It is perhaps one of the few places in today’s Ethiopia enjoying relative peace, yet it remains fraught with some of the highest tensions and deepest fears, both from within and without. In this far-flung corner of the country, two contradicting realities coexist: one can walk the streets freely even late at night without fear of petty crime, while an exceptionally heavy security presence suggests a deep-seated uncertainty that is barely masked by surface-level calm. A haunting anxiety lingers—a sense that everything could turn to chaos at any moment and residents live in constant fear of the worst-case scenario.
Beyond the heavy formal military presence, it is also a place where a man might sling a rifle over his shoulder as casually as he would a coat before heading to a restaurant or a coffee shop.
Yet, there is more—a ticking time bomb for its security. They call them ‘Workegnochu’. How so? The Reporter Magazine travelled to thehotly contested territory of Wolqait to find out.
Multi-Layered Stakes: Why Wolqait Never Rests
Some wonder how such a “tiny” piece of land can be the center of so much commotion, while others point to its fertile soil and the bulk production of cotton and sesame, along with the wealth they generate. For many, the term “contested territory” is the first phrase that comes to mind in conversations about the far northwestern corner of Ethiopia.
For Tigrayan politicians, the unique tri-border point where Ethiopia, Sudan, and Eritrea meet—is a matter of life and death, its name uttered in almost every speech regarding the current crisis in Tigray. The area also serves as a central flashpoint in Amhara political discourse.
More recently, the federal government has shown growing interest in it for various reasons. Similarly, the territory has come under scrutiny for developments tied to the upcoming national vote.
The local administration—organized as the “WolqaitTegedeSetit Humera Zone” in the post-northern war period—currently works more closely with the federal government than any other entity, but it is by no means the only relevant party.
Eritrea, which borders the territory, also remains a key stakeholder; Eritrean forces reportedly maintain a presence there in various forms.
Finally, the region has become a site of operation for artisanal gold miners, human traffickers, and drug dealers. In short, a diverse array of stakeholders constantly moves in and out of the area.
A Heavily Militarized Landscape of Constant Suspicion
Personnel from the Ethiopian National Defense Force (ENDF) and the Federal Police Commission are stationed in camps along the outskirts and border areas. Within the town itself, Amhara regional security forces, including the regional police, maintain a constant presence.
However, the militarization runs even deeper. A locally trained force known as ‘Yetekeze Zeb,’ organized by the zone and led by Colonel Demeke Zewdu, is also highly visible throughout the town and the wider region. There is another division whose members operate in plain clothes.
In addition to that, it is an area where the public is highly militarized—both as a matter of local culture and as a visible manifestation of the area’s escalating security concerns.
Separated only by the river, the national flags of Ethiopia and Eritrea—nations defined by a tense relationship since 1998, with the brief exception of the 2018–2020 rapprochement—wave in the desert wind, only a few meters apart. Between Ethiopia and Eritrea, however, the river itself is not seen as a sufficient barrier; even the water is conceptually split in two. From the Ethiopian bank, young people and ENDF can be seen swimming, yet they strictly remain within their half of the river. By contrast, the Eritrean side remains eerily quiet; except for the occasional guard or soldier visible in the distance, there is no public movement whatsoever.
While the area, particularly the town of Humera, is safe for local residents, the environment is unwelcoming to outsiders, who quickly become targets of suspicion in the eyes of various security units. To these forces, every new arrival is a person of interest.
Many visitors end up detained, and local police stations process new arrivals daily. Eritreans in general and Ethiopians returning from Sudan are viewed as primary suspects, while anyone arriving from outside the immediate area—especially from Tigray—is subject to arrest upon arrival. Even a significant number of people traveling from other parts of the Amhara region find themselves in the hands of security forces.
The atmosphere stands in total contradiction to Humera’s past. Historically, the town served as a hub of peaceful coexistence, not only for various Ethiopian groups but also for citizens of the neighboring nations. The Tekeze River serves as a natural border not only between Ethiopia and Eritrea but also between Ethiopia and Sudan.
“Until recently, one could easily cross the border into Sudan. There was direct bus transport from Humera to the Sudanese town of Gedaref,” said an elderly resident who has lived in Humera since childhood. “The town used to receive various products from Sudan, like retail goods and electronics. People traded with each other extensively.”
The locals also interacted with Eritrea during the brief period of improved relations a few years ago, noting it involved trade as well, albeit different.
“The Eritreans take various commodities from Ethiopia, including teff and other grains, but there isn’t much we get in return,” explained the old man, who has lived in Humera since childhood. “They used to supply cow’s milk, which the nearby Eritrean clans have in abundance, but that was about it.”
The present situation, however, tells a very different story.
“There have been times when large-scale investments were rejected because our current situation forces us to prioritize security and view new developments with suspicion,” a high-ranking zonal security official told The Reporter Magazine.
Inside the cramped detention center of the Setit Humera police station, the men’s section holds an average of 100 detainees dailybetween March 21 and March 24, 2026 for instance. They are housed in three rooms, with each hosting over 30 people in sweltering temperatures that often exceed 41°C.
The writer of this article—who was himself detained for three days for ‘entering the zone without a permit and taking photos’—learned from long-term detainees that, at times, as many as 60 people are held in a single room.Most detainees are held for two main reasons: illegal border crossing (to and from Sudan and Eritrea) and being identified as a ‘stranger’ —a label frequently applied to those arriving from Tigray region and, to some extent those from Amhara region. Other common causes for arrest include disputes at gold mining sites and drug possession, specifically cannabis from the Metema area. In some cases, detentions stem from personal conflicts; for instance, a high school teacher was detained after using a standard disciplinary method on a student who happened to be the son of a local militia leader. Equally notable, however, is the presence of individuals affiliated with the security forces, especially the former ‘Amhara special force’, who also account for a portion of the detainees.
During the day, detainees are permitted to leave the three rooms, including those with their hands chained, to stay within the tiny compound; however, everyone must regularly line up and sit in the blistering sun to be counted, a process that repeats every two hours. Despite these grueling conditions, the security forces remain relatively friendly.
Harmonized People vs. The Politics of Displacement: The Perpetual Cycle of Grievance
The Wolqait area in general, which was under the jurisdiction of the Tigray Regional State from 1991 to 2020 and the Amhara Regional State since then, has been the site of deep-seated stories of both harmony and hostility. On one hand, it is a place where people of diverse backgrounds, including Ethiopians, Eritreans, and Sudanese, have long coexisted: trading, investing, and intermarrying. This cultural crossroads is why many residents are fluent in Amharic, Tigrinya, and Arabic. Conversations on the street often feature a blend of all three languages.
On the other hand, the area has witnessed grave human rights abuses committed at different times by various parties. This history includes atrocities previously attributed to the TPLF against those of Amhara descent, and subsequently by Amhara forces against Tigrayans. Despite various reports and victims’ accounts of their suffering, the opposing parties have yet to acknowledge the crimes committed against one another.
A significant portion of the population possesses a mixed ethnic heritage, with many tracing their roots to both Amhara and Tigrayan backgrounds. However, the prevailing political climate has rarely accommodated this complexity, often forcing individuals to align with whichever group holds power: Tigrayan identity during the twenty-seven years of TPLF rule, and Amhara identity since the Northern war in 2020.
According to residents who spoke with The Reporter Magazine, the use of Tigrigna as the primary language of administration and education was once mandatory and expressing self in Amharic be it in music or so was punishable.
“I had to kneel on a concrete floor for over an hour because I spoke Amharic in class instead of Tigrigna when I was in first grade at the age of eight,” Dagne Chaklu recalls. Dagne now believes the teacher punished him because the educator thought Dagne was intentionally choosing Amharic over the Tigrigna language, despite the fact that Dagne did not know Tigrigna at the time. He now speaks Tigrigna, as do many of the residents in the area.
“We barely understood that sort of politics until later, when the situation became all too visible to ignore,” he notes.
That environment led Dagne and his friends of Amhara descent to move to Gondar for high school, despite the opening of a new school in their hometown that used Tigrigna as the primary language of instruction.
“When we started noticing the ongoing politics and ethnic sentiment, we started to rebel. I—along with over 60 of my fellow students—left for Gondar in 2002 to join Atse Fasil High School,” Dagne told The Reporter Magazine.
After completing his higher education in Arba Minch University, Dagne returned as a Chemistry teacher to the very school where he was once forced to kneel for over an hour for speaking Amharic. The pressure was particularly intense around 2015/16 GC according to him.
“I was able to work there only briefly. The mistreatment continued even as a teacher, so I left the school,” he said. “I was tortured and survived a near-death experience,” he said. He then relocated to Gondar.
Even more grave human rights violations have been reported during that period, though these accounts remain unacknowledged by the Tigray politicians.
Following the end of TPLF-led rule, Dagne returned to Humera, where he currently works on a farm with his parents and works part-time in a restaurant as well.
Today, identifying as Amhara is the norm in the area. For those of mixed descent, the shift can be a strategic advantage, but it also places them directly in the crossfire of local suspicion.
KahlayuWoldegebrel is one such individual caught in this dilemma. Born to an Amhara mother and a Tigrayan father, he has lived most of his life in Humera. While part of his family stayed in the town, others fled to Sudan, and Kahlayu himself eventually left for Addis Ababa. After five years apart, he decided to return to Humera to visit his mother.
“The first thing I did was go to the police station to report my arrival and state that I was there to visit my mother,” Kahlayu said. He arrived in Humera on a Sunday and went to the Setit Humera Police Station the following day to report. “I knew I would face charges if I didn’t report immediately.”
However, his transparency did not provide the protection he had hoped for. “Reporting myself didn’t save me from the situation I feared,” he lamented. “I ended up spending three months and 13 days in that police station.”
The overall tension is reflected in the conditions of Kahlayu’s three-month stay. The writer of this article, had the opportunity to read a letter sent to Kahlayu from a friend. In the letter, the friend apologizes for not visiting him in the detention center, citing the fear that being associated with Kahlayu would lead to his own arrest.
“He is a very good friend of mine. I understand what it means, and I myself do not want him to risk his safety by visiting me here; we know of relatives who came to visit detainees and ended up detained themselves,” Kahlayu said.
He was eventually released without being charged. Upon his release, Kahlayu did not return to his mother’s house. Typically, individuals from outside the Wolqait area are taken directly to the airport upon their release from detention. Their families must purchase air tickets in advance; on the day of release, security forces escort the detainees to the airport. The detainees are also required to pay a fee of 3,000 Birr each to cover the per diem costs of the security escort.
A Corridor for Unbridled Human Trafficking
Illegal migration and human trafficking also present a serious challenge to the area. Human traffickers maintain a heavy presence here, and the border with Sudan, in particular, remains a primary crossing point through which countless individuals flee the country.
At the Setit Humera Detention center, those captured while fleeing the country through Sudan toward Libya and Europe make up a significant number. Migrants, often youth in their late teens or early twenties, cross into Sudan in hopes of reaching Libya, and from there making the dangerous crossing into Europe. However, many of them are often captured early in their grueling journey in Sudan and deported. Others who make it to Libya can also face the same fate, though they often return physically broken by torture. In contrast, those caught in Sudan are generally physically unharmed, though their property is routinely confiscated.
While many of the youth are from Tigray and the vicinity of nearby Gondar, others come from all corners of the country. During a visit to the center, The Reporter Magazine encountered young people all the way from Jimma who had been detained in Sudan and deported to Humera.
“The Sudanese security forces captured us and confiscated everything we had, down to the smallest personal possessions. Then, they handed us over to the Ethiopian Defense Force at the border,” a young man in his mid-20s told The Reporter Magazine.
Originally from the nearby Aderqay area, he explained that he had tried various ways to make a living after his unsatisfactory 10th grade examination results prevented him from continuing his education.
“My friends and I formed a union and tried to start a business using microfinance loans. The war ruined everything; we couldn’t save it,” said the youth.
According to him, some in his village have successfully reached Libya and Europe, while many others died along the way. The traffickers themselves are rarely caught.
“We travel in a line. Our trafficker walks ahead but keeps enough distance between us. If security forces appear and he realizes he cannot bribe his way out, he abandons us and pretends he isn’t with us,” one victim said.
The traffickers simply move on to their next clients—who are often the same deported individuals trying their luck a second time.
The young man and his friends were released after one day at the detention center. In this detention center, those held for “illegal” migration are the most easily pardoned; security forces view their cases as simple and release them quickly. However, the journey rarely ends there. Despite the risks, the young man believes he must try again.
“People ask why we don’t just work hard here to change our lives. I wish that were sensible, but it isn’t as easy as it seems.”
The youth see little hope; they feel the postwar period has made survival more difficult than ever. “If I stay here, I will eventually be arrested or killed. In our current situation, any party can do that to you. I prefer to take a risk that has at least a probability of changing my life—if I survive.”
The True Cost of Living in the Shadow of Doubt
As one of the country’s historic settlements, the town of Humera has evolved gradually from a strategic crossroads into a major agricultural hub. Known colloquially as “Sesame Town,” the area has benefited remarkably little from the abundant resources it offers. Profits made here are rarely reinvested; instead, investors typically move their capital elsewhere.
Today, a visitor to the town is confronted by numerous unfinished buildings, their construction halted and left idle for years. These projects, started before the two-year war, have remained frozen ever since. These long-abandoned skeletons serve as haunting monuments to the cost of tension and uncertainty. Those currently living there seem hesitant to resume construction. Here, uncertainty remains the defining factor.
“The majority of the larger buildings belonged to Tigrayans who fled the town following the outbreak of the northern war,” a resident told The Reporter Magazine.
Many existing businesses including hotels, restaurants, and private homesare managed by individuals who took them over after they were abandoned in the aftermath of the war.
The occupants make payments to the Zonal Administration, implying that the properties are now under the control of the local government.
“You apply, make the necessary payment to the government as a rent or tax forms, and operate your business there,” explained a man who was renovating a war-damaged building to open a restaurant.“Such arrangements have become common since the war,” he noted.
This transient reality extends to the highest levels of leadership. The zonal administrator and his deputy still do not have permanent residences in the town; instead, they live in a building that served as a guesthouse before the war.
For the local administration, which currently lacks access to federal budget subsidies, these seized properties have become one source of revenue.
“Worekegnochu”: Between Economic Survival and a Security Time Bomb
Gold mining is another key sector of the Wolkait economy, engaging a massive portion of the youth. In specific localities such as Adebay and Ade-Goshu, vast numbers of young people are occupied with the labor of a gold rush, seeking their fortune in the earth at a time when employment prospects are less than encouraging.
While official statistics are difficult to obtain, an expert who frequently visits the region estimates that “hundreds of thousands” of young people are currently active in small-scale, artisanal gold mining across Wolqait. These young miners are known locally as the Worekegnochu, which roughly translates to “the gold miners.”
In the town of Humera, these young miners now represent a highly visible demographic. They typically cycle through the town for rest and recovery after extended periods of labor at mining sites. Consequently, they are a constant presence in Humera’s entertainment venues, fueling the local service economy while they recuperate.
Here, beer consumption is remarkably high—a common way for people to cope with the punishing, oppressive heat. The miners play a key role in the zone’s economy.
“If that stops, the economy crumbles,” says a commentator.
However, the gold rush is also a potential source of profound instability for the region. On one hand, mining is largely unregulated and has expanded into protected areas, reportedly including Kafta National Park- one of Ethiopia’s largest and most remote conservation areas, a transboundary ecosystem shared with Eritrea. Furthermore, the use of hazardous chemicals in these operations reportedly poses a severe threat to human health, livestock, and the local environment.
Beyond the ecological and health impacts, the sheer number of unregulated, armed youths represents a security time bomb.
“These miners mostly operate independently of the administration,” one observer noted. In fact, while they make certain payments to the administration, their operations are guided by their own terms.
They adhere to their own strict code known as ‘YeworkegnochHig’—the Law of the Gold Miners. Under this system, a miner selects a spot at random and begins digging, relying more on luck than science. Once a site is claimed, it belongs to that individual permanently. Even if the original miner abandons the pit, any subsequent miner who finds gold there must share the find equally with the first. The enforcement of these rules is brutal; anyone who violates the code faces swift, often violent retribution.
This violence is not limited internally. The miners are increasingly willing to turn their weapons against anyone who interferes with their business, including the government. This volatile dynamic recently reached a breaking point.
Recent efforts from the administration to shut down unregulated puts reportedly culminated in an armed confrontation that claimed the life of a first cousin of Colonel Demeke Zewdu- Deputy Chief Administrator and Head of Peace and Security of the Zone. The ‘Worekegnochu’ retaliated by flocking to the town and surrounding the administrative headquarters.
“As gunfire echoed through the streets, the town of Humera was plunged into chaos. Facing an armed uprising, the administration was forced to retreat, granting the miners an extension until May 2026,” a resident who observed the situation firsthand told The Reporter Magazine.
Whether the government can eventually regulate the sector remains doubtful.
“The miners are massive in number and nearly everyone is armed,” the eyewitness noted. With Ethiopia’s seventh GeneralElection approaching, the administration appears hesitant to confront a force that could easily tip the region into further turmoil.
The Great Unknown, Unresolved Fate
On one hand, many—though the exact numbers remain highly contested—were displaced by the war and currently reside in IDP camps in Mekelle and Sudan. Much like Debre Berhan and Mekelle, Humera has also become a refuge for internally displaced persons (IDPs), particularly those fleeing the conflict in Wollega.
On the other hand, many others who suffered displacement during the TPLF era have not been able to return home.
This shared experience of displacement has left those living there haunted by the pain of uncertainty. For many, life remains in ‘temporary mode.’ Unsure of what the future holds, they refrain from long-term planning or investment.
Calls to dismantle and reorganize the current administration have been repeatedly echoed by different parties mainly from Tigray. The administrators, however, have countered these demands, stressing that “the administration will not be dismantled, but rather strengthened.”
Meanwhile, the local population has been demonstrating for the right to participate fully in the upcoming general election, seeking to vote for both the House of Peoples’ Representatives and the Regional Council. While their petition to vote for the regional council remains unaddressed, the ruling Prosperity Party currently appears to be the only political entity slated to participate.Even whether the election will take place at all remains unclear, according to the most recent developments.
Potential options for the future of the particular highly contested area—despite varying levels of popularity—include status as a self-administering region, joint administration by Tigray and Amhara, a special federal administration, or a referendum. Whether any of these, or another path entirely, will come to fruition remains to be seen.
Until a resolution is found, the cost of uncertainty remains human. It is measured in the lives of people like Dagne and Kahlayu, in the hesitation of investors, in the hollow gaze of those living among the skeletons of abandoned buildings, and in the enduring trauma of the victims of violence in places like Mai Kadra.
