Hosts abroad, guest at home: Muslims in Ethiopia

It begins with a moment history does not forget—a moment when justice crossed oceans. 

 
Fleeing persecution in the early days of Islam, a small group of Prophet’s Muhammad’s (pbuh) companions arrived on the shores of the ancient land of Habesha. There, in the court of a Christian king, they found not just protection, but understanding. The king, Aṣ-ḥamah, popularly known by his title as Nejashi, listened as the Qur’an was recited. He wept. He defended their right to stay. They were not simply received—they were hosted at heart. 

 
To the global Muslim memory, Ethiopia became the first land to welcome Islam: the host before Medina. A symbol of sacred hospitality, etched into the early conscience of the faith. 

And yet, as with all history, the power lies not just in what happened, but in how it is told. At home, this same story took on a different shape. Rather than a shared origin, the tale of Nejashi became a tale of charity—Muslims were remembered not as those who returned with dignity, but as guests who never quite left. As if they had remained visitors to Ethiopia, long after they had built homes, towns, and traditions. Even as Christianity itself came from abroad—even as the refugees of Mecca returned to Arabia—the sentiment that Islam was an outsider persisted. 

This perception lay at the core of the state until the end of the imperial regime. The mainstream positioned Islam as peripheral to Ethiopian identity—foreign, secondary, external. And as John Markakis, the American historian of Ethiopia noted, this framework shaped national policy: Muslims were largely absent from the bureaucratic state, the narrative of national origin, and the architecture of power. There was coexistence, yes—rich social tolerance and interwoven lives—but at the level of the state, Islam was a guest in its own homeland. 

But the truth of a nation pulses beneath the margins of its official memory.  

Islam in Ethiopia did not simply survive. It flourished—quietly, deeply, profoundly. From the trade networks of Jeberti merchants, weaving through Tigray, Somali, and beyond, to the Sufi shrines of Gurage, stretching back through Wollo to the highlands. From the sovereign grace of the Kingdom of Jimma to the ancient spiritual resilience of Harar, to the heroism of Benshangul’s patriots—Islam etched itself into the soil, the sound, the soul of the land. 

 
As the late historian Hussein Ahmed observed, “Islam survived not because of the state, but despite it.” It grew in rhythm with the people—through trade, learning, mysticism, and community. Not a margin, but a parallel path of civilisation. 

 
Then came the Derg regime—a government that suspended religion altogether. Churches and mosques alike were pressed into silence. In this socialist vacuum, faith itself became the guest, hidden under layers of ideology. 

And with its fall, the EPRDF rose—carrying a fervent anti-colonial thesis, eager to restructure the Ethiopian state around notions of identity, self-determination, and recognition. Muslims, long sidelined, were now constitutionally acknowledged. Mosques reopened, Eid was declared a national holiday, and Islamic life stepped visibly into the public sphere. 

But this framework, radical as it seemed, was not built to comprehend the civilisational depth of Ethiopian Islam. It viewed identity as something denied, oppressed, and now to be expressed—not as something long and richly rooted. The Muslim community was seen as a survivor of past exclusion, rather than a co-creator of the Ethiopian story. Islam was included, but only within a frame that flattened its history—as if it had endured in silence rather than in brilliance. A guest to a state narrative that welcomed its pain, but not yet its pride. 

As the new era unfolded, Ethiopia found itself at a stage where the lines between state and religion blurred in a way not seen before—what scholars called a post-secular era. This is a moment not simply of religious freedom, but of public presence—where the state’s engagement with religion became more reciprocal, more visible. The once subtle dynamics between religious and secular powers gave way to an openness rarely imagined. Religious voices now rise on screens, in ceremonies, on the lips of political figures. 

For many Muslims, this feels like a long-awaited embrace. Even the name “Abiy Ahmed Ali” broke a long-standing psychological barrier. A grand Iftar is held at Meskel Square. Islamic banks operate with confidence—placing Islamic identity within the nation’s symbolic core. And yet, this too came with its own complexity. 

As the famous anthropologist Talal Asad reminds us, when the state invites religion into its domain, the invitation is never neutral. Religion in public life is not simply freed—it is also reframed. As the state calls upon faith to inspire morality, stabilise communities, and heal wounds, it also draws religion into its own choreography. The sacred must often speak in a language the state understands and which the state draws the boundaries of. 

This reciprocity carries asymmetry. 

Faiths may be welcomed, but they must perform that welcome—adjusting doctrines, editing expressions, negotiating visibility. At this moment, religion is no longer just a guest to the state—it is a guest to the stage, guest to the spectacle, guest to the urgency of a country trying to hold itself together through symbols. And while Muslims now appear more central than ever, the terms of belonging remain under quiet negotiation. 

Today, we stand not at a clear threshold but at a trajectory—a turning that carries both promise and risk. The guesthood of Ethiopian Muslims has changed form through each regime; the guestness is now harder to name, and perhaps harder to resist. 

But it is also an opportunity. 

An opportunity to bring the long, rich, spiritual, and scholarly identity of Ethiopian Islam beyond the surface—into the centre. 

To let the story of Nejashi transcend a memory of favour and become a national one. To change the telling—from host abroad and guest at home, to co-builders of the house itself. From tolerated presence to foundational thread. From parallel histories to shared futures. 

Perhaps this time, the “guest” shall not wait to be welcomed. They should open the door from within.