When I saw the recent headlines about Ethiopia’s Prime Minister visiting Vietnam, I couldn’t help but smile. The news pulled me back in time—four decades back, to be precise. What happened then might strike you as audacious, or perhaps even opportunistic. Either way, let me tell the story. You can decide for yourself.

The Vietnam War—one of the most consequential struggles of the 20th century—raged from 1954 until the fall of Saigon in 1975. North Vietnam, backed by the Soviet Union and China, ultimately defeated the South, which had been supported by the United States and its allies. The war ended with the reunification of Vietnam under communist rule. Every year since, Vietnam celebrates a National Day, commemorating Ho Chi Minh’s 1945 declaration of independence from French colonial rule in Hanoi’s Ba Dinh Square.

In the 1980s, Ethiopia and Vietnam shared more than diplomatic ties—they shared revolutionary fervor. Both nations, governed by Marxist regimes, saw each other as ideological kin. Their national holidays were prominently featured in Ethiopian state media—broadcasts that echoed the language of solidarity, resistance, and victory.

At the time, I was a young journalist working at Ethiopian Television. One afternoon, Teklu Tabor, head of the Program Department, handed me an assignment: a 16mm documentary film on the Vietnamese revolution would air the following evening. Alongside it was a 12-page English-language narration script that needed to be translated into Amharic. The job was mine.

I took the film to the projector room, studied it carefully, and brought the script home. As I sat down that night to translate, something felt off. The script painted a picture of failure. It framed the Vietnamese revolution as a doomed endeavor, downplaying its historic victory in the final seconds, as if it were a footnote rather than the conclusion. I was stunned.

To translate it faithfully would have meant airing a narrative that contradicted Ethiopia’s own revolutionary ethos. It would have cast the Vietnamese—and, by implication, all revolutionary movements—in defeat. That kind of ideological betrayal, in the tightly controlled media environment of the Derg regime, could have cost me dearly. At worst, it might have earned me the label of “counter-revolutionary.”

So I made a choice.

That night, I rewrote the entire script.

I drew from books, notes, and everything I had at my disposal to reconstruct the story—this time truthfully, and with the reverence it deserved. I highlighted the resilience, the suffering, and ultimately, the triumph of the Vietnamese people. It was no longer propaganda—it was a narrative restored.

The next morning, I handed my Amharic version to Almaz Dejene, the program’s editor and censor. She read it, then called me over with a sly smile.

“Comrade Teshome,” she said, laughing, “this is the complete opposite of the original.”

I replied, “Comrade Almaz, if I had translated it word for word, we might have ended up being labeled counter-revolutionaries. But in this version, not only is there no harm, it also reaffirms our revolutionary ideals.”

She paused, then nodded in agreement.

That evening, my version aired. The Vietnamese Embassy had been informed in advance. They watched—and they were thrilled. The next day, gifts arrived for Teklu, Almaz, and me.

Looking back, that moment was a mix of journalism, instinct, diplomacy—and yes, a little defiance. Was it opportunistic? Perhaps. But it was also right.

That night, I didn’t just translate a script. I translated silence into voice, propaganda into justice. I may have bent the rules, but I did so to tell the truth. I wasn’t just a journalist—I became, for one evening, a quiet editor of history.

So, was I an opportunist? Or a revolutionary scribe? Maybe both. But in the end, my version aired, and the Embassy sent the gifts. Sometimes, the truth just needs a little help making it to the screen. That night, I gave it a lift.

Contributed by Teshome Berhanu