding better working conditions for over one month and three weeks, calling for a competitive salary increase, fairly revised incentive payments, transport support, timely and complete duty payments, safe, respectful, and supportive working conditions, health insurance coverage, and housing (or residential land access). 

They’ve been running online campaigns, collecting signatures from health workers across the country, and sending formal letters with 12 key demands directly to the Ministry of Health. For 30 days, they waited for a response—warning that if none came, they would begin a partial strike from May 13–18, during which they would only serve in emergency wards, intensive care units, labour wards, and neonatal intensive care unit. 

No response came. Now, the movement has entered a more serious phase: a full strike began on May 19, meaning complete absence from all departments—including emergency services. 

This crisis, however, is not new. For years, Ethiopian health professionals have appealed to the government for change. The movement first gained national attention seven years ago, following a violent incident at Jimma University Medical Centre, where a female medical intern was physically assaulted by a patient’s relative during a night shift. This incident sparked widespread frustration among doctors, who launched peaceful protests within hospital compounds. 

These protests culminated in a collective meeting with Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed. But what could have been a turning point turned into disappointment. One cardiothoracic surgeon, moved to tears, pleaded: “The hearts of the children we treat are already broken. And ours is too. Please don’t let us chase opportunities abroad—we want to stay here and treat our people.” 

Despite such powerful appeals, the prime minister’s response—“We all have better opportunities abroad, not just you doctors. But we are all here for our motherland, Ethiopia”—was seen as dismissive. The protest ended with a meagre salary increment of 300–500 birr ($3–$5 USD). 

Today, a sub-specialist medical doctor in Ethiopia earns only about 12,000 birr per month (around $110 USD). General practitioners, nurses, and lab technicians earn even less—some no more than $80 a month. These wages are not enough to rent a home, support a family, or live with dignity. Many are forced to leave the profession altogether, switching to better-paying or less demanding jobs such as Uber drivers, hairstylists, or makeup artists—despite having spent over seven years in rigorous medical education. 

Professor Esayas Gudina, a respected internal medicine specialist, wrote on his Facebook page: “Ethiopia is facing a catastrophic health workforce crisis driven by brain drain. Worsening conditions are pushing doctors and nurses to leave both the country and the profession.” 

This situation is part of a broader pattern in Ethiopia’s labour history, where organised resistance has often been met with repression. The 1955 constitution promised the right to unionise, but real labour organisation didn’t emerge until the 1960s, with the creation of the Confederation of Ethiopian Labour Unions (CELU). Even then, protest was met with arrests and crackdowns. CELU’s efforts contributed to the downfall of Emperor Haile Selassie, but under the Derg regime, it was replaced by state-controlled unions that stripped workers of any real voice. 

Today’s striking health professionals are continuing this legacy of resistance. Their strike, much like last year’s university lecturer protests, demands not just fair wages, but respect and reform. Unfortunately, the lecturers’ calls were met with silence, vague promises, and closed-door meetings. The health workers fear the same outcome—but this time, lives are on the line. 

The strike has drawn political attention, too. Influential figures like Jawar Mohammed, a well-known activist with over 2 million followers on Facebook, are actively posting about the crisis. His involvement suggests that the movement is gaining momentum beyond professional circles—and potentially becoming a national political issue.  

Meanwhile, hospitals like St. Peter’s Hospital, Black Lion Hospital, St. Paul’s Hospital, Adama Referral Hospital, and Ayder Referral Hospital are reported to be nearly empty of staff. According to Health Voice Ethiopia, over 81 health professionals have reportedly been arrested, and others face intimidation, with some allegedly having guns pointed at them to force them back into their white coats. This has added to their 13th demand: the release of all detained health professionals. 

This is not just a strike—it’s a cry for survival. For patients, for professionals, and for a collapsing healthcare system. Whether this movement will finally be heard—or be silenced like those before—depends on the answer.