In February 2026, CNN released an investigation into Russian agents recruiting mercenaries in Africa, sparking responses from governments across the continent, including Botswana, Uganda, South Africa, and Kenya. Local media detailed how citizens were tricked into fighting in Ukraine as soldiers for the Russian army — and yet, the flow of recruits from Africa shows no sign of slowing.
Back in late 2025, Ukraine’s Foreign Minister Andriy Sybiha reported that at least 1,436 citizens from 36 African countries were confirmed fighting for Russia. That number reflects only those identified; the actual figure is likely higher. Experts noted that this situation is the product of more than three decades of Ukraine’s diplomatic “silence” in Africa.
While Ukraine largely stayed on the sidelines, Russia actively cultivated ties across the continent, winning supporters — often simply by buying their loyalty. The approach is far from new: the Soviet Union employed similar tactics, backing pro-Soviet puppet regimes throughout Africa.
Ukrainian writer Serhiy Synhaivskyi knows this history firsthand. He is the author of the novel The Road to Asmara, which portrays Eritrea — now an independent state that consistently votes with Russia at the United Nations. But in 1984, when Synhaivskyi arrived there as a military interpreter, Eritrea was still part of Ethiopia. Along with the Ethiopian province of Tigray, it was fighting for independence, while the regime of Mengistu Haile Mariam sought to crush that push using Soviet weapons and engineered famine.
The Road to Asmara became widely popular and has been republished twice. Synhaivskyi remains the only Ukrainian writer to document the Soviet presence in Africa. And with that presence now largely replaced by Russia, understanding this “continuity of tradition” — and its roots — is crucial. That’s the focus of this conversation in The Ukrainian Week with Serhiy Synhaivskyi.
— Serhiy, today Russia is waging war in Ukraine, at times deploying troops from Africa. In the 1980s, Ethiopia under Mengistu Haile Mariam used Soviet weapons to suppress rebel movements. Could that be considered a form of hybrid warfare?
— Not exactly. In my view, the hybrid aspect of the Ethiopian–Eritrean war at that time was in how international aid meant for the Ethiopian people was used against part of that same population — all wrapped in layers of deception, in the finest Bolshevik tradition. Western charities had to pretend they trusted the Mengistu regime just to stay in the country and help the starving. Tolerating evil to do some good — that’s an eternal dilemma.
The Soviet Union played both sides of the same coin. With one hand, it flooded the regime with weapons for the war; with the other, it supposedly helped fight the famine — even though everyone knew the war itself was the main cause of Ethiopia’s starvation.
— What exactly did Soviet assistance look like?
— The Soviet Union provided transport to deliver food to the so-called “new villages,” effectively supporting a campaign to forcibly resettle villagers from the rebellious north to other regions. This was part of the hybrid war, framed as aid for the starving. The government of “socialist” Ethiopia even presented the resettlement to the Kremlin elders as a kind of rural collectivisation.
In reality, it was about establishing total state control over the peasantry, especially in provinces with active guerrilla movements, under the pretence of famine relief. It also involved reshaping the country’s ethnic makeup to make that control easier. Mengistu’s socialist empire was fracturing not just in the north — Eritrea and Tigray — but across the entire country. This dynamic hasn’t disappeared: the recent bloody conflict between the central government and Tigray shows that the pattern continues.
Interestingly, Eritrean forces fought on the side of the central government, despite their past alliance and deep linguistic and ethnic ties with the Tigrayans. Their atrocities — mass rape as terror, looting, outright sadistic attacks on civilians — are eerily reminiscent of Russian actions in Ukraine.
— What tactics Russia uses in its wars now were first tried out back then?
— The key one, I’d say, is a complete disregard for human life — including soldiers’. The “meat assaults” witnessed by some of my acquaintances, interpreters serving on the front with divisional or brigade advisers, were the backbone of government tactics against well-prepared Eritrean and Tigrayan guerrilla positions.
In Ethiopia’s case, this brutal approach can at least partly be explained by cold arithmetic: the country’s population has been growing at staggering rates — from around 40 million in 1985 to 135 million today.
— Your protagonist Andriy is torn between loyalty to his oath and the horror of what his own country [Soviet Union – ed.] is doing. Were feelings like his common back then?
— They existed, but only among a very small segment of Soviet citizens. Andriy still sees himself as a citizen of the USSR, and for him, the oath isn’t empty words. In his mind, there are faint hopes for a government led by intellectual technocrats, the kind envisioned by academician Sakharov, and ultimately for “perestroika and democratisation” — ideas that appear in the novel, even though they hadn’t yet taken shape at the time.
He had learned English at university and read Orwell’s 1984, but for him, the book and reality were still separate. It’s only through what he sees and experiences in Ethiopia that the two begin to converge.
Andriy’s “Ukrainian” perspective becomes clearer after a conversation with a Canadian doctor of Ukrainian descent, who confirms the suspicions he’s only just starting to form. “Andriy,” she tells him, “we learn about these things at school…” That’s historically accurate, too: we often overlook the huge role the Ukrainian diaspora played in the years before and immediately after independence.
— How did Ukrainians serving in the Soviet contingent respond to what was happening in Ethiopia, especially the famine?
— Among my comrades, there was no clear understanding that the famine was man-made. I myself only began to grasp it gradually. What did exist was a deep, sometimes instinctive distrust of what the authorities were saying and doing — both Soviet and Ethiopian. But those were not times that encouraged frank conversations, even among friends. And if you were on a “foreign assignment,” you were constantly under the watchful eye of the osobist — the state security officer.
Recently, I happened to look through the June 3, 1984 issue of The Ukrainian Weekly. The front page read: “It is reported that Oles Berdnyk — the third member of the Ukrainian Helsinki Group — has repented.” Another headline said: “The U.S. reacts to the death of Oleksa Tykhyi,” who died in a camp in Perm and weighed just 41 kilograms at the time of his death. And there was also this: “Support grows in Congress for establishing a Commission to investigate the causes and consequences of the 1932–33 Holodomor in Ukraine.”
So the truth did make its way into the pages of the foreign press — and in its own way, it helped chip away at the so-called “empire of evil.”
In many ways, that period was a true nadir — a term from astronomy meaning the point directly opposite the zenith. It was the lowest point of communism, both in the USSR and globally. The prophetic symbolism of Orwell’s 1984 was striking: the very next year, with Gorbachev’s rise, marked the start of the USSR’s decline as an “empire of evil.” But that applied only to the USSR.
Still, I can say that my Ukrainian comrades — who made up half our group of interpreters in the motor battalion — couldn’t help but see what was happening through the lens of what they knew about the Holodomor.
Even back then, the Holodomor was a pan-Ukrainian archetype. You could try to bury it inside yourself, but it still lingered, shaping the way you interpreted events. It showed up in certain remarks, in subtle hints — even from some career Russian officers.
— Even from Russia?
— The battalion was formed in the North Caucasus Military District, covering areas like Stavropol Krai and Kuban — places with plenty of Ukrainian surnames. In the novel, the canteen chief, Syrotchenko, embodies a deeply buried hostility toward Bolshevik violence and communist propaganda, a legacy passed down from older generations.
“Forgive me,” he tells the protagonist about a soldier who beat a resettled villager, “but he can’t grasp why these starving skeletons can’t just be buried or blown up so they stop getting in the way. Back in Kuban it was simple: if you’re dying — then die. Klim died — so to hell with him.” Or he says: “Don’t try to fool us. When grain is left in the fields while people are still alive, there’s only one reason: it’s not profitable.”
But he doesn’t go further than that. Among the rest of his comrades, the usual imperial mindset dominates. “Of course,” the officers would say, “it’s more profitable for them [the Ethiopians] to milk the Soviet Union.” Gorbachev didn’t appear out of nowhere — by then, people were already weary of the stupidity and lies. But where it all stopped, and what came next, we know all too well.
— Your novel touches on the birth of the Ukrainian nation. Personally, would you call it more “African” or more “Ukrainian”?
— Ukrainian. That’s why it includes so many details that only we can fully grasp. Still, despite the parallels and similarities, I wanted it to feel universal, to speak beyond a single context.
— Africa is facing unrest again: Rwanda is at war with Congo, and tensions between Ethiopia and Eritrea—echoing the period you describe—are on the brink of boiling over. What role is Russia playing in the region’s instability?
— I’d say it’s a key role. Beyond provoking and sustaining instability, and positioning itself against the United States, Russia uses these conflicts to gain political influence. And that influence is crucial for selling weapons, which are not just a source of revenue — they’re also a tool for expanding control.
In recent years, Africa has been turning to other suppliers, so Moscow has been doubling down on regimes stuck in long-running conflicts with their neighbors. It actively backs autocratic leaders, because that increases the chances they’ll continue buying Russian arms.
Ethiopia and Eritrea — where Moscow has been selling weapons to both sides since Eritrea gained independence — are perhaps the clearest example of this approach, not just in Africa, but globally. That’s a reality I couldn’t leave out of my book.
— Moscow is once again sending weapons to African countries. But have attitudes toward Russia changed? Is Russophilia still as popular as it once was during the Soviet era?
— Selling weapons, yes—but “pumping them in” is an exaggeration; there’s just not that much to send. According to Western assessments, including Italy’s ISPI, the war in Ukraine has hit Russia’s arms exports to Africa as hard as the collapse of the Soviet Union. I’d even say the effect is worse, because back then, after the USSR fell, the real quality of Soviet-Russian weapons wasn’t so clear. Today, African buyers care less about quality than about price.
Russophilia? First, it’s purchased. Second, it’s cultivated in institutions like Patrice Lumumba University and systematically reinforced as part of a state strategy to influence African political elites. And third, it’s a direct legacy of long-standing anti-colonial sentiment — compounded by reactions to current Western, especially U.S., policies in Africa and beyond.
— With Ukraine focused on Europe, it gives little attention to Africa and the wider Global South. Is that a mistake, or just a natural prioritisation?
— It’s predictable. Ukraine has never really had a statesmanlike government—in the full sense, including a functional parliament. I wouldn’t call it a “mistake,” because almost all officials responsible for foreign policy, with few exceptions, have been more focused on their own interests. A lot of time and opportunity has been lost. As for the steps the Zelensky government has taken over the past year… we’ll have to see how they follow through.
— How well do people in Africa understand Ukraine and the war with Russia?
— Not really. I think most Africans see Ukraine as a client of the West, and Russia as the leader of formerly subjugated peoples of the non-Western world—a champion against racism. Unlike the Nazis, the USSR, and later Russia, managed to present themselves, to hundreds of millions of diverse people, as fighting both racism and for social justice. And that perception still shapes things today.
— The title of your novel, The Road to Asmara, is clearly symbolic. One of your characters notes, “The Eritreans say the road to Asmara passes through Addis Ababa.” Geographically, of course, it’s the opposite. The point seems to be that Ethiopia won’t let Eritrea go in peace, even after independence. For Ukrainians, then—have we charted our own road to Asmara, or are the unlearned lessons of history still holding us back?
— I’d say a different parallel is more important, and it’s purely historical. Eritreans fought for independence for 30 years, overcoming a far larger and stronger opponent, earning, for a brief moment, the world’s admiration and respect. But afterwards, they couldn’t turn a wartime democracy into a peacetime one. Having clashed with all their neighbours, the country degenerated into a totalitarian prison. It has an unchanging leader, exists under perpetual martial law, and strongly echoes Orwell’s 1984… except here, all of it unfolds against the backdrop of fairy-tale Italian Art Deco architecture and the scent of the world’s finest coffee.
In other words, as the younger character in the novel reflects with sorrow, “a heroic people has become an outcast people.” For a long time after 1991, when the Mengistu regime fell, there were few real differences between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Until 2012, Eritrea was still almost entirely ruled by a former guerrilla leader. And while some steps toward genuine democratisation appeared after his death, the prospects remain deeply uncertain—this time because of yet another internal conflict with the Tigray province.
I’m not drawing direct parallels, but certain trends in Ukraine’s political life since 2019 suggest a similar pattern. In times of extreme trials, like this now 11-year-long war, Ukraine’s ultimate challenge isn’t just defending its independence, or even winning this terrible war—but enduring it and emerging stronger afterwards. As Lesya Ukrainka wrote, one must “match oneself with life.”
