መኸተ carried Tigray through an existential struggle. Its next test is whether sacrifice can be converted into lasting national capacity. TPLF carries the greatest responsibility because it leads. But leadership is not ownership. It means correcting weaknesses honestly, preserving public confidence, aligning every institution with national priorities, and organizing committed and capable Tigrayans beyond familiar political circles. The burden of carrying a nation is to remain worthy of the people who sustain it.

Why I wanted to write this

Of all the essays I have written in recent months, this is the one I have been most reluctant to begin, because it is the one most easily misread.

It can be misread as criticism of the organizations leading Tigray through one of the most dangerous and uncertain periods in our modern history. It is not. It can be misread as a suggestion that Tigray should pursue political perfection while Western Tigray remains occupied, hundreds of thousands of our people remain displaced, and the possibility of renewed war has not disappeared. It is not that either.

What it is, instead, is an attempt to think carefully about a question that I believe will matter more to Tigray’s survival than most of the questions currently consuming our public debate:

What does a nation have the right to expect from the organizations it entrusts with its survival, and what do those organizations owe the nation in return?

That question is not about any single organization. It is about a relationship: the relationship between a people under existential pressure and the institutions carrying them through it. I have come to believe that the health of that relationship is itself a strategic asset, as real as an army, a budget, or a negotiating position. Like every strategic asset, it can be strengthened or quietly depleted.

Completing a line of thinking

This essay also fulfills a commitment.

When I concluded Political Organization Is Not a Copy-and-Paste Exercise, I promised to return to one remaining question: the ethical responsibilities and internal health of the organizations we ask to carry us. This is that essay, and with it, a line of thinking that has been developing across my recent work reaches, at least for now, its natural conclusion.

Beyond the Scapegoat argued that institutional decline cannot be explained by blaming individuals; systems, cultures, and incentives matter more than villains. Political Organization Is Not a Copy-and-Paste Exercise argued that political organizations cannot be imported; they must grow from the historical experience and strategic needs of the society they serve. Where Will Tigray’s Next Political Leaders Come From? argued that capable leaders are cultivated by institutions, not produced by accident. The Discipline That Holds Us Together reflected on why discipline should strengthen institutions rather than shield personalities. And Beyond Two-Track Mekhete argued that መኸተ, Tigray’s organized national resistance and resilience effort, must continue evolving into a strategy capable of organizing the whole nation’s strength.

Each of those essays examined one part of a larger structure. What remained unexamined was the keystone: if organizations are expected to carry the burden of national survival, what standards must they hold themselves to, so that they strengthen, rather than gradually weaken, the nation they are trying to protect?

Why emergency raises the standard

There is a common instinct, and I understand it, that says questions like this must wait. The regional government is rebuilding under emergency conditions with almost nothing. Resources are exhausted. The implementation of Pretoria remains incomplete. Surely, the instinct says, institutional questions are a peacetime luxury.

I have come to believe the opposite.

Under ordinary circumstances, institutional weakness costs a society efficiency. Services are slower. Decisions are worse. Money is wasted. These are serious costs, but a society at peace can absorb them and correct them over time.

Under existential circumstances, the same weaknesses are subtracted directly from survival. A post filled by the wrong person is not merely unfair; it places weakness at a position the nation cannot afford to see fail. A public institution that loses the confidence of its own people does not merely disappoint them; it withdraws capacity from መኸተ at the exact moment መኸተ needs every unit of capacity it can organize.

This is why I do not accept the framing that raising institutional questions weakens መኸተ. The emergency does not lower the standard for our institutions. It raises it. Strengthening መኸተ has rightly focused on military readiness, diplomacy, revenue, and unity. But መኸተ is carried by institutions, and a load-bearing structure must be maintained precisely when the load is heaviest.

Institutions and public confidence

One lesson I have repeatedly learned from observing politics in Ethiopia, Eritrea, and the wider Horn over many years is that institutions are not sustained by laws, structures, or even resources alone.

They are sustained by confidence.

Confidence cannot be legislated or announced. It accumulates slowly, through thousands of small encounters between ordinary people and the institutions that serve them: a permit issued fairly, a complaint taken seriously, an appointment that made obvious sense, a burden shared visibly by everyone. And it erodes the same way: gradually, quietly, usually without a single dramatic event that anyone could point to afterward.

This is what makes confidence so dangerous to lose. Institutions can continue functioning, issuing directives, holding meetings, and filling positions, long after society has quietly stopped believing in them. And by the time leadership notices the erosion, rebuilding confidence costs many times what preserving it would have cost.

For Tigray, this is not an abstract concern. መኸተ is, at its core, an act of collective confidence. It asks people who have already given more than any people should be asked to give, to give again: their labor, their earnings, their children’s service, their patience. People extend that kind of trust to institutions they believe in. No directive can extract it from institutions they merely obey. Confidence is the currency in which all mobilization is paid.

Public perception and institutional reality

This brings me to something that has increasingly occupied my mind. It is not only how our institutions actually function (which I am not in a position to judge comprehensively, and which this essay does not attempt to judge) but how they are increasingly perceived by ordinary Tigrayans. These are two different things, and the distinction matters.

Over recent months, in conversations, in public discussions, and in concerns raised openly by voices inside Tigray, I have repeatedly encountered questions such as:

whether public administration is becoming sufficiently institutionalized, or remains too dependent on the individuals who happen to hold office;

whether political organizations are preserving the spirit of public service that originally gave them their legitimacy, or drifting toward becoming sources of livelihood;

whether our media, a capability built at great cost, consistently strengthens national cohesion, or is sometimes turned inward against it;

whether leadership is increasingly associated with wisdom and judgment, or merely with visibility;

whether appointments are consistently seen as merit-based, or are believed to travel through familiar circles;

and whether every capable Tigrayan genuinely feels there is a place to contribute to መኸተ, regardless of political background.

I want to be careful here, because this is where the essay is most easily misread. I am not asserting that each of these perceptions accurately describes institutional reality. Some may be exaggerated. Some may reflect the impatience of an exhausted society, or the distortions of a noisy information environment. Some may be encouraged by those who benefit from Tigrayan distrust of Tigrayan institutions; we should never forget that such actors exist.

But here is the uncomfortable truth: whether every perception is accurate is not the only question. Institutions depend not only upon their actual integrity but also upon the confidence people place in them. Once a significant gap emerges between what institutions believe they are doing and what society believes they are becoming, that gap itself becomes a strategic concern, regardless of which side of it is closer to the truth.

If the perceptions are broadly accurate, the institutions have a functional problem that must be corrected before it deepens. If they are broadly inaccurate, the institutions have a transparency problem, because in politics a truth that cannot be seen behaves exactly like a falsehood. And when the reality is mixed, as it usually is, both corrections are needed at once.

What cannot work is treating the perception gap as a problem that can be solved through messaging alone. Confidence is rebuilt through visible institutional behavior, honestly explained and sustained long enough that people conclude it is real.

The responsibilities of organizations entrusted with national survival

Why do these gaps emerge at all, even in organizations built by sacrifice, staffed by committed people, and genuinely devoted to their nation?

Organizations that lead people through prolonged existential crises commonly face a recognizable set of pressures and temptations. This is not a theory. It is a pattern visible across a century of liberation movements, wartime governments, and national fronts, on this continent and beyond.

Prolonged emergency concentrates authority, because survival demands speed. It suspends ordinary scrutiny, because criticism feels like a luxury the moment cannot afford. It blurs the line between the organization, the government, and the nation, because for long stretches they genuinely had to act as one. And prolonged sacrifice quietly creates a sense of entitlement, because those who carried the heaviest years begin to feel, understandably, that the institution owes them something back.

None of this requires bad people. It requires only ordinary people, extraordinary pressure, scarce resources, and time.

Nor are these patterns hypothetical for those of us who have watched this region for decades. Across our northern border lies a cautionary story that Tigrayans know well. The organization that carried Eritrea’s independence struggle demonstrated extraordinary discipline and endurance. Yet after independence, it failed to convert wartime command into accountable political institutions capable of limiting authority, protecting disagreement, and correcting the leadership from within. The state became increasingly inseparable from the organization, and the organization from a narrowing center of power. National service, introduced as a shared national obligation, became indefinite in practice. Those who questioned this direction, including veterans of the struggle itself, were silenced when their intervention might still have altered it.

I take no satisfaction in this comparison, nor do I suggest that Tigray and Eritrea are following identical paths. My point is narrower. Historical sacrifice does not by itself protect an organization from institutional deterioration. Without mechanisms capable of checking authority and preserving honest internal disagreement, the habits necessary for survival during war can become obstacles to accountable government after it.

Tigray’s own political memory contains a different lesson, though not an uncomplicated one. From its earliest years, TPLF carried within it a culture of ገምጋም, structured organizational self-evaluation that spared neither commanders nor cadres. ገምጋም was never automatically equivalent to honest self-correction. At its best, it exposed weaknesses that rank and reputation might otherwise have concealed. At its worst, it could discipline disagreement, reproduce the accepted line, or become a ceremony whose conclusions were already understood. The lesson for today is therefore not simply to restore an old mechanism. It is to recover what that mechanism was for at its best, the willingness to hear inconvenient information, and to connect evaluation to visible institutional correction.

Because in my observation, the difference between organizations that hollowed out and organizations that endured was rarely the virtue of individual leaders. It was whether the organization kept a working habit of correcting itself, and whether it understood what it actually held in its hands.

Public office, political organization, media, leadership, appointments, and national service are not possessions. They are held in trust. They belong to the nation that created them and to the sacrifices that paid for them. In Tigray’s case, the price of those sacrifices is beyond any accounting. The moment any of them quietly becomes a private instrument, serving an individual, a family, a network, or a faction, something more important than efficiency is lost.

An organization entrusted with national survival therefore carries responsibilities beyond winning the struggle it leads. It must keep the line between public and private visibly intact, because everyone is watching where that line sits, even when no one says so. It must treat the confidence of its people as a strategic reserve, drawn down only knowingly and replenished deliberately. And it must build the habit of self-correction while it is strong, because organizations rarely develop that habit after serious weakening; by then, self-examination is often experienced as surrender.

These responsibilities do not demand perfection. They demand something more modest and more essential: the daily, unglamorous insistence that what belongs to the nation is used for the nation — and is seen to be.

Why TPLF carries the greatest responsibility

I have deliberately written most of this essay without reference to any particular organization, because I want these principles to stand on their own: to remain true twenty years from now, whoever carries Tigray then.

But principles must eventually meet the present, and in the present, TPLF leads መኸተ. That fact carries a clear consequence: the organization with the greatest responsibility for national survival also carries the greatest responsibility for institutional self-correction and for closing the confidence gap.

I do not say this because I believe TPLF is uniquely lacking in commitment. Genuine commitment to Tigray, its people, and its survival remains deeply present within much of the organization. But commitment and effective political leadership are not always the same thing.

Across TPLF’s long history, there has often been a painful distance between intention and instrument, objective and strategy, commitment and approach. A defensible national objective has sometimes been pursued through an inadequate institutional instrument. A serious political purpose has sometimes been weakened by the wrong strategy. Genuine commitment has sometimes been expressed through an approach perceived as arrogant or dismissive, alienating the very people whose confidence was needed.

This is not merely a problem of presentation. An inadequate instrument can defeat a worthy intention. A wrong strategy can place a legitimate objective further out of reach. And commitment expressed without sufficient political humility can be experienced as entitlement rather than service.

Recognizing the genuine commitment that exists within TPLF must therefore not become an excuse for institutional or strategic failure. Political organizations are ultimately judged not only by what they intend, but by whether their structures, strategies, and conduct can convert those intentions into results.

That is why TPLF carries the greatest responsibility. Leadership is arithmetic. Whoever carries the most must maintain the most.

Within TPLF today, both tendencies may exist: the tendency to interpret institutional questions as threats, and the tendency to treat self-examination as a source of renewal. Which tendency becomes stronger will help determine whether the organization can lead the next phase of መኸተ with renewed public confidence.

TPLF’s own history contains evidence that renewal through self-examination is possible. The organization has corrected itself before, under pressures few political organizations survive at all. The question is not whether it can. The question is whether it will choose to, deliberately, visibly, and soon enough to matter.

That is not an attack. It is an invitation to lead.

When every office must explain its place in መኸተ

The responsibility I am describing does not belong only to the organization in an abstract sense. It must become visible through the institutions and individuals now entrusted with governing Tigray.

The newly constituted cabinet has brought together leaders assigned to institutions covering justice, agriculture, urban development, water and energy, education, land, mining, public service, health, communications, employment, revenue, finance, women’s affairs, science and technology, culture, and social affairs. Under ordinary circumstances, the responsibilities attached to these offices would already be substantial. Under a መኸተ Government, however, the question cannot end with whether each bureau is carrying out its ordinary administrative mandate.

Each office must also be able to explain how its work strengthens መኸተ.

I say this carefully. The absence of frequent public statements does not prove the absence of serious work. Some leaders may be working quietly under extremely difficult conditions. Others may still be assessing institutions damaged by war, depleted of resources, and expected to perform duties far beyond their current capacity. I am not in a position to rank their performance, and that is not my purpose.

But several weeks after the formation of the cabinet, I believe the public has a legitimate need to hear something more than appointments and general declarations. People need to understand how each institution sees its place within the wider national effort.

One visible example I have encountered came from the Bureau of Urban Development and Construction, whose leadership has publicly attempted to connect the responsibilities of the office with መኸተ. I mention this not to elevate one institution above others, or to imply that others are inactive. I mention it because it illustrates the kind of institutional explanation the moment requires.

The Education Bureau offers an immediate example of what this wider መኸተ responsibility means.

Its duty cannot end with reopening schools and restoring ordinary instruction after years of war, displacement, destruction, and interrupted learning. The recent Grade 12 examination dispute exposed another layer of educational vulnerability. More than fifteen thousand paper-based candidates were unable to sit for the examination as originally scheduled after the federally administered papers did not arrive in Tigray. The regional bureau described the subsequent separate rescheduling as discriminatory and politically motivated, and announced that it was preparing an examination of its own. It was subsequently reported that only the federally administered examination would qualify students for public-university admission, while Tigrayan students were assigned a later federal examination schedule.

I do not regard this as an innocent administrative failure. In my judgment, the federal government’s conduct was deliberate and politically discriminatory. More than fifteen thousand Tigrayan students were left without examination papers, then placed on a separate later schedule, while the federal system retained control over whether any regional alternative would be recognized for university admission. I base this conclusion not on access to every internal discussion in Addis Ababa, but on the conduct itself and on the wider pattern in which federal institutions have repeatedly used administrative authority to place pressure on Tigray.

That conclusion does not lessen the responsibility of the Education Bureau. Precisely because the obstruction was political, Tigray’s response also had to be strategically and technically stronger. The Bureau had a duty to challenge the discriminatory arrangement, but it also had a duty to ensure that its response did not expose students to a second danger through an examination whose recognition was uncertain.

This is where commitment, competence, and institutional judgment must meet. መኸተ in education cannot mean accepting external dependency without protest. Nor can it mean adopting alternatives before their consequences for students are secured. It means protecting the immediate educational rights of the present cohort while building the contingency capacity, institutional leverage, and wider partnerships needed to prevent the same vulnerability from recurring. Education, in the end, is the protection of Tigray’s intellectual continuity.

The larger lesson is not about one examination. It is that every institution under a መኸተ Government must understand both the national danger confronting its sector and the responsibility to respond in a way that protects the people rather than merely demonstrates political resolve. And that standard applies to everyone. Interventions in a dispute like this, by the responsible bureau and by its critics alike, deserve to be judged by whether they protected students and clarified the problem, or merely used them to score a political point.

The same question extends to every office. An agriculture bureau under ordinary government focuses on production, extension services, and natural-resource management; under መኸተ, it must also explain how it will strengthen food security, reduce dangerous dependence, and protect rural society from another shock. A health bureau must explain how Tigray will rebuild emergency medical capacity, respond to trauma, prepare for epidemics, and decentralize services so that the system cannot be easily paralyzed. Revenue and finance institutions must explain how sacrifice will be distributed fairly and how limited resources will be prioritized. Public service must show how an administration can act under emergency conditions without allowing urgency to excuse incompetence or abuse; justice and audit institutions, how accountability will be maintained while resources are scarce and authority concentrated. And every remaining office (science and technology, women’s affairs, labor, culture, communications) must define the specific part of national resilience that falls within its responsibility.

These examples are not intended as instructions from outside. They are meant to show the deeper point. In a መኸተ Government, agriculture cannot remain only agriculture, education cannot remain only education, and finance cannot remain only finance. Each institution carries a portion of the national survival structure.

Every cabinet member should therefore be able to tell the public, in clear language: this is the vulnerability our institution has been assigned to address; this is how our ordinary responsibility contributes to መኸተ; these are the measurable priorities we will pursue under present conditions; these are the institutions and sections of society with which we must cooperate; and this is how the people will know whether we are making progress.

This should not be confused with publicity. Political visibility for its own sake is not leadership. But public explanation is part of leadership, particularly when the Government is asking an exhausted society for additional patience, sacrifice, revenue, discipline, and participation.

A people cannot coordinate themselves around responsibilities they cannot see. They cannot contribute intelligently to priorities that have not been explained. And they cannot assess institutions fairly if the institutions themselves do not define what should reasonably be expected from them.

The cabinet should therefore not function simply as a collection of bureau heads conducting separate sectoral responsibilities. It should function as an integrated መኸተ executive, in which every institution understands the national strategy, defines its contribution to that strategy, and coordinates with the others around shared objectives.

This is where the meaning of a መኸተ Government becomes practical. It is not created by attaching the word መኸተ to every government activity. It is created when every office reorganizes its priorities, resources, partnerships, and public responsibilities around the conditions of national survival.

The Government has already declared the importance of strengthening internal capacity and self-reliance. The next step is for each institution to show the people what that principle means within its own field of responsibility.

That would strengthen not only performance.

It would strengthen confidence.

Leadership now requires disciplined inclusion

There is a further consequence of asking every institution to define its contribution to መኸተ.

Once an institution clearly identifies the responsibility it carries, it must also ask whether the people, knowledge, and networks required to fulfill that responsibility exist entirely within government or within the political organization leading it.

In many cases, they will not.

Agriculture will require the knowledge of farmers, researchers, cooperatives, universities, and professionals who understand food systems and natural resources. Health will require medical professionals inside Tigray and across the diaspora. Science and technology will require people whose expertise may have developed far outside party structures. Reconstruction will require engineers, businesses, planners, and development institutions. Legal and diplomatic work will require specialized knowledge, international relationships, and institutional continuity.

Recognizing this does not mean that political responsibility should be reduced to professional competence.

I have never believed that political leadership is simply a technical occupation. A person may possess impressive qualifications and still lack the commitment, judgment, endurance, political understanding, or sense of responsibility required to carry a national struggle. Particularly under Tigray’s present conditions, competence without commitment cannot be treated as sufficient.

But commitment alone cannot be sufficient for every responsibility either.

A person may be deeply committed to Tigray and still lack the specific ability required to administer a health system, design a revenue strategy, manage reconstruction, conduct international legal work, or rebuild educational institutions. Commitment gives responsibility its direction. Competence gives it the capacity to produce results.

The challenge before Tigray is therefore not to choose between commitment and competence. It is to combine them according to the responsibility being assigned. An organization weakens when loyalty is treated as sufficient for every responsibility, or when competence is treated as politically suspect merely because it developed outside the organization’s own structures.

Political leadership must remain grounded in commitment to the national objectives of መኸተ and in the political responsibility required to defend them. Technical and professional responsibilities must be carried by people who possess the relevant knowledge and practical ability, but who also understand the national significance of the work entrusted to them. In every case, integrity, accountability, and the capacity to cooperate must remain essential.

This balance is particularly important when discussing people from opposition organizations, civic institutions, universities, professional associations, businesses, and the diaspora.

Broader inclusion should not mean that political differences disappear. Nor should it mean that every critic of TPLF is automatically entitled to a role in መኸተ. Political disagreement by itself is neither a qualification nor a disqualification.

The relevant questions should be more demanding. Does the individual accept the fundamental national objectives around which መኸተ is organized? Is the person genuinely committed to the safety, territorial integrity, dignity, and political future of Tigray? Does the person possess the knowledge, experience, relationships, or organizational capacity required for the particular responsibility? Can the person work under agreed discipline, confidentiality, accountability, and collective direction? And can political disagreement be preserved without allowing partisan competition to obstruct the national task?

These questions create a more serious basis for inclusion than either party loyalty alone or professional credentials alone.

TPLF, as the organization carrying the greatest responsibility for leading መኸተ, must preserve the political coherence necessary to lead. Opening structured space to people from other political and civic traditions should not mean surrendering leadership or creating several competing command centers. A national emergency cannot be managed through institutional confusion.

But leadership should also not be interpreted as requiring every useful contribution to pass through party membership or ideological conversion. There is a difference between leading a national effort and personally performing every function within it.

TPLF and the መኸተ Government should provide political direction, define national priorities, establish standards, protect coherence, and hold participating structures accountable. Within that disciplined framework, people from different political and professional backgrounds should be able to contribute to clearly defined responsibilities without being required to abandon their own organizational identities. This may include technical advisory groups, professional task forces, reconstruction initiatives, legal and diplomatic teams, research networks, humanitarian coordination mechanisms, and other forms of service where the national objective is agreed even when wider political views differ.

Such inclusion should be real, not symbolic. People should not be invited merely to create the appearance of political breadth. They should be given defined responsibilities, access to the information necessary to perform them, clear lines of accountability, and a fair basis upon which their contribution will be evaluated. Every capable person given genuine responsibility on these terms answers, in the most visible way possible, several of the perceptions described earlier: about appointments, about belonging, about whether መኸተ is truly national.

At the same time, inclusion must remain disciplined. No national structure can function if participants use access for factional competition, disclose sensitive information, obstruct agreed work, or treat cooperation as an opportunity to weaken the political center from within. Openness without rules would not strengthen መኸተ. It would reproduce political fragmentation inside the institutions meant to overcome it.

But discipline must bind the convening authority as much as it binds those invited to contribute. Opposition figures, civic actors, and professionals cannot be expected to enter a national structure merely to confirm conclusions already reached elsewhere. Within the agreed national objectives and the confidentiality required by the assignment, they must be able to question assumptions, identify failure, and recommend a different course without having that disagreement treated as disloyalty. This is the same lesson ገምጋም taught at its best: correction depends on the ability to receive inconvenient information.

Otherwise, inclusion would be broad in appearance but narrow in function. The purpose is not to assemble a politically diverse audience around decisions already made. It is to bring additional judgment, knowledge, networks, and institutional capacity into the making and implementation of those decisions.

The balance Tigray needs is therefore neither organizational monopoly nor uncontrolled pluralism. It is disciplined national cooperation under clear political direction.

This is where commitment and competence meet. Commitment ensures that national capacity is not detached from national purpose. Competence ensures that sacrifice is converted into results. Integrity ensures that authority is not privately appropriated. Discipline ensures that political difference does not become institutional paralysis.

Tigray cannot afford to waste capable people because they come from outside familiar political circles. It also cannot afford to place people in responsibilities they cannot carry merely because their loyalty is unquestioned. At this delicate moment, both errors would place Tigray at a disadvantage.

The purpose of broader inclusion is therefore not to weaken the political spine of መኸተ. It is to ensure that the political spine can organize the full strength of the national body around it.

From political organization toward national resilience

I said at the outset that this essay completes, for now, a line of thinking. Let me say plainly where I believe that line points.

Political organizations cannot themselves perform every function required by national survival. They were never designed to. What they can do, and what leadership now requires them to do, is ensure that every public institution defines its መኸተ responsibility, and then organize the wider capacity of society around those responsibilities: its institutions, its professions, its civic life, its diaspora, its young people. The evolution of መኸተ will increasingly depend not only on the strength of the organizations that lead it, but on their ability to organize the whole nation’s capabilities behind it, and on whether the confidence exists between people and institutions to make that organization possible.

That is a larger discussion, and I intend to return to it.

Conclusion

Tigray is living through years in which the margin for error is thinner than at any time in our modern history. The organizations carrying us through these years deserve neither blind defense nor careless attack. They deserve something harder than both: honest maintenance of their functions, and of the confidence that surrounds them.

Perhaps I am wrong about some of what I have described here. I hope, in places, that I am. But of the central point I am confident. Tigrayans have already demonstrated an extraordinary capacity for sacrifice. The responsibility of leadership is not simply to ask for more. It is to ensure that every additional sacrifice produces visible national capacity, is distributed fairly, and is entrusted to institutions that remain worthy of the people’s confidence.

A nation under existential pressure cannot always choose its circumstances.

It can choose what its organizations are allowed to become — and what its people are given reason to believe about them.

ትግራይ ትስዕር！ሰላም ንህዝብና！

This essay concludes a sequence of reflections published on TigrayInsights over recent months: on institutional decline (Beyond the Scapegoat), political organization (Political Organization Is Not a Copy-and-Paste Exercise), leadership formation (Where Will Tigray’s Next Political Leaders Come From?), political discipline (The Discipline That Holds Us Together), and the strategic evolution of መኸተ (Beyond Two-Track Mekhete). It fulfills the commitment made in the essay on political organization to return to the ethical responsibilities of the organizations that carry national survival.