In a surprising pivot, Ethiopia—a landlocked country for over three decades—has taken concrete steps toward establishing a navy. On the surface, the notion seems paradoxical. Why would a country without a coastline invest in maritime power? Yet, this move is more than a symbolic gesture; it signals a risky recalibration of Ethiopia’s strategic ambitions with potentially destabilizing consequences for the Horn of Africa.

The stakes are high. The Horn flanks one of the world’s busiest and most volatile waterways, through which a significant portion of global trade—including energy shipments—flows. It’s a geostrategic corridor, already marred by conflict and piracy, where any misstep can spiral into a broader conflagration. Ethiopia’s naval aspirations, far from benign, threaten to tip the region’s delicate balance, strain neighborly relations, and divert precious national focus from more pressing domestic challenges.

Despite lacking direct access to the sea, Ethiopia maintains a heavy reliance on the Port of Djibouti, with over 90 percent of its trade passing through this vital artery. In recent years, Addis Ababa has broadened its logistical network through alternative corridors via Kenya, Sudan, and potentially Eritrea and Somalia. These routes, though imperfect, are viable and improving—making the case for a military maritime presence increasingly tenuous.

So why pursue a navy? The answer likely lies less in economic necessity and more in strategic posturing. A naval force, however embryonic, serves as a projection of power and a signal of intent. But the message it sends—particularly after Ethiopia’s controversial January 2024 memorandum with Somaliland, a region internationally recognized as part of Somalia—is one of overreach. That agreement, which effectively sought maritime access through an unrecognized breakaway region, was met with swift condemnation and nearly triggered armed conflict, defused only by Turkish mediation.

This episode illustrates the danger of military ambition untethered from diplomatic prudence. Rather than fostering cooperation, Ethiopia’s deal with Somaliland revived old wounds and fueled fears of annexation. It upended norms of regional sovereignty and emboldened competing nationalisms across the Horn.

Compounding the geopolitical peril is Ethiopia’s internal fragility. The nation is still reeling from the Tigray conflict, one of the deadliest civil wars of the 21st century. Simultaneously, fresh violence brews in the Amhara and Oromia regions. Ethnic tensions remain acute in the Somali, Afar, and Benishangul-Gumuz states. The economic picture is similarly grim—soaring inflation, widespread food insecurity, and a ballooning national debt burden a country still struggling to reconcile with itself.

Amid this instability, the government’s maritime vision begins to resemble less a coherent strategy than a political sleight of hand. Leaders under pressure often look abroad to galvanize nationalist sentiment, redirecting domestic discontent toward external threats or aspirations. The Abiy administration appears to be following this familiar playbook, risking regional fallout for short-term political gain.

Yet, this is not a moment for grandstanding. It is a moment for sober recalibration. The Horn of Africa is a region teetering on the edge—its history is littered with failed states, border skirmishes, and externally fueled insurgencies. A landlocked power amassing naval ambitions in contested waters only adds another layer of volatility.

The international community has taken notice. Countries like Somalia, Eritrea, Djibouti, and even Egypt—which has its own tense history with Ethiopia over Nile water rights—view Addis Ababa’s maneuvers with suspicion. None are likely to watch passively. Quietly, and not so quietly, military posturing is already underway.

Then there’s the price tag. Building a navy isn’t just symbolically bold—it’s financially staggering. From acquiring vessels and training sailors to constructing or leasing port infrastructure, the costs will be borne by a nation already stretched thin. For a government presiding over post-war reconstruction, the opportunity costs are steep. Every birr funneled into naval development is one not spent on schools, clinics, roads, or the critical task of national healing.

Ethiopia does not lack for regional importance. It is Africa’s second-most populous nation and the seat of the African Union. It can be a pillar of peace, a driver of economic integration, and a champion of multilateral diplomacy. But that requires restraint—not adventurism. The country would be better served by deepening trade partnerships, investing in infrastructure, and building durable regional alliances based on trust and mutual benefit, not coercion or unilateralism.

In the end, Ethiopia’s naval pursuit seems less about securing commercial lifelines than about staging a spectacle of sovereign defiance. It is a bid for prestige dressed in the uniform of military modernization. But at what cost? The country’s trajectory—still raw from civil strife and polarized to its core—demands reconciliation, not provocation. Its leadership must reckon with the reality that power, especially in fragile regions, is best measured not by ships or armaments, but by stability and trust.

A navy won’t make Ethiopia a maritime power. But it might make it a flashpoint.