A new wave is forming among some Eritrean elites in the diaspora—particularly among those who once positioned themselves as part of the opposition. These voices, now speaking the language of cooperation, transition, and unity, argue that the only viable path forward is to work with the regime. That we must move beyond confrontation. That all other options have failed. That it is time, finally, to support the existing system as the vehicle for change.
One of the clearest expressions of this position came recently from Daniel Teklai, a founder of One Nation, in his article published in Setit. There, he suggests that the phase of mobilization has run its course, that the opposition has lost credibility, and that Eritreans should now focus on preparing a peaceful post-Isaias transition—one that includes actors from within the regime and its institutions. The appeal to pragmatism is unmistakable: unity over division, realism over idealism, preparation over agitation.
But beneath this seemingly mature shift lies a series of serious logical flaws—flaws that not only undermine the argument, but risk legitimizing a system that has shown no interest in reform.
At the core of this new position is the belief that change will come if we first demonstrate unity and trust. That the regime, if treated respectfully and supported publicly, will in turn respond with reform. But this flips the very logic of political accountability. In any functioning political system, legitimacy is earned through action—not granted in the blind hope of transformation. Trust follows reform, not the other way around. Yet this argument asks Eritreans to support a power structure that has made no commitments, offered no roadmap, and given no public signal of intent—only vague interpretations of tone, whispers, and private assurances.
This is not pragmatism. It is political mysticism. It requires citizens to act on the assumption that the regime will change, without demanding any structural evidence that it intends to do so. It tells the public to leap first, and hope that the ground will appear beneath their feet.
Even if we assume that the aging leadership recognizes the need for change, we are still left with the unanswered question: why would those in power voluntarily create the conditions that could lead to their own loss of control? Real reform—constitutional governance, rule of law, institutional checks—requires power to be limited, shared, and ultimately contested. But the Eritrean state has never been built on that premise. Its survival depends on insulation, not openness. Control, not competition. The suggestion that it will one day embrace a system that renders it accountable is not grounded in history or logic—it’s a gamble, and a bad one.
To support this wager, many have begun emphasizing the failure of the opposition as justification for rethinking our approach. It’s true that the opposition has suffered from division, lost public trust, and made strategic miscalculations, particularly in aligning with historical adversaries like the TPLF. But this failure is too often used to imply something dangerous: that because the opposition has faltered, the regime is now the only viable path forward. That the state, however flawed, is the only structure capable of guaranteeing stability and continuity.
This conclusion does not follow. The failure of one actor does not sanctify another. Authoritarian power does not become legitimate simply because alternatives have struggled. The regime has not earned credibility through performance or principle—it has only persisted by removing all competition and criminalizing dissent. That is not a vote of confidence; it is the absence of choice.
The vision of transition advanced by Daniel and others is presented as a safe, stable alternative to chaos—a careful, inclusive bridge to the post-Isaias era. But this imagined transition rests on the inclusion of the very institutions and individuals who have blocked reform at every turn. It asks the Eritrean people to entrust the next chapter of their future to the same actors who have never allowed them to participate in the present one.
This is not a path to transition. It is a formula for continuity.
And the consequences of this misguided approach are not theoretical. They are already unfolding in plain sight. In the name of national unity, many of the voices who once spoke as critics have gone silent. Their media platforms, their public statements, their social media presence—all now mirror the tone of the regime. They no longer criticize the government’s abuses, no longer speak out against its military or security apparatus, and no longer engage the Eritrean public with independent analysis or alternative visions. In fact, they have begun defending the regime’s latest moves—including its quiet outreach to the very TPLF it once condemned as an existential threat. Their stances shift to follow whatever line the government chooses to take. The result is clear: they have not influenced the regime. The regime has absorbed them. Whether they recognize it or not, they now function as unofficial cadres—not because they wear uniforms, but because they echo the government’s voice and suppress their own. This is not unity. It is co-optation. And it is working in the regime’s favor.
Yes, the desire for something new is real. The fatigue is understandable. But we cannot let exhaustion dictate our analysis. We cannot afford to confuse cooperation with change, or unity with silence. And we cannot allow a vision of the future to be built on a series of unproven assumptions—that the regime wants to reform, that it is capable of doing so, and that it will do it simply because some of its former critics have offered it their trust.
And when critics of this view raise concerns, they are often met with the same rhetorical question: “What is your alternative?” As if all other paths have been exhausted. As if the only choice left is quiet alignment. But that is simply not true. There are always alternatives. Civil resistance, underground organizing, international pressure, internal dissent—these are not fantasies. They are strategies rooted in how change has happened elsewhere. From South Africa to Sudan, from Chile to Serbia, history shows us that authoritarian regimes do not yield to cooperation—they yield to pressure.
No one claims these paths are easy. But they are grounded in reality—in a clear understanding of how power behaves and what it takes to move it. To suggest otherwise is to confuse disappointment with inevitability, and fatigue with strategy.
The Eritrean people deserve better than to be told that their only role in shaping their future is to believe. They deserve concrete paths to accountability, real mechanisms of reform, and strategies built not on faith, but on leverage. Hope is not the problem. But hope that is detached from power, blind to incentive, and indifferent to history is not strategy.
It is surrender. And surrender, however calmly delivered, is still a danger.
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