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The London Fix: Price-Making in Capitalism

By Khadija Sharife

Barring some resources in Russia and elsewhere, South Africa claims more than 70% of global platinum production, and over 95.5% of known global reserves of this metal. In 2014, the country’s platinum sales totaled over R84 billion (upward of 7.5 billion USD). Despite its global dominance at the level of resource ownership and production, South Africa (from government to industry) has little input in the price-making process. Indeed it is a price taker. Instead, the ‘value’ and price of platinum is determined primarily by large banks in an institutional set-up that is a de-facto insider racket.

Historically, four entities largely determined the pricing process during two daily teleconferences. These proceedings were confidential and inaccessible to the public including traders, refiners and other participants. Some of the four members were involved in every aspect of the trade from warehousing to buying and selling it, laying the field wide open to anti-competitive behavior including price-fixing. Known as the London Fix, the process appeared quite literally a fix driven by global banking behemoths: Goldman Sachs, HSBC, Standard Bank, alongside one chemical company, Germany’s BASF. The members operated through a private company that determined the global reference price: London Platinum and Palladium Fixing Company Limited (LPPM). It is evident that the textbook idea of abstract global forces of demand and supply making prices is erroneous in this power-laden set-up where price-making is at the disposal of the few.

From 2007 until 2014, alleges the US-filed class action lawsuit (2014), members used privileged insider information to manipulate the prices of precious metals including platinum. The secrecy of the process allowed members to ‘execute trades…to make artificial the prices of physical platinum and palladium and platinum and palladium-based financial products…to reap substantial profits …while non-insiders were injured.’[1] To give roape.net readers a scale of the effect of damages: say, a South African mining company produced 580 000 oz at $1400 per oz or $812 million in sales; if the value-cum-price was artificially reduced by the price fixers by $100 per oz at a strategic point in the process, about $58 million in value would be ‘disappeared’ at that level of transaction, but be pocketed by others in the commodity chain that got the metal $100/oz cheaper than would otherwise be the case.

A high level source close to the LPPM members assessed that this price setting system violated the global administrative and regulatory standards of the International Organization of Securities Commissions (IOSCO). Notably, BASF declined to comment on the allegations due to ongoing litigation, while Goldman Sachs, HSBC and Standard Bank declined, or failed, to respond. [2]

On December 1 2014, responsibility for the LPPM system was claimed by the London Bullion Market Association (LBMA) replacing the old system with a new process: Cue the London Metals Exchange (LME). Part of the Hong Kong Exchanges and Clearing Ltd (HKEx) transacting more than 70% of the world’s non-ferrous metals, the LME won the bid offer to run a custom-built electronic system, facilitating digitized bidding and ordering processes, building in a mirror of sorts. This meant that an external body would now have access to information used to formulate pricing.

Yet the LBMA – regulating the price of gold and silver, too – operates along much the same lines of power as the LPPM did: an old boys’ club comprised of major London-based bullion banks. The platinum club itself has not been altered with the exception of one new member – UK-based Johnson Mathey. In effect, though control has been severed, influence over prices remains in the hands of a few powerful banks. ‘The pricing mechanism is dependent on their [the four members] participation,’ said Kathy Alys, spokesperson for the LME. The spokesperson declined to speak to the ongoing litigation against the members arguing that it predated LME’s involvement. But Mrs Alys confirmed the open door policy to other participants saying it ‘maximises the effectiveness of the price discovery process.’ In other words, the view here is the more players, including refineries and manufacturers, the better to break the bankers hold.[3]

The above described price setting mechanisms located in a cartel of banks and characterised by collusion of a few players matters for the political economy of price-taker countries such as South Africa, as we will see below.

The Great Divide

Some background first. Platinum is largely mined from South Africa’s Bushveld Complex, arguably the world’s richest platinum reserve. About 20 tonnes of ore must be processed to recover 1 or 2 ounces of platinum. The metal is the country’s second largest export revenue earner trailing behind gold. Platinum was known as platina or little silver during its discovery period in the 18th century. The mineral isn’t really used to adorn high fashion jewelry and therefore not as visible a metal as say, gold. But it has often traded at a similar premium to gold, silver, bonds and equities.[4] Its value lies in the superior performance of platinum as a super-metal with excellent resistance to oxidation and corrosion, good conductivity, and catalytic uses.[5] Most importantly, platinum is the future of clean energy through reducing GHG, poisonous gas and other emissions.[6]

South Africa is rated solidly among mining investors: from 140 countries assessed by the World Economic Forum (WEF) in 2015, the country took 1st place for strength of auditing, 2nd for regulation of security exchanges, 3rd for efficacy of corporate boards, 14th for investor protection, 24th for property rights etc.[7] What the WEF hasn’t assessed is to what extent the country has ensured that resources are strategically transacted: when, how and at what price.  That the current price setting mechanism is grossly misrepresenting the role and power of South Africa in the global platinum industry is recognised by some; for instance, a former senior official from the Department of Mineral Resources (DMR) commented: ‘There is a need for a great debate on this – why South Africa isn’t playing a role in shaping price. This is a debate for the WEF.’

That said, one major question is: why is there not more pressure from South African actors to change the price making process? We tried to investigate this matter. Roger Baxter, CEO of South Africa’s Chamber of Mines, reports: ‘The fact is that platinum producers are price takers, with price determined by a combination of factors…A large portion of metal production is sold directly to long term customers …with specific reference to spot prices.’ That is, while the mining companies directly sell to clients, the price determined by the LPPM affects their revenue, and in so doing, the country’s take via taxes and royalties.

Speaking off record to people within the mining industry, we learned that some players don’t want more government involvement in price setting. One reasons for this is the perceptions of government corruption and inefficiencies, including the role of ‘patrons’ within the BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) sector; some therefore argued that business is better off with the laws of the ‘democratic market’ than a bigger role of government, even if that market is potentially ‘influenced’ by banks.

The knock-on effect of artificial undervaluation of platinum reported above, however, are distinctly political and socio-economic; for instance, the industry’s cost of production is perceived higher relative to market value, putting pressure on  labour costs (between 35% – 50% of total industry costs) and pre-tax profits.

What the market sees

Scholars probing the makings of labour wages say that affordability of wages depends on the prices of platinum group metals (PGMs). Wages, then, are determined not simply by a country’s constitutional laws and the mining companies, but also, the banks directing global markets.

Since the Marikana shootings in 2012, intense protracted strikes endemically spreading throughout the mining industry decreased production.  Platinum mining, employing over 130 000 people, can significantly – if temporarily – disrupt production if strikes are coordinated or, in this case, frequent. There is another interesting dynamic concerning price setting going on when it comes to wages in the industry: Lonmin’s former CEO Ian Farmer was paid R1.2 million per month excluding bonuses, shares etc. The miners received averages of R6000 per month in basic income, and lobbied for R12 500 per month.[8] The strike was eventually settled at R11 000 for some (slightly more or less depending on roles) with a R2000 bonus.[9] Yet in 2014, when platinum output, dropped, the new CEO, Bennetor Magara, earned R12 million in salary and R11 million in shares.

The injustice was not simply in the general level of wages earned at the lower bottom of the industry, but the wage disparity between classes of labour, i.e: CEO and Worker alike. Both ‘values’ are normalised by the abstract functions of the market. And though Lonmin is used as an example here, similar discrepancies and wage-setting injustices exist across the South African economy, prevalent in most industries and is not exceptional to mining.

As in the case of the pricing of platinum, the reference to the pricing of labour being an outcome of market effects and the ‘invisible hand’ is erroneous: the market’s reach is long or short depending on where and how governments, and constitutional courts, exert authority or remain absent. The catch-22 is also that BEE patronage has intertwined the interests of political elites with their corporate counterpart. South Africa’s government is itself conflicted: one party the African National Congress (ANC) dominates both government and BEE mining tenders held by powerful party members. Financiers to political parties are kept confidential as are party finances. The market, as ‘sole regulator’ of value – from humans to commodities – is kept in place for its fictive neutrality, its political-economic usefulness in not ‘seeing’ and therefore disguising socio-economic issues and conflicts, and not least, for passing the buck around contradictions informing South Africa’s political economy.

Whether erroneous or coherent, the platinum price fixed in ‘London’ (or other financial hubs) has real effects on price setting of blue collar labour in South Africa and elsewhere in the Global South. In other words: the prices for both the resource and labour remain legal (i.e. market-produced), whatever the injustice of it. It’s all to ‘the markets’ resulting in no ceiling for executive wage and no floor for labour wage.

In sum then, prices matter. Prices are political, so is the process by which they come about. Where countries hold the monopoly on finite resources and pricing is opaque, governments in Africa must revisit their role in price setting in the global industry, both for resources and for labour. After all, owning resources is one thing. The ability to develop those same resources in equitable conditions is another. The ‘market’ is only able to exact a certain value for labour and platinum where no other authority exerts itself – this includes the government.

This article was supported by Oxfam.

Khadija Sharife is the editor at the African Network of Centers for Investigative Reporting and a fellow at the World Policy Institute. She is the author of Tax Us If You Can: Africa (Tax Justice Network).

Notes

[1] http://fideres.com/media/Platinum-Class-Action-Complaint.pdf

[2] http://fideres.com/media/Platinum-Class-Action-Complaint.pdf

[3] The Discovered Price – i.e., the price achieved via the LME’s bespoke bidding platform – holds only if the difference between this LME assessed price, and the Member assessed price, is less than 4,000 troy ounces.  If the imbalance is higher, the process is repeated.  https://www.lme.com/~/media/Files/Metals/Precious%20Metals/LBMA%20Platinum%20and%20Palladium%20Prices%20%20Price%20Discovery%20Process%20Schedule%201.pdf

[4] http://www.forbes.com/sites/greatspeculations/2012/07/30/platinum-in-a-funk-worse-than-golds/#5ada7f604cde

[5] http://www.miningweekly.com/article/the-uses-of-platinumgroup-metals-2006-11-10

[6] file:///C:/Users/knuti/Downloads/cmsa-futuresa-pgms-20151020%20(1).pdf

[7] file:///C:/Users/knuti/Downloads/cmsa-futuresa-pgms-20151020%20(1).pdf

[8]  Total cost to company http://www.smesouthafrica.co.za/August-2012/The-great-R12m-R10-500-salary-divide/

[9] Others earned more or less depending on different role: http://www.dailymaverick.co.za/article/2012-09-19-marikana-the-strike-ends-now-what/#.Vqt0ELJ97IU

World Bank Dogma: Why Some Things Cannot be Named

By Patrick Bond

‘South Africa can claim to have one of the world’s most redistributive public purses,’ argues Johannesburg Business Day newspaper associate editor Hilary Joffe, drawing upon World Bank research findings. This nonsense. The Bank’s silences about poverty and inequality speak volumes.

To illustrate this in next-door Lesotho, Stanford University anthropologist James Ferguson’s famous book The Anti-Politics Machine criticised the World Bank’s 1980s understanding of Lesotho as a ‘traditional subsistence peasant society.’ Apartheid’s migrant labour system was explicitly ignored by the Bank, yet remittances from Basotho workers toiling in mines, factories and farms across the Caledon River accounted for 60 percent of rural people’s income.

Ferguson explained: ‘Acknowledging the extent of Lesotho’s long-standing involvement in the modern capitalist economy of South Africa would not provide a convincing justification for the ‘development’ agencies to ‘introduce’ roads, markets and credit.’

Using Michel Foucault’s discourse theory, Ferguson showed why some things cannot be named. To do so would violate the Bank’s foundational dogma, that the central problems of poverty can be solved by applying market logic. Yet the most important of Lesotho’s market relationships – exploited labour – was what caused so much misery.

Three decades on, not much has changed. Today, the Bank’s main South Africa research team reveals a similar “Voldemort” problem. Like the villain whose name Harry Potter dared not utter, some hard-to-hear facts evaporate into pregnant silences within the Bank’s latest ‘South African Poverty and Inequality Assessment Discussion Note.’ Bank staff and consultants are resorting to extreme evasion tactics worthy of Harry, Ron and Hermione.

The Bank’s point of view

From the Bank’s viewpoint: ‘South Africa spent more than other countries on its social programs, with this expenditure successfully lifting around 3.6 million individuals out of poverty (based on US$2.5 a day on a purchasing power parity basis) and reducing the Gini coefficient from 0.76 to 0.596 in 2011.’

Ahem, this is worth unpacking.

1) ‘Spent more than other countries’? Of the world’s 40 largest economies, only four – South Korea, China, Mexico and India – had lower social spending than South Africa, measured in 2011 as a share of Gross Domestic Product (GDP).

2) ‘Millions lifted out of poverty?’ In fact many millions have been pushed down into poverty since liberation from apartheid in 1994. Unmentioned is poverty that can be traced to neo-liberal policies such as the failed 1996-2001 Growth, Employment and Redistribution plan co-authored by two Bank economists, which made South Africa far more vulnerable to global capitalist crises.

The Bank’s South Africa poverty line was $2.5/day in 2011, the date of the last poverty census. In contrast, the official state agency StatsSA found that food plus survival essentials cost $124/month or about $4/day that year, and the percentage of South Africans below that line was 53 percent. (University of Cape Town economists argued convincingly that StatsSA was too conservative and the ratio of poor South Africans is actually 63 percent.)

For a net 3.6 million people, i.e. more than 7 percent of South Africans, to have been ‘lifted out of poverty’ is plausible only if the Bank’s much lower $2.5/day line is used. But by local standards, the number of poor people has soared by around 10 million given the rise of 15 million in population since 1994.

3) The Bank adjusts the Gini Coefficient (measuring income inequality on a 0-to-1 scale) ‘from 0.76 to 0.596’ by including state social spending that benefits poor households. But here another silence screams out. The Bank dare not calculate pro-corporate subsidies and other state spending that raise rich people’s effective income through capital gains.

Such wealth accruing through rising corporate share prices is enjoyed mainly by richer people when companies benefit from new, state-built infrastructure in their vicinity. Also ignored by the Bank, radically lower corporate taxes (from 48 to 30 percent) mainly benefit the rich in the same way. (Until the mining industry’s post-2011 crash, South African firms’ after-tax profits have been among the world’s very highest, according to the International Monetary Fund in 2013.)

Indeed the Treasury’s single biggest fiscal policy choice has been to condone ‘illicit financial flows.’ These escape through bogus invoicing and other tax avoidance strategies. The Washington NGO Global Financial Integrity recently estimated they cost South Africa an annual $21 billion from 2004-13, peaking in 2009 at $29 billion. The Bank dare not mention these flows or the resulting capital gains enjoyed by South African shareholders.

Capital gains are extremely important in raising the wealth levels of those who are already wealthy. To illustrate, the United States Congressional Budget Office calculated that, in 2011, the share of total US income from capital gains enjoyed by the top 1 percent of earners was 36 percent; for the bottom 95 percent it was only 4 percent.

In South Africa, shares on the super-bubbly Johannesburg Stock Exchange constitute much of household wealth. For aggregate South African households in 2011, wealth was composed of an extremely high 77 percent in the form of financial assets and 23 percent non-financial assets (in contrast to India where the ratio was 12 percent financial to 88 percent non-financial assets). This aspect of class apartheid appears to be beyond World Bank comprehension.

4) The Bank was most impressed by government’s ‘provision of free basic services (mainly water, sanitation, electricity, and refuse removal), and social protection mainly in the form of social grants, primary health care, education (specifically no-fee paying schools), enhancing access to productive assets by the poor (e.g. housing and land), as well as job creation.’

But the Bank evades vital details, such as how ‘free basic water’ was piloted in Durban in 1999 before becoming national policy in 2001. After a tokenistic 6 free kiloliters (kl) per month, the price of the second block of the water within the tariff was raised dramatically (in Durban and most municipalities). Overall, by 2004 the price had doubled. In response, the lowest-income third of households lowered monthly consumption from 22kl to 15kl, while in contrast, the highest-income third cut back by just 3kl/month, from 35kl to 32kl (they enjoy home swimming pools and English gardens). The Bank turned a blind eye.

5) Another unmentionable concerns the Bank’s largest-ever project loan: $3.75 billion granted in 2010 for the corruption-riddled, oft-delayed Medupi coal-fired power plant, the biggest now under construction in the world. Repayment of that loan plus other financing has hiked the price of electricity to poor people by more than 250 percent since 2007.

But neither the loan, the borrower, the project nor the soaring price of electricity are mentioned. Nor are Eskom’s special pricing agreements with the mining mega-corporations BHP Billiton and Anglo American, that cut electricity prices to a tenth as much as what poor households pay.

6) The Bank applauds a grant that ‘now reaches 11.7 million children. Grant payments have risen from 2.9 percent of GDP and now amount to 3.1 percent.’ But a meagre 0.2 percent of GDP suggests the amounts provided are tokenistic. The child grant of just $21/month is about a third of today’s StatsSA poverty line.

Ignoring quality in education

Another example, education, the single largest budgetary commitment, illustrates how dubious the alleged social spending benefits for recipients can be. Most public schools produce extremely low-quality education, thus locking in inequality with regard to life chances.

The World Economic Forum’s Global Competitiveness Report 2015–16 rated South African education as the worst of 140 countries in terms of science and mathematics training, and 138th in overall quality. As local expert Nic Spaul remarked after studying the 1994–2011 outcomes: ‘South Africa has the worst education system of all middle-income countries that participate in cross-national assessments of educational achievement.’

It’s not just class that plays out in educational inequality, but also race. The Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development observes that ‘in 2008, only 1.4 percent of working-age Africans held a [university] degree, compared to almost 20 percent of working-age Whites. This proportion for Africans has hardly increased since 1993, while the proportion for Whites has grown by 5.4 percent.’

Given such outcomes, it could just as easily be argued that inequality is amplified by the manner in which public education is provided to the low-income majority. This story is fairly typical of maldistributed state resources. As senior Treasury official Andrew Donaldson acknowledges, ‘In areas such as education, health care and urban transport, service provision tends to evolve in differentiated ways […] the result is a fragmented, unequal structure in which the allocation of resources and the quality of services diverge.’ Combined with semi-privatised systems, such public spending, he admits, ‘entrenches inequality between rich and poor.’

Other areas of state spending have similar biased effects, but the Bank simply does not consider large chunks of South Africa’s budget, e.g.:

  • 13 percent for ‘Defence, public order and safety,’ which is likely to have a strong bias towards protecting the lives and property of wealthier classes;
  • 10 percent for debt servicing, for which wealthy financiers and other bondholders are the main beneficiaries, taking their gains in deferred income (although a fraction of the working class who are fortunate to have a retirement fund also invests indirectly in debt securities); and
  • 9 percent for aspects of ‘Economic affairs’ – economic infrastructure, industrial development and trade, and science, technology innovation and the environment – items that, arguably, disproportionately benefit corporations and the higher-income groups that own their shares.

 

The South Africans who cannot be named

Notwithstanding such evidence of pro-corporate bias, the Bank endorses government’s ‘apparently sound policy’ on redistribution because Bank researchers cannot grapple with the core problem that best explains why South African capitalism causes poverty and inequality: extreme exploitation systems amplified after apartheid by neoliberal policies.

The most cited scholarly research about post-apartheid exploitation is by local political economists like Sampie Terreblanche, Hein Marais, William Gumede and Gillian Hart – but the Bank dare not reference these books.

To truly tackle poverty and inequality, only one force in society has unequivocally succeeded since 1994. That force is the social activist.

Their successes include raising life expectancy from 52 to 62 over the past decade (thanks to AIDS medicines access), reversing municipal services privatisation, cutting pollution and raising apartheid wages. But the organisations responsible – such as the Treatment Action Campaign, Anti-Privatisation Forum, South Durban Community Environmental Alliance and trade unions – are also, from the Bank’s viewpoint, South Africans who cannot be named.

As the pernicious influence of the World Bank researchers’ project grew in the past year, with numerous citations of their dubious data, I queried the work and received a series of (ultimately bureaucratic, denialist) emails from its officials.

Fortunately, upon asking the main Bank inequality consultant, Nora Lustig of Tulane University, why more accurate assessments of the state’s pro-corporate fiscal benefits were not attempted so as to offset the bias from only considering social spending, she took up the challenge with honesty: ‘Your questions are very valid. Regretfully, we have yet to figure out a solid methodological approach to allocate the burden/benefit to households of the list of interventions you list.’

And regretfully, the Pretoria regime’s pro-rich interventions continue, even though extreme pressure has recently arisen from credit rating agencies to reduce social spending, following a 2015 Budget that cut the real value of welfare grants by at least 4 percent. Much worse austerity is anticipated in the 2016 budget, to be announced on 26 February.

So beyond the flaws in measurement, the main risk of the World Bank research on South African inequality is its ghastly political bias. If the alleged improvements to poverty and inequality rates are accepted by the ruling elite as valid, their tendency to cut social spending on (bogus) grounds that already, ‘South Africa can claim to have one of the world’s most redistributive public purses’ is that much more tempting.

Resistance is bubbling up everywhere but the realm of ideologically poisonous research cannot be avoided.

Patrick Bond teaches political economy at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg and directs the University of KwaZulu-Natal Centre for Civil Society in Durban. A version of this blog was published on the CounterPunch website.

In the Spirit of Marikana: Disruption, Workers and Insourcing

In a penetrating analysis of events in South Africa, Jonathan Grossman writes that the student mobilisations have directly challenged the myth of the rainbow nation. They have done this through direct action, disruption and interference bringing, as did workers at Marikana. This is still a movement confronted by the ongoing search for alternatives to the oppression and exploitation of everyday life, facing challenges of every kind including patriarchy and class issues in their own movement. But a new legacy of struggle is being built as an old legacy of struggle is being rediscovered and rescued. There is a narrative that says students did for workers what workers could not do for themselves, or that it was students who gave workers voice. However the reality was a deep solidarity between workers and students taking action. It was not about giving voice. Instead, it was about building the strength to force managements to do what they would not themselves have done. Grossman argues that the struggle for free education and against outsourcing in the public sector at the universities has to become the struggle for free education at all levels and free basic services. The struggle against the commodification of labour in the universities has to be made a struggle against outsourcing and for a living wage across the whole of the public sector. It can become part of a resurgence of the workers movement which can and must be in alliance with students and youth in struggle. This articles argues that these are themselves requirements for the renewal of the workers movement. The student movement is enriching all struggles in South Africa with a totalising vision of decolonising, bringing a resurgent vitality to the student worker alliance. 

By Jonathan Grossman

In February 2015, a student activist at the University of Cape Town (UCT) symbolically defaced a statue of colonialist Cecil John Rhodes with human excrement. He did this as part of an emerging pattern of ‘poo-protests’ which had been developed in working class communities in the struggle for sanitation and other necessary services. RhodesMustFall (RMF) became the mobilising slogan and then the tag of a movement which rapidly developed from a focus on the statue to a much deeper broader focus on the continuing legacy of colonialism in everyday life.[1] In the face of mounting protest, the university authorities removed the statue. As exams approached in October 2015, students mobilised across many campuses around the demand for no fee increase. In the face of massive protests at Parliament, the Union Buildings administrative seat of government, and ANC national headquarters, a nervous government was rapidly forced to concede. Students have continued with a broader struggle for free education, as part of a deeper struggle for a de-colonising transformation across tertiary educational institutions and society more broadly. This is now reflected in a national movement #FeesMustFall.[2]  In demanding free education the students are taking their place in a broader movement centred in working class communities, focused on services necessary in everyday life.

At one of the first RMF meetings, before the statue had in fact been taken down, outsourced workers in the UCT Workers Forum[3] brought their own set of ongoing demands, putting it like this:

Black workers built UCT with their own hands in the colonial past. Black workers were oppressed at UCT in the Apartheid past. Black workers were retrenched and outsourced at UCT in the post-Apartheid past. The first people to know about racism and sexism and exploitation at UCT are the black women workers. It is there in workers lives every day. … It cannot be that students can only learn if workers suffer. It cannot be that academics can only do their work if workers suffer. It cannot be that there is only education if capitalist bosses can make a profit. But it is all happening here at UCT. It must change for workers. Workers together we must change it….We are angry….Together in struggle and solidarity, workers and students we must change UCT! The time for the strike is coming.

The workers demanded what was in effect a doubling of wages ‘as a step towards a living wage in the spirit of Marikana.’ And continued, ‘This is a public sector institution. There should be no capitalist companies brought here to make profits. Education must be free. UCT must directly employ everyone working here. Workers must know that their job is safe. With decent working conditions. And comfortable lives. Outsourcing must end. The bosses must go. All the workers must stay.’

In 1999 UCT had been the first South African university to outsource.[4] The driving force was Mamphela Ramphele, later to become an Executive Director of the World Bank. Public sector outsourcing takes the provision of goods and services necessary to the functioning of even a very limited public sector in the capitalist economy and makes it dependant on private companies reaping a profit. It has a particular significance where the goods and services may not have been available to the working class – making extension of provision dependant on profit and private capitalist companies. The institution becomes an agent for redistributing public funds to the private sector.  Underpinning the opposition to outsourcing was an opposition to privatisation in general and the vision of a public sector tasked with meeting needs as opposed to providing profits.

Since outsourcing, worker demands had been taken to UCT in petitions, marches, protests and memoranda.  Workers were met with a standard response: ‘UCT has investigated and decided to continue with outsourcing. Insourcing is now off the agenda.’ UCT was met with a standard response from workers. ‘It might be off your agenda. It stays on our agenda.’ In 2015 the demand for insourcing was adopted by RMF, echoed across a growing number of campuses and brought together in a national day of action on October 6.  Despite some unevenness and inconsistency, the struggle of students embraced the struggle of workers for insourcing.   On 24 October in the face of growing student and worker action, UCT became the first university to formally agree to insourcing.

Faced with ongoing campaigning by workers over years since initial outsourcing, UCT had been forced to concede that outsourced workers could meet and protest on campus. This removed one of the basic advantages to management of outsourcing: the displacement of disruption. It had also been forced to recognise that wages set in law and paid by the companies it hired were too low – and had interfered to set higher minimums. This was extended to other conditions of service and employment, like maternity leave, in a Code for Service Providers, initially adopted in 2006.  This too removed some of the cost-cutting claims of outsourcing and the denial of responsibility for what happened to workers on whom UCT depended. UCT had been forced, even while denying this, to act visibly like ‘the real boss’, to recognise that the demand for insourcing would not go away. In the word ‘forced’ above is years of campaigning and protest action by workers against UCT. No number of reports, investigations or announcements did anything to change that. In the course of this struggle, most workers at UCT had become members of the main COSATU public sector National Education Health and Allied Workers Union (NEHAWU) despite COSATU policy which allocated them to different ‘industrial unions’. This sometimes involved forcing their way into the public sector union, a process which over years faced a combination from union officialdom of hostility, indifference, inefficiency, suspicion albeit with significant cases of individual support. In the face of similar responses, there had been formed a NEHAWU Joint Shop Stewards Council (JSSC). Over years, management faced ongoing pressure from ordinary workers, sometimes actively drawing support from their union, in an unyielding, vigorous, relentless persistence of the demand for direct employment and associated improvements. As exams approached in October 2015, there were two additional factors which forced UCT’s hand. One was a less visible legal process of workers united across all outsourced companies and through the NEHAWU JSSC declaring a dispute with UCT around wages and related issues. Although there were legal complexities which obstructed this process, and although it had become bogged down in internal bureaucratic problems inside the union, UCT knew that the move towards a strike was serious, and that it was planned to begin on the first day of exams, 26 October.

Above all else, there was the overwhelmingly visible consistent support from mobilised students who were determined and successful in generating the disruptive action at UCT which had not yet come from workers and which had forced management to close the campus in the weeks preceding exams.

On Friday 23 October, UCT management responded to the union dispute demands in the normal way. The following day, without any additional ‘research’, UCT abandoned its position, indicating its intention to pursue insourcing. In the face of continuing student and worker action, this was rapidly escalated into a decision to insource – again, without any of the research which they had always invoked as necessary.  What workers had been saying for years was confirmed: UCT was responsible for outsourcing. UCT had the power to insource.

The myth of the rainbow: mists over continuities in everyday life

Change in South Africa came with continuities. The new South Africa for workers at UCT, as elsewhere, had meant outsourcing:  retrenchments, cutting wages, reducing benefits, undermining unions. Over time, the issue of whether things were better or worse post-apartheid was an abstraction. Nothing was good enough. Across the working class more generally, generations saw their hope stolen; new generations saw hope being denied. Workers lost confidence that there could ever be solutions. Theft and denial of hope became mistrust – of politics, politicians, and most importantly of themselves each other, their organisations – any organisations.[5]

Insourcing agreement at UCT and the agreements which followed in other places are arguably the biggest single advances in the struggle against privatisation in post-apartheid South Africa. Those advances followed ongoing struggles in working class communities and the Marikana and platinum strikes. At Marikana, workers brought to the fore in the private sector and mines what had sometimes surfaced and sporadically developed in the public sector and communities. At its core was a developing anger and resistance to the continuities of apartheid experienced in post-apartheid working class life. The National Union of Metalworkers of South Africa (NUMSA) was emboldened by Marikana to become the first COSATU union to break from the ANC and the SA Communist Party. Students were emboldened by Marikana and the NUMSA break. Workers at universities were emboldened by students. Once this began to coalesce into an ongoing movement, everyone was emboldened by the movement. Black consciousness was revitalised by students from a history supressed by the myth of a rainbow post-racist South Africa in their thirst for what was inspirational and liberatory in everyday life and struggle.

The myth of the rainbow mists over the deep social structures of racial oppression which are denied, patriarchy which is trivialised, and the deeply socially structured exploitation of the working class which is rendered as ‘poverty and inequality’ – stripped from the capitalist relations and private ownership of which it is the product. This ideologised obfuscation has also been disguised by an earlier sustained myth of convergence: the part of official history which says that an anti-apartheid opposition of capital and the anti-apartheid struggle of the working class converged into a common unified struggle for non-racial democracy. [6]

The capitalist class post-apartheid has been able for much of the time to exploit this myth and promote its protection through invisibility – including of its own culpability under apartheid as the agent and beneficiary of systematic gross violations. Marikana and the platinum strikes were decisive in placing the role of capitalists at the fore and shattering the myth of convergence. The student mobilisations have directly challenged the myth of the rainbow. They have done this through direct action, disruption and interference bringing, as did workers at Marikana and other strikes,  a new, qualitatively enriched challenge to the demobilisation on which the ‘negotiated settlement’ partly depended. Pursuing this challenge has necessarily meant confrontation with an ANC now running a bosses’ government in tightened collaboration with COSATU and the SACP. This is still a movement confronted by the ongoing search for alternatives to the oppressions and exploitation of everyday life, facing challenges of every kind including patriarchy and class issues in their own movement.  But a new legacy of struggle is being built as an old legacy of struggle is being rediscovered and rescued.

UCT management forced to insource

UCT, the first university to outsource was also the first university forced by this movement to meaningfully and seriously commit to insourcing. Ordinary workers who laid the path of a sustained struggle against outsourcing now embraced and made real solidarity and support for students.

In this long history, workers interfered with the decisions and the control of management, but using only a small part of their strength. What was missing – and repeatedly acknowledged as necessary – was serious and decisive disruption. Initially separated in different unions, workers were under the stranglehold of a class collaboration Labour Relations Act which purported to give the right to strike and in fact, in much of lived experience, actually took it away. And while class collaboration meant a stranglehold of legalism and proceduralism,  the necessary disruption was obstructed. Coming together in one union in dispute with UCT placed united strike action on the agenda. While that was happening, the students brought the disruption of direct action which forced the university to shut down. There was interference, and challenge which went wide and deep. Faced with the relentless demand, the threat of disruption coming from workers, the reality of disruption created by students and a deepening worker-student solidarity, UCT was forced to become the first institution to concede to the demand for insourcing.

After the about-face of UCT management, the JSSC signed an insourcing agreement without taking it back to workers for a mandate. At a time when protest action had closed UCT, they endorsed management’s call for a return to normal functioning – an end to student and worker action. Workers were left uncertain about the content of the agreement and the actual meaning of insourcing. They were also angered by the lack of democratic practice and the interference with a deeply felt solidarity with students in struggle. At a massive general meeting, workers had the chance to show this. Although the JSSC began the meeting with an apology, it was too little too late. For a moment, workers took their union back into their own hands through the displacement of the shop stewards, the ejection of the official, and the creation of a Workers Committee. It was the organic capacity of the working class in mobilised action.  Even at the moment when they themselves make such assertion and defiance possible, workers were pressed to look for easier options: undermined and denigrated by everyday life, there was a quest for someone who knows better, is more important, with more resources, who can seemingly achieve what workers have been unable to achieve. The possibilities for substitutionism were there and could only be dealt with by consistent political respect for workers.

The Workers Committee seemingly disappeared almost before it appeared and has not functioned. The moment did not last, open to different forces who took advantage of it. This was a very particular situation but these were ordinary workers, taking the opportunity to express what is widespread across the working class. They created an extraordinary moment. When the same thing happens and is more sustained, widespread, firmly in the hands of workers, when it coalesces, is coordinated, affirmed, celebrated, organised together into a movement of solidarity and confidence of workers in themselves and each other, we will have the renewal of the workers movement which South Africa so desperately needs.

At times like that, workers leap over ‘stages’. Muck is stripped away, cast aside, and the organic capacity is freed. In fact, it is not exactly leaping over stages. It is doing in a moment what they have heard and thought about for years. It is all condensed and concentrated into that moment. It is why the protection of the moment becomes so important. And its protection can only be secured by its development. As one message in the social media platform of the UCT Workers Solidarity Committee said, ‘The hands of workers do all the work. Everything we need comes from those hands.  The struggle of workers goes forward when its workers who take that struggle into their own hands.’

Workers have been struggling for insourcing at UCT for years. They have been fighting that struggle directly against UCT as the real boss for years. They have heard and said for years that UCT is not a good boss – there is no such thing. But it is the real boss. They have been hearing and saying for years that insourcing must come because there is no university without the hands of workers. On this basis, when UCT decided to insource – no worker said thank you. Instead they said that insourcing must not be about changing uniforms, it must be about changing lives. And their response was focused on that: what about job security, wages and conditions? Everyday control? Will life be different? It was a simple message, echoing a mood across the working class and its struggles against the continuities in everyday life, even in the context of a changed South Africa.

It is part of the hegemony of neo-liberalism that across the political spectrum, politics has been reduced to economics. Economics has been reduced to arithmetic. It is all about the arithmetic of managing the crisis: how many litres of free water? How much free electricity? How many jobs created by the Extended Public Works programme? How many children in school? How many new places in tertiary institutions? The arithmetic is deployed to make the argument that things are worse or that things are better. None of this addresses the encounters with oppression and exploitation, uncertainty, theft and denial of hope, yearning for something better. Increasingly amongst ordinary workers is a single message: it does not matter if things are better. Better is not good enough. Nothing is fine. Nothing is good enough.

No arithmetic can deal with that. It demands vision of alternatives. Solutions. And for that to happen, there must be an agent. Where is the power to create real solutions to all these problems? Where is the power to create something that is qualitatively different?

Decommodification: the basis of alliance and future struggles

Using the apparently objective criterion of merit as reflected in school results, the ‘top’ universities are already deeply and essentially elitist. There is a funnel of the deeply entrenched inequalities of the racist patriarchy of capitalism which serves to filter and exclude. At historically white universities, black students have illuminated the everyday meaning, particular depth and breadth of institutional racism. Many have challenged patriarchy.  For increasing numbers of black students, extended access to higher education post-apartheid actually means being forced into unemployment or insecure employment with certificates and debts. All of this fuelled the student movement. For workers in the universities, it means being forced into employment where you and your work are denigrated as ‘non-core’ and unskilled because you do not have enough certificates. And you also have debts because of this. These worlds can connect directly when the black student and the black outsourced worker encounter each other in struggle. The certificate does not mean problems are solved. The absence of the certificate does not mean the educational institution can or does function without you. The pervasive ideology insists on both. And the university itself is core to the development, maintenance and dissemination of the ideology.

This tends to be reinforced by the ideologised conventional wisdom which represents the rolling capitalist crisis as a problem of a skills deficit to be resolved by skills development. For the individual, education is presented as the route out of poverty. For the society, skills development is the route out of unemployment. This ideoligisation does its job of both reflecting and distorting underlying realities, existing in the context of the competitive individualism and the drive for competitive productivity which capitalism demands.  In the lived experience of an outsourced worker, the university is not in fact a site of education but a site of work and exploitation. And there is something particularly galling when the worker sees and must deal with the commodification of education: searching for school fees and associated costs for children in ‘township schools’, knowing that you can enter the university to clean but will not be able to qualify to enter to learn. Knowing that there is no university without the labour of workers, but having to deal with the drive to push down the costs of employing those workers as if they are an unwelcome expense in the way of education. In different ways, something similar is replicated across the public sector where the hands of workers are essential to providing the service, but the workers themselves are denigrated as non-core.

While it can be less brutal than the case of other services, commodification of education is pervasive. Its outcome includes a deep alienation of the human being whose value and contribution is reduced to a mark, a certificate and place in the queue to serve capitalist masters. In the case of the outsourced worker, forced to queue to serve capitalist masters, the value and the contribution are reduced to a poverty wage, insecurity, and the absence of the certificate. The skills deficit becomes a deficit of a human being. The commodification of education meets the commodification of labour and it leaves human beings denigrated, alienated and damaged.

The commodification of labour is an historically primary commodification, core to the very existence of capitalism. The struggle for free education is in continuity with all the struggles in the public sector – all the struggles against privatisation. It is about the commodification of services including health, education – and labour. In the recent struggles we have seen a meeting point: the commodification of education meeting the outsourced workers, a brutal instance of the commodification of labour.

Often forced into unemployment and debt; forced into employment and debt, the distance between the middle class black student and the black worker is bridged by the black student from working class backgrounds. As much as this makes for daily dehumanisation, so it also opens the door to solidarity and generosity of sharing between workers and students in struggle. A moment in history has occurred. Students are fiercely determined to define and own that moment. Like all the best moments of struggle, its value will lie also in the ways in which it is shared beyond and outside of itself with all who can live without oppression and exploitation. As such, it is a moment which belongs also to workers who brought to it their own demands together with a deep sense of solidarity and support for students. Social media was crucial to the building of the movement and the solidarity which it developed. It can also be a beguiling instrument of solidarity. One of the features of this student movement was the extent, depth and determined perseverance of support from workers for student activism and student demands. Of course this was shared by those student activists. The point about workers is that it went far beyond the activist layer. It was the ordinary outsourced worker who expressed, felt and showed a deep support and care for the students in struggle.

Building and renewing legacy of struggle

These insourcing victories against privatisation in the public sector remind us, as did workers who do not say thank you, that they are belated defence against an attack, not a step forward to a better life. Central to the theft of hope had become the loss of confidence amongst workers that there can be any real solution, and above all else, that they and their own class and self-organisation can bring that solution. There are emerging narratives which combine, although they come from very different places, to promote this. Amongst part of the left, the assessment is that students achieved in days what the trade unions/labour movement/workers failed to achieve in 20 years. From UCT management, it is the assessment that this struggle has been about giving the voiceless a voice. They merge all too easily into an assessment, sometimes stated, more often implied and hinted,  which suggests that students did for workers what workers could not do for themselves, or that it was students who gave workers voice.

The fact is that after years of relentless campaigning and demands, one relatively limited instance of disruption, with some national co-ordination across campuses, succeeded in doing what 20 years of non-disruption had failed to achieve.  At UCT, in the immediate event, that disruption came primarily from the actual action of students and the threatened action of workers. At University of Johannesburg, in the event, it came primarily from the action of workers. In both situations, there was the basis and the reality of a deep solidarity between workers and students taking action. It was not about giving voice. Instead, it was about building the strength to force managements to do what they would not themselves have done, forcing people to listen when they exercised power to ignore and reject what they heard. In all of the struggle and with all of the demands, there was only one which was rejected out of hand by UCT management: the demand that it guarantee workers the right to strike with protection, whether or not they followed the restrictive procedures of the LRA. Any management has the power to do that. UCT management in fact was forced to exercise that power under apartheid. But the demand was about freeing the power of workers – shackled as it is by myriad of constraints including the provisions of the post-apartheid law. As it happened, it was only when a tiny part of their power was freed by action that workers could seriously move forward, even if only in defence against the earlier attack of outsourcing. Extended into the broader struggle, it is the power of workers to stop production. It goes far beyond that – in the hands of the working class is also the power to produce. This is not about consultation, participation or voice. It is about who decides, on what basis, through what process – about power itself. Extended as it must be beyond the university and beyond the public sector, it is about the alternative to capitalist class rule – working class rule.

A living wage is not decommodification. But it is a necessary part of the workers struggle for decommodification. And, focused as it is on the core of the processes of capitalist profit generation, it can be turned into an organised challenge to profit making and made a transitional part of the struggle for socialism. It is interference with the ordinary processes of bourgeois price-fixing: about who decides the price, through what process, and according to what criteria. In the everyday of capitalism, all of these questions are given answers which reflect capitalist power derived from private ownership and protected by the state. In the hands of the workers movement, it is workers who decide, using workers democracy in organisation and action, on the basis of needs.

In the individualised, hierarchical structures of racist capitalist society, free education at the tertiary level is all too easily turned into an elitist privilege.  In the capitalist logic of the market, if costs are not recovered in education, they have to be recovered elsewhere – a redistribution of commodification. In the hands of the workers movement, it can be turned into an essential transitional part of the struggle for socialism. It means decisions about all social services – including education – being brought into the hands of a renewed workers movement, pursued through organisation and action, and based on needs. And in the hands of such a renewed workers movement it cannot stay at the level of tertiary education, nor can tertiary education be based on who to exclude, not who to include, or about how to serve profits, rather than how to serve needs. The struggle for free education and against outsourcing in the public sector at the universities has to become – be made – the struggle for free education at all levels and free basic services. And the struggle against the commodification of labour in the universities has to be made the struggle against outsourcing and for a living wage across the whole of the public sector. It can become part of a resurgence of the workers movement which can and must be in alliance with students and youth in struggle.  These are themselves requirements for the renewal of the workers movement.

As much as the public sector is corrupted, diseased and undermined, it embodies a residual sense of welfare, the common good, public services, the needs of the community. Pursuing the struggle against commodification on the basis of social needs provides further grounding for vision – a vision which once did and once again must extend to the end of private property which is the basis of commodification. The struggle against apartheid was precisely that – about negation. The future was about a vision, increasingly called by the name of socialism. It is happening again in a movement characterised by negation: decommodification, disalienation, anti- privatisation. The student movement is enriching it with a totalising vision of de-colonising, bringing a resurgent vitality to the student worker alliance.

There are accumulating signs of resurgence, a history which has not yet happened, but is being made possible and forged on the ground, carrying with it the hope of a new centre of authority in a renewed workers movement. Even in the face of the numerous challenges and obstacles, institutions, laws and politics of class collaboration are increasingly being directly and consciously defied and rejected. It may be visibly highlighted in a left movement amongst prominent individuals and groups of leaders – as in the NUMSA moment. But to be successful it must be shaped and depends on a series of struggles – events and processes of organisation and mobilisation – on the ground.  It will have to build on struggles which have happened and are happening: characterised by solidarity, direct action against the capitalist class, willingness to disrupt in defiance of law and agreement, demands based on needs, workers control, organic organisations of struggle of the working class rank and file, and a vision of complete negation – an end to all forms of oppression and exploitation. In that, it is actually also renewing and revitalising the best of the legacy of struggle of the past.  Above all else, it is creating a new experience which is allowing workers to build a resurgent confidence in themselves, their class and their capacity to collectively create solutions with trustworthy allies in struggle. It is best called the spirit of Marikana – not just a commission, a massacre or a tragedy, but the grounding of a workers’ future.

Jonathan Grossman in Senior Lecturer in the Sociology Department at the University of Cape Town. His writing and research focuses on the public sector and alienation in the everyday experience of working class life under capitalism. Jonathan is also an activist and socialist, assisting the organisation, mobilisation and struggles of outsourced worker in the public sector.

Notes

[1] See https://www.facebook.com/RhodesMustFall/?fref=ts&ref=br_tf;  see also https://www.facebook.com/UCTLSF/

[2] See https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/feesmustfall?source=feed_text&story_id=1100412756669927

[3] On the UCT Workers Forum see Grossman, J. (2009). Renewed organising in the outsourced pubilc sector workplace of the global village: The experince of the Workers’ Forum at UCT. In V. Cornell, New forms of organising (pp. 202-217). Cape Town: International Labour Resource and Information Group Group .

[4] See Grossman, J. (2006). World Bank Thinking, world class institutions, denigrated workers. In R. Pithouse, Asinamali: University struggles in post-apartheid South Africa (pp. 93-108). Asmara: Africa World Press.

[5] This view of the transition is elaborated in Ngwane, T. and Grossman, J. (2011). ‘Looking back moving forward: Legacies of struggle and the challenges facing the new social movements. In Essof, S. and  Moshenberg,D.  Searching for South Africa (pp. 160-189). Pretoria: University of South Africa.

[6] On the myth of convergence see Grossman, J. (1997). The right to strike and worker freedom in and beyond Apartheid. In Brass, T. and van der Linden, M. Free and unfree labour (pp. 145-172). Bern: Peter Lang.

 

Western Advocacy Groups and (Class) Conflict in the Congo

By Ben Radley

In recent years Western advocacy groups have achieved unprecedented success in mobilising Europeans and North Americans (particularly in the US) behind a ‘conflict minerals’ campaign to help end the conflict in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). They have also attracted strong criticism, both internationally and in the DRC, for the perceived negative impact of their work. Over the last three years I have been working on a documentary, We Will Win Peace, which is part of this critique. As one local activist told us during the making of the film, ‘the advocacy led by these organisations, we hadn’t understood the goal, as Congolese…If we had been informed before of their intentions, we could have done something.‘ Similarly, speaking to a group of small-scale rural cultivators, one said ‘we didn’t understand what was happening or why such a decision had been made…No-one explained to us what was going on.’ So what was the goal, and what is going on?

While it is important not to conflate the work of all DRC-focused advocacy organisations under the same umbrella, central to the success of the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign was the emergence of a dominant narrative that placed Western consumers at the heart of the solution. The story went that armed groups operating in the eastern DRC were raping women to access and control mineral resources, and that if Western consumers exert pressure on electronic giants like Apple and Samsung to stop purchasing these minerals, they can prevent rape and help end the conflict. In the US, celebrities and sports stars were engaged by the Enough Project to help promote the campaign, whose message appealed particularly strongly to student groups and middle and upper-class liberals.

BukavuBukavu. Photograph: Seth Chase

The campaign eventually led to policy successes in both Washington and Brussels. In 2010 (and as We Will Win Peace documents), the Enough Project’s lobbying was instrumental in having Congress pass Section 1502 of the Dodd-Frank Act, which asks all companies registered on the US stock market to reveal their supply chains to the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) when sourcing gold, tin, tungsten or tantalum from the eastern DRC or neighbouring countries. In 2014, the European Trade Commissioner proposed European Union ‘conflict minerals’ legislation for discussion, which Amnesty International, Global Witness and a broad coalition of European NGOs are now lobbying to be strengthened.

The foundations of the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign can be traced back to 2001, when a UN Panel of Experts on the Illegal Exploitation of Natural Resources in the DRC submitted its first report to the Security Council, recommending an immediate embargo on the trade in minerals from the eastern DRC due to their systematic exploitation by armed groups as a means to finance their activities.[1] Numerous NGO and other reports followed, and in 2008, UN Security Council Resolution 1856 strengthened the UN peacekeeping force’s mandate to combat the issue.

However, there were three shortcomings to the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign that came out of this work. First, it misrepresented the causal drivers of rape and conflict in the eastern DRC. Second, it assumed the dependence of armed groups on mineral revenue for their survival. Third, it under-estimated the importance of artisanal mining to employment (particularly of young men), local economies, and therefore – ironically – security. Compounding these shortcomings, there was a fatal flaw to the US legislation enacted in 2010: at the time Section 1502 of the Dodd-Frank Act was passed, it was not possible for companies sourcing minerals from the eastern DRC to determine whether those minerals were or were not contributing to conflict.

As a result and due to confusion over the implications of the legislation, international buyers withdrew, and an effective mineral boycott enveloped the region. With minerals the only cash export of note from the provinces of North Kivu and South Kivu, and artisanal mining the main off-farm source of employment, the socio-economic impact on Congolese living in the region was severe, and continues to be felt today. Many lost their jobs or were forced into more precarious labour, as the legislation inadvertently (but quite predictably) strengthened the black market in smuggling minerals to ‘clean’ markets outside of the DRC (see this Open Letter, signed by a coalition of more than 70 Congolese and international experts, for a more detailed analysis of the campaign’s shortcomings and impact).

Today, the policy solution pursued in the DRC by a range of foreign companies, NGOs and donors revolves around an expansion of the Congolese state into areas formerly beyond its control, in order to establish and oversee mineral certification and traceability systems that can attest to their ‘conflict free’ status. Early evidence from artisanal mine sites piloting the first of these systems suggests the process is catalysing the previously lethargic formalisation of artisanal mining, and with it the establishment of formal land tenure agreements.[2] In so doing, the process provides conditions that might be amenable to forms of post-conflict (capitalist) development that has eluded the region for so long. However, this is contingent upon internal dynamics beyond the control of external actors, and will not take place overnight. Indeed, this is an oft-heard refrain by those who defend the campaign and the impact of Dodd-Frank 1502. While conceding that the short- and now medium-term impact has been harmful to many Congolese, the argument is made that the policy is aimed at long-term change.

BenRadley

Filming We Will Win Peace. Photograph: Ben Radley

Meanwhile, ‘en attendant’, the change enacted negatively affects the lowest classes of labour and already marginalised social groups by accelerating and creating new processes of dispossession, economic exclusion and social differentiation (albeit built on pre-existing inequalities). Herein lies the main tension in the work of Western advocacy organisations, and the reason they attract such strong critique: there is a heavy dissonance between their stated constituency and their actual constituency, or who they work for and who they work with. Reading the reflections of the radical American organiser Saul Alinsky, two major themes are apparent in his work.[3] First, the need to simplify your message to mobilise people from apathy to action. On this point, the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign has been extremely effective. Where the campaign falls short, however, is the second theme in Alinsky’s work, which is how close he always was to the constituency he represented. He either lived in the community he was helping organise, or he had been invited in to help them pursue solutions to problems they themselves defined (to paraphrase Alex van der Waal, himself a strong and vocal critic of what he has labelled ‘designer activism’).[4] Yet the relationship between advocacy organisations headquartered in Western capitals and their supposed constituency of marginalised or disadvantaged African groups is far more tenuous.

This is because often, the organisations have no permanent presence in the countries affected by their policy successes. Even for those who do have an in-country office much of their time is spent working with government, business and other elites in national and provincial capital cities. The majority of people who stand to be most affected by the policy outcomes of their advocacy, living in rural and peri-urban areas, will not have met them nor know who they are. One of the most striking elements during the making of the film was the difficulty of finding Congolese people in these areas who both knew about and were supportive of the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign, beyond a narrow but influential consortium of church leaders. Indeed, many bemoaned the lack of engagement with the Congolese classes and social groups who stood to be most directly impacted by policy change in Western capital cities. While the advocacy organisations use images of the poorest and most vulnerable in their marketing material, in reality they work predominantly with elites, and the disruptive and contingent process of state-building they engage in and promote often works against the very people they claim to represent.

And so, to return to the ‘conflict minerals’ campaign, organisations such as the Enough Project claim that progress is being made, and critics counter that on the contrary, harm is being done. There is truth to both claims, but they are focused on different aspects of the same process. To resolve this tension and to respond to the criticism, Western advocacy organisations are faced with a choice. They could change how they market their interventions and talk about their work. Helping strengthen the state in peripheral countries such as the DRC is a legitimate pursuit, not least as history tells us that an interventionist state is a necessary prerequisite to lessening dependency and advancing capitalist development in the Global South. However, it will likely be difficult to mobilise people and funding around long-term goals that are contingent and that entrench new forms of class conflict that negatively impact the poorest and most marginalised.

Alternatively, and perhaps more realistically, they could reorient their efforts to working not just for but with the non-elites they use to promote their public image and in whose name they justify their external interventions. What their work would lose in structural impact, it would gain in honesty and legitimacy, both in the DRC and abroad. The groups and classes of artisanal miners, peasants and other informal workers we spoke with would come to know more concretely who the organisations are, and influence more strongly the direction of their work. They would also provide more appropriate solutions to their own problems and struggles than the pursuit of overseas policy change which fails to respond to their local needs.

Ben Radley is a PhD candidate and film-maker based in Kinshasa and working on the re-emergence of industrial mining in South Kivu Province, with a focus on how foreign direct investment enters into and influences local labour and accumulation regimes. 

Notes

[1] Vogel and Radley (2015) ‘Fighting Windmills in Eastern Congo: The Ambiguous Impact of the ‘Conflict Minerals’ Movement’, The Extractive Industries and Society 2: 406-410.

[2] Verbrugge, Cuvelier and Bockstael (2015) ‘Min(d)ing the Land: The Relationship between Artisanal and Small-Scale Mining and Surface Land Arrangements in the Southern Philippines, Eastern DRC and Liberia’, Journal of Rural Studies 37: 50-60.

[3] Alinsky, S, 1971. Rules for Radicals. New York: Vintage Books.

[4] Royal African Society, 20 January 2016, http://www.royalafricansociety.org/event/advocacy-conflict-alex-de-waal-rise-designer-activists.

Development as emancipation

Published in late 2024 by South African publisher Inkani Books, Can Africans do Economics? examines the intersection of economic development and freedom across Africa. Informed by the scholarship of leading African economists Grieve Chelwa, Marion Ouma, Redge Nkosi, Cleopas Sambo and Ndongo Samba Sylla, the collected volume redefines development as a process of emancipation, not simply economic growth. Across its six chapters, the book makes the urgent case for transformative policies grounded in African realities, and for rejecting foreign-led interventions on the continent. Here, we post in full the volume’s second chapter by Grieve Chelwa, ‘Development as emancipation’, which charts the long history of Africa’s struggle for emancipatory development and freedom from its former colonisers.

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By Grieve Chelwa

‘Freedom and development are as completely linked together as are chicken and eggs! Without chickens you get no eggs; without eggs you soon have no chickens. Similarly, without freedom you get no development, and without development you very soon lose your freedom.’ – Mwalimu Julius Nyerere, ‘Uhuru na Maedeleo’ (Freedom and Development)1

At the close of the decade in 1969, a great many of countries in Africa had attained independence, ending the long period of subjugation and exploitation that was formalised by the Berlin Conference of 1884.2 At that conference, the world’s arch colonisers split up the continent among themselves with utter contempt for African people and their patterns of statehood that had existed up until that point. For this reason, the attainment of political independence, beginning with Egypt in 1922 and the inflection point that was Ghana in 1957, presented a palpable opportunity of starting anew and undoing the harm and humiliation of the past.

For many of the first generation of African independence leaders, political independence was viewed as the sine qua non of development. Osagyefo Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of Ghana and quite easily Africa’s most iconic statesman, captured this notion well when he proclaimed ‘seek ye first the political kingdom and all things shall be added onto it’.3 Development was also seen as the essential ingredient that would consolidate the wider meaning and achievement of political independence. Mwalimu Julius Nyerere, the first president of Tanzania, had this to say in a speech aptly titled ‘Uhuru na Maendeleo’ (‘Freedom and Development’):

It is obvious [that freedom] depend[s] on social and economic development. To the extent that our country remains poor, and its people illiterate without understanding or strength, then our national freedom can be endangered by any foreign power which is better equipped. This is not only a question of military armaments – although if these are necessary, they have to be paid out of the wealth of the community. It is a question of consciousness among all the people of the nation that they are free men who have something to defend, whether the appropriate means of defence be by force of arms or by more subtle methods.4

In addition to articulating the symbiotic relationship between development and political independence, the first generation of leaders grasped that development was urgently needed. Nkrumah, for example, wrote in his autobiography:

Once [political] freedom is gained, a greater task comes into view. All dependent territories are backward in education, in science, in agriculture, and in industry. The economic independence that should follow and maintain political independence demands every effort from the people, a total mobilization of brain and manpower resources. What other countries have taken three hundred years or more to achieve, a once dependent territory must try to accomplish in a generation if it is to survive. Unless it is, as it were, ‘jet-propelled,’ it will lag behind and then risk everything for which it has fought.5

For Mwalimu Nyerere, this fierce urgency of development required that African countries ‘ran while others walked’.6

The distinguished Malawian economist Thandika Mkandawire understood that the thirst for development so well-articulated by Africa’s independence leaders had motivations beyond merely increasing their people’s material wellbeing. The quest for development was an emancipatory project aimed at overcoming the shackles of humiliation formalised by the Berlin Conference.7 According to Mkandawire, many critiques, especially Western ones, of this developmentalist fervor on the African continent did not grasp that development and the ‘catch up’ aspirations driving it [were] not foreign impositions but part of Africa’s responses to its own historical experiences and social needs [and have] much deeper historical roots and social support than is often recognized’.8 To paraphrase Amartya Sen, development is freedom.9

What then is development? Mkandawire, for example, has argued that development means overcoming the indignities of colonialism.10 For Sen, ‘development can be seen … as a process of expanding the real freedoms that people enjoy’.11 Development, for example, means the freedom from being coerced into seeking one’s meals in the rubbish pit. One sees here that Mkandawire and Sen’s ideas of development imply one another. Development as dignity is development as freedom.

The landmark 1990 report from the South Commission, that was incidentally chaired by Nyerere, defined development as ‘a process which enables human beings to realize their potential, build self-confidence, and lead lives of dignity and fulfillment. It is a process which frees people from the fear of want and exploitation. It is a movement away from political, economic, or social oppression. Through development, political independence acquires its true significance.’12 Elsewhere the report expands on the notion of emancipation in this way: ‘development is a process of self-reliant growth, achieved through the participation of the people acting in their own interests as they seem, and under their own control.’13

In his classic text How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, Walter Rodney makes explicit the link between development and emancipation. In discussing underdevelopment, Rodney writes:

…[a] more indispensable component of modern underdevelopment is that it expresses a particular relationship of exploitation: namely, the exploitation of one country by another. All of the countries named as ‘underdeveloped’ in the world are exploited by others; and the underdevelopment with which the world is now preoccupied is a product of … exploitation.14

The quest for development is, therefore, a quest for emancipation. Development gives full meaning to self-determination, the clarion call for political independence in the run-up to the modal independence decade of the 1960s. This understanding of development as an emancipatory project is useful in assessing trends in development in Africa over the last three decades or so, a matter that we turn to in the next section. Further, it is critical for assessing the many ‘development initiatives’ that have been visited upon the African continent in the recent past.

Is Africa developing?

The previous section has argued that development in the African case ought to be emancipatory. The question that then arises is what yardsticks shall we use to measure progress towards such a kind of development? The South Commission provided the following guidance: the ‘first objective of [development] must be to end poverty, provide productive employment, and satisfy the basic needs of all the people, any surplus being fairly shared.’15 Thus, even though development’s goal is the achievement of the people’s full personhood, dignity and autonomy, the practical definition provided by the Commission presents intermediate metrics that allow for the gauging of progress: Development must ‘end poverty’, ‘provide employment’, ‘satisfy basic needs’ and promote equality. These aspects can be viewed as important metrics for assessing whether a people are on the path towards the achievement of development.

On this score, is Africa developing?

To answer this question, we will rely on trends in poverty not because it is one of the most important metrics contained in the South Commission’s report, but it is the one measure with an abundance of comparable data across space and time. In addition, as I argue later, meaningful reductions in poverty are synonymous with development as is understood here.16

In 1990, the World Bank introduced their a ‘dollar a day’ measure of poverty.17 This measure was derived based on the cost of the lowest amount of calories required for sustenance, estimated at $1 per day or $370 per year. In this way, any person whose expenditure fell below ‘a dollar a day’ was considered poor. This so-called international poverty line (IPL) has subsequently been revised upwards in keeping with food price inflation and currently stands at $2.15 a day.18

There is much debate around the appropriateness of using the IPL to assess poverty. Philip Alston, who served as UN Special Rapporteur on extreme poverty and human rights from 2014 to 2020, issued a landmark report that was critical of the IPL.19 According to Alston, the IPL was too low to correspond to any commonsense notions of what constituted poverty. And such an arbitrarily low poverty line has allowed many, such as the World Bank, to claim dramatic reductions in global poverty whose conclusions would be overturned were a higher and more reasonable poverty line used.

Criticisms notwithstanding, a big appeal of the IPL is that consistent data across the majority of countries has been collected since 1990. Even if it is reasonable and desirable to set higher poverty lines than the IPL, there currently isn’t any such data that can support cross-country and cross-time analyses of poverty trends. Second, the incredible transformation of, for example, China’s economy over the last 40 years has coincided with reductions in poverty measured using the IPL. China’s poverty rate for 1981 was estimated at 88 per cent and by 2018 the poverty rate had reduced to 0.3 per cent, making this the fastest decline in poverty in history.20

There is a lot of evidence, not least from the Chinese government and Chinese scholars, showing that these reductions in poverty are real and not illusory in the sense that the lot of the typical Chinese person has meaningfully improved over the last four decades.21 Many would agree with the conclusion that China’s development transformation has been nothing short of emancipatory – the country now has a level of control over its destiny in ways that were unimaginable four decades ago. Whatever the limitations of the IPL, it has to be an indictment to have a great many of a polity’s people living below such an absurdly low threshold. This makes poverty assessments important barometers in measuring progress towards development in the sense the word is used in this chapter.

In what follows, I present a series of charts that paint a picture of the story of poverty in Africa over the last three decades. The picture that emerges is not an encouraging one.

In 1990, two billion people across the world lived in poverty as defined by the IPL.22 Three decades later, the number of the world’s poor had reduced to 648 million people (see figure 1). This downward trend in the numbers of the poor was mirrored in all regions of the world except for Sub-Saharan Africa, whose trendline is visibly upward in Figure 1.23 East Asia & the Pacific (EAP), a region that includes countries such as China, Malaysia, South Korea and Vietnam, witnessed some of the most dramatic reductions in the number of the poor. In 1990, close to a billion people in the EAP region lived in poverty and by 2019 that number had reduced to only 24 million people. South Asia, a region mostly dominated by India, also witnessed poverty reductions albeit at a slower pace than EAP. In South Asia, 600 million people lived in poverty in 1990. By 2019, the number of the poor had reduced to about 150 million people.

In Sub-Saharan Africa, the number of people living in poverty in 1990 was 270 million. After three decades, the ranks of the poor had grown by an additional 100 million bringing the population of the region’s poor to 390 million in 2019. In 1990, only 15 per cent of the world’s poor lived in Sub-Saharan Africa (see Figure 2). By 2019, Sub-Saharan Africa’s contribution to the world’s poor had grown by a factor of 4 to 60 per cent! Over the same period, East Asia and the Pacific’s share declined from 50 per cent in 1990 to only 4 per cent in 2019. In other words, at the end of 2019, world poverty had largely become an African affair whereas in 1990 it was an East and South Asian problem.

In terms of the poverty rate (the percent of a region’s population in poverty) Sub-Saharan Africa has continued to lag other regions (see Figure 3). In 1990, our poverty rate of 53 per cent was only 1.3 times bigger than the world’s poverty rate of 38 per cent. By 2019, Sub-Saharan Africa’s poverty rate of 35 per cent, even though smaller than the 1990 number, was now 4 times bigger than the world’s poverty rate of 8 per cent. Stated differently, the region’s rate of decline in poverty was far slower than the decline in world poverty. This is also reflected in the trend lines in figure 3 that show that poverty rates in all regions of the world, with the exception of Sub-Saharan Africa, have declined and converged on single digits over the last three decades.

A final figure which showcases the dismal nature of the poverty story in Sub-Saharan Africa is contained in figure 4 which shows the percentage of the region’s population living on $6.90 or less over the period 1990 to 2019. This higher poverty line is the typical poverty line in high-income countries where it is used as a criteria for the receipt of public assistance programmes. According to the figure, over the period 1990 to 2019, almost all of Sub-Saharan Africa’s population would be considered poor and qualify for public assistance if they lived in a high-income country. In other words, the much-celebrated African middle class is a figment of our own imaginations going by high-income country standards.

Why is Africa not developing?

The previous section has documented some broad trends regarding the story of poverty and, by implication, development in Africa over the last three decades. Why is this unfortunate situation our story? How have some regions successfully reduced poverty or got solidly on the path to (if they have not already attained) emancipatory development whereas Africa has failed to do so? What accounts for this and what can be done about the situation?

As many scholars have so eloquently demonstrated Africa’s underdevelopment as a structural process began with the continent’s integration into the world capitalist system around about the 15th century. Ever since this integration, the continent’s surplus value has been extracted and exported abroad to power and sustain economies elsewhere, especially in the western world. For close to 400 years until the abolishment of slavery and the slave trade in the 19th century, much of Africa’s surplus was embodied in the form people trafficked against their will to the plantation economies of the so-called New World. In the New World, enslaved Africans were worked to the death growing the kind of crops, most notably cotton, that powered the Industrial Revolution.

After the abolition of slavery in the mid-19th century, Euro-America’s extraction of Africa’s surplus relied on colonialism where the continent was carved up into colonies belonging to different European empires. Under colonialism, extracted surplus was embodied, not in the export of human beings as before, but in the export of raw materials directly from Africa that fed the industrialisation underway in Western Europe and North America.

Beginning in the early to mid-20th century, several factors combined that ultimately led to political independence in many African countries in the 1960s. First, many Africans participating and observing the Second World War came to view the Allied Forces’ (mostly Britain and the US) rallying cry for the war, which was to free Europe from illegal German occupation, as hypocritical. During that era, most of the African continent, with very few exceptions, was under illegal occupation via colonialism. Second, the formation of the United Nations at the end of the Second World War was explicit in articulating a right to self-determination that came to inspire many independence movements in Africa. Third, the economics of the colonial model came to suggest that the economic returns from direct control were smaller than those that could be obtained under a system of indirect control. Owing to one or all these reasons, many countries in Africa were granted or fought for political independence that peaked in the 1960s.

With the advent of political independence, the extraction of the continent’s surplus continued unabated and was facilitated indirectly via neocolonialism. Writing in 1965 in his magisterial text Neocolonialism, The Last Stage of Imperialism, Nkrumah described neocolonialism this way:

The essence of neocolonialism is that the State which is subject to it is, in theory, independent and has all the outward trappings of international sovereignty. In reality its economic system and thus political policy is directed from outside. The methods and form of this direction can take many shapes … The neo-colonialist State may be obliged to take the manufactured products of the imperialist power to the exclusion of competing products from elsewhere. Control over government policy in the neocolonial State may be secured by payments towards the cost of running the State, by the provision of civil servants in positions where they can dictate policy, and by monetary control over foreign exchange through the imposition of a banking system controlled by the imperial power. Where neocolonialism exists the power exercising control is often the State which formerly ruled the territory in question, but this is not necessarily so. For example, in the case of South Vietnam the former imperial power was France, but neocolonial control of the State has now gone to the United States. It is possible that neocolonial control may be exercised by a consortium of financial interests which are not specifically identifiable with any particular State. The control of the Congo by great international financial concerns is a case in point. The result of neo-colonialism is that foreign capital is used for the exploitation rather than the development of the less developed parts of the world. Investments under neo-colonialism increase rather than decrease the gap between the rich and the poor countries in the world.24

As theorised by Nkrumah, neocolonialism became the dominant form of extraction and impoverishment on the African continent following independence. Unlike colonialism where the presence of the coloniser was visible and palpable, neocolonialism is more subtle and harder to discern and, therefore it is difficult to rally the people against it.

As Nkrumah correctly observed, the typical feature of neocolonialism is the large inflow of foreign capital through so-called foreign direct investment (FDI) that exploits rather than develops. According to the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), the African continent received $580 billion in official development assistance between 1960 and 2005.25 Over about the same period, the continent received FDI flows of some $150 billion.26 However, this huge inflow of capital, which in total amounts to almost three-quarters of a trillion dollars, has coincided with the impoverishment of the continent as attested by the statistics in the previous section. Why has this large infusion of capital stymied the continent?

Two principal reasons, working through the channel of neocolonialism, explain why this phenomenon. First, the flow of official development assistance or aid has meant that a large army of aid workers and policy advisors from the West have come to dominate policymaking in Africa. Mkandawire has shown how this policy dominance harms efforts at development on the African continent. Writing in his important 1999 book Our Continent, Our Future: African Perspectives on Structural Adjustment, co-written with the Nigerian economist Charles Soludo, Mkandawire had this to say:

One reason for policy failure in Africa is simply that too many cooks have been in the policy-making kitchen … No part of the developing world has had such a density and diversity of technical assistance as Africa. In some countries, ministries [are] literally partitioned among different donors. This [has] many implications. Not only [does] it tax the attention of the nascent African bureaucracies to the extreme, but it also [makes] the learning curve extremely costly. In the extreme cases, African policymakers [are] actually excluded from the learning process as donors [keep] the evaluations of the programs to themselves, either through exclusive distribution of the relevant documents or because of language barriers.27

Mkandawire and Soludo’s observation were echoed by Adebayo Adedeji, the Nigerian economist who led the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa (UNECA) from 1975 to 1991. Adedeji, more direct about the sinister intentions of the ‘aid industrial complex’ than Mkandawire and Soludo declared:

In many cases, our friends and development partners have been either unwilling or reluctant to grant us the elementary right to perceive for ourselves what is good for us and to assist us in realising our perceived goals and objectives. Often, they appear more interested in foisting on us their own perceptions and goals. When it comes to Africa, the outsiders have always behaved as if they know better than Africans what is good for Africa, and the result is that without the needed co-operation and support, Africa has particularly always been derailed from pursuing relentlessly and vigorously the agenda it has set for itself.28

In my own scholarship, I have documented how the problem of policy dominance is compounded by the fact that the influential research on the economics of the African continent, on which policy is based, is mostly conducted by western economists steeped in the tradition of neoliberal economics.29 A striking feature of this research is the mental gymnastics that are performed in laying the blame at the foot of Africans without any mention of the very real machinations of neocolonialism.

A second channel through which neocolonialism impoverishes the continent is FDI. FDI, as distinguished from aid, constitutes private inflows of capital into Africa with the explicit intent of making an economic profit (i.e., extracting surplus). The primary reason why huge FDI flows into Africa have not had any discernable impact on the continent’s development is that the target for FDI investments are the continent’s valuable extractives or natural resources sector. According to UNCTAD, the majority of all the FDI flows into Africa between 1970 and 2005 went to the extractives sector.30 Rather than aiding development, these types of investments have thwarted it in many ways.

First, the continent’s many internecine conflicts are linked to the exploitation of natural resources. The classic example is the Democratic Republic of Congo where foreign-financed war has created violent and unstable conditions to easily spirit away the central African country’s valuable minerals in addition to causing the deaths of millions of Congolese.

In other parts of the continent, foreign investors have been more subtle in causing the kinds of distractions needed to illicitly extract minerals. In countries like Nigeria, Ghana and Zambia, the approach has been to underwrite a local political elite that implements policies favourable to the foreign-owned extractives sector. Zambia, for example, has continuously granted its mining houses favourable tax treatments that rob the country hundreds of millions of dollars in potential tax revenue every year. In a puzzling policy move in 2021, the county ramped up its generous tax treatment of the mining houses while it was seeking a bailout from the International Monetary Fund (IMF).31

Further, foreign investors in the extractives sector prefer to invest only up to the point where they can export the commodities in their raw form with very little value-addition. This further robs the continent of considerable foreign exchange that could be earned from the exports of processed or semi-processed goods. Last, the fact that foreign investment into the extractives sector dwarfs investment in downstream activities (such as manufacturing) ties the continent’s fortunes to the dangerous vagaries of the international commodity markets where prices swing, without warning, from one extreme to the other with devastating consequences for long-term planning.

The forgotten story of development in Africa

A forgotten aspect of African economic performance is that many countries in the immediate post-independence period registered respectable economic performance that drove improvements in socio-economic development. Mkandawire and Soludo, who are one of the most careful documenters of this period, make the point that ‘postcolonial African economic history is one of fairly respectable rates of growth for nearly a decade (including some ‘miracles’ in a number of countries)’.32 They go on to write that ‘between 1965 and 1974, annual growth in gross domestic product (GDP) per capita averaged 2.6% … Changes in GDP per capita and changes in gross national product (GNP) … clearly show an increase in per capita income up to 1980 …’33 These average statistics mask differences as in some cases African countries outperformed some of the best performing economies in the world. Writing elsewhere, Mkandawire makes this point in this way:

It should be emphasized that the performance of the top performers in Africa was close to the best of the comparable Asian countries during that period. If one takes a growth rate of 6% over more than a decade as a measure of successful development performance, in the 1967–80 periods, ten countries enjoying such growth were African. These not only included mineral- rich countries such as Gabon, Botswana, Congo and Nigeria but also such countries as Kenya and Cote d’Ivoire, who slightly outperformed both Indonesia and Malaysia during the period.34

Mkandawire and Soludo note that with an increase in economic growth came an increase in ‘investments in public schools, roads, hospitals and industries.’35 Further, ‘by the mid-1970s, many countries could point to significant progress in initiating processes of economic and social development. Some levels of industrialization had been initiated, levels of school enrolment had increased, new roads had been constructed, the indigenization of civil service had advanced…’.36

The remarkable point to note in this brief period of post-independence economic success is that it largely came about by keeping neocolonialism at bay. First, much of the investment that came to power the impressive growth was mobilised from domestic savings.37 This essentially meant that the post-independence state had to manoeuvre in deploying these investments beyond the extractives sector. Second, the fact that aid played a negligible role in capital formation meant the post-independence state entirely owned the policy process, therefore, was free to implement policies in line with its national objectives. Third, the impressive economic performance was on the back of import substitution industrialisation, showcasing the importance of industrialisation in the development process. Finally, this impressive economic performance was state-led – the direction of economic activity was not left to the market but steered by an activist state based on long-term planning.

The brief period of hopeful performance was cut short with the oil price shocks of the 1970s that sent many countries into balance of payments crises as they tried to cope with increasing import bills. Many countries unfortunately turned to the IMF for help, which was conditioned on countries committing economic suicide by implementing policies in direct opposition to the ones that had delivered dignifying economic growth and development in the immediate post-independence period. With the IMF and World Bank now fully in charge of the policy process, the stage was set for the astronomic increases in poverty that we have come to observe over the last three decades and documented earlier in figures 1 to 4.

The forgotten promise of the Lagos Plan of Action

The effect of unfulfilled promises of global development strategies has been more sharply felt in Africa than in the other continents of the world. Indeed, rather than result in an improvement in the economic situation of the continent, successive strategies have made it stagnate and become more susceptible than other regions to the economic and social crises suffered by the industrialised countries. Thus, Africa is unable to point to any significant growth rate, or satisfactory index of general well-being, in the past 20 years. Faced with this situation, and determined to undertake measures for the basic restructuring of the economic base of our continent, we resolved to adopt a far-reaching regional approach based primarily on collective self-reliance. – Preamble of the Lagos Plan of Action38

In 1980, African heads of state and government gathered in Lagos, Nigeria for an extra-ordinary summit of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU). The summit had been called to take stock of the continent’s economic development situation as it stood at the time. After two decades of political independence, economic self-determination had remained elusive with many countries just as dependent on their erstwhile colonisers as at the time of independence. Several international initiatives aimed at fostering transformative development had not yielded results. The much-heralded New International Economic Order (NIEO), adopted by the UN General Assembly in 1974, which was meant to provide a framework to end neocolonialism and economic dependency in the postcolonial countries, had failed to take off, prompting UN Secretary General Kurt Waldheim to issue the following words of disappointment in 1980:

I do not need to recapitulate here the course that efforts to establish a new international economic order have taken over the last several years. On a number of occasions I have been driven to voice my disappointment … the missing element is not technical knowledge or understanding. What has been lacking is the political will to make adjustments, evolve compromises and develop action-oriented strategies…39

Against this background, the summit in Lagos gathered to discuss and adopt a new strategy meant to provide a blueprint for self-reliant development on the African continent in the coming decades. The strategy, which came to be fully known as the Lagos Plan for Action for the Economic Development of Africa, had been spearheaded by the UNECA under the leadership of the Nigerian economist Adebayo Adedeji. The plan’s hallmark was to restructure the economic base of the continent in support of emancipatory development.

The Lagos Plan of Action addressed many matters of importance to the economic development of the continent. However, special pride of place was reserved for agriculture, industry, natural resources and banking and finance given how crucial these aspects were in building self-reliant emancipatory development.

Building a strong agricultural base was not only important for fostering self-sufficiency in food production but would be vital for providing the raw materials required by industry. Second, surpluses from agriculture would translate into the kind of savings that could drive the development of banking and finance and in turn finance the development of industry. In a similar way, the exploitation of natural resources (such as oil, copper, gold and cocoa) would generate surpluses that would directly finance the development of industry or indirectly, through fostering a strong banking and finance sector. Like agriculture, natural resources would also be important for providing raw materials for industry.

Crucially, the plan required that the development of banking and finance be driven by domestic savings to guarantee its insulation from foreign capital. As discussed earlier, foreign-owned banks were the handmaidens of foreign control and influence in Africa. In this way, the Plan presented an integrated sectoral and country approach to Africa’s development.

It is worth noting that in the Lagos Plan of Action, the development of industry was the be-all and end-all of the plan. This was based on a correct reading of history that showed that successful attempts at emancipatory development were based on a strong industrial base. This is also the lesson of China whose unprecedented reduction in poverty and emergence as a self-determining global power has been driven by industrialisation.

Unfortunately, the Lagos Plan of Action was adopted right at the beginning of the economic crisis that came to define the African continent over the next four decades. The plan was eschewed in favor of structural adjustment plans drawn up by the IMF and World Bank whose intent and result was the removal of policy agency and sovereignty from Africa.

The fact that the Lagos Plan of Action was never implemented presents one of history’s biggest missed opportunities for the continent.

Conclusion

The foregoing paints a picture of a continent that has struggled to attain emancipatory development. This, however, has not been for a lack of trying. Many of the first generation of African leaders articulated a coherent developmentalist ideology that saw total emancipation as the goal. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, the scourge of neocolonialism cut short this brief period of promise and today the African continent is more dependent on the rest of the world (especially the West) than it was in the immediate aftermath of political independence. However, not all is lost. The various strategies for economic emancipation developed in the immediate post-independence period such as the Lagos Plan of Action and many national development plans contain the blueprint of what needs to be done if Africa is to attain emancipatory development in the 21st century.

Endnotes

1 Julius Nyerere, Freedom and Development/Uhuru na Maendeleo: A Selection of Writings and Speeches, 1968–1973 (Dar es Salaam/London, Oxford University Press, 1973), 1–10.

2 Many studies consider Africa as referring primarily to the mass of land south of the Sahara Desert. In this chapter, I dispense with this strange practice and consider the continent in its entirety (North, South, West and East Africa).

3 As quoted in Kenneth W. Grundy, ‘Nkrumah’s Theory of Underdevelopment: An Analysis of Recurrent Themes’, World Politics 15, no. 3 (July 2011): 439. It is worth pointing out that there is some debate about when the remarks may have been said. The quote refers to a statue, some say; in his biography others say the quote was heard on independence day.

4 Nyerere, Freedom and Development/Uhuru na Maendeleo, 1.

5 As quoted in Grundy, ‘Nkrumah’s Theory of Underdevelopment’, 457.

6 Thandika Mkandawire, ‘Running while others walk: Knowledge and the Challenge of Africa’s Development, Africa Development 36, no. 2 (2011): 1–36.

7 Mkandawire, ‘Running while others walk’.

8 Mkandawire, ‘Running while others walk’.

9 Amartya Sen, Development as Freedom (New York: Anchor Books, 2000).

10 Mkandawire, ‘Running while others walk’.

11 Sen, Development as Freedom, 3.

12 South Commission, The Challenge to the South: The Report of the South Commission (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 10.

13 South Commission, Challenge to the South, 13.

14 Walter Rodney, How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (London: Bogle- L’Ouverture, 1972), 14.

15 South Commission, The Challenge to the South, 13.

16 Additionally, the widely lauded Sustainable Development Goals of the United Nations has ‘ending poverty in all its forms everywhere’ as goal number one. See ‘Ending poverty in all its forms everywhere,’ The United Nations, accessed March 11, 2024, https://sdgs.un.org/goals/goal1.

17 World Bank, World Development Report (Washington, DC, World Bank, 1990).

18 World Bank, Poverty and Shared Prosperity (Washington, DC, World Bank, 2022).

19 Philip Alston, The Parlous State of Poverty Eradication: A Report of the Special Rapporteur on Extreme Poverty and Human Rights (New York, United Nations, 2020).

20 World Bank and the Development Research Center of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China, Four Decades of Poverty Reduction in China: Drivers, Insights for the World, and the Way Ahead (Washington, DC/Beijing, World Bank, 2022).

21 See World Bank and Development Research Center, Four Decades of Poverty Reduction in China; Zhang Weiwei, The China Wave: Rise of a Civilization State (Hackensack, NJ, World Century Publishing Corporation, 2011).

22 ‘Poverty and Inequality Platform’, World Bank, accessed March 11, 2024, https://pip.worldbank.org/home.

23 The World Bank, and many other international agencies, like to separate the continent into Sub Saharan Africa and North Africa. The latter is then grouped with the Middle East.

24 Kwame Nkrumah, Neo-Colonialism, The Last Stage of Imperialism (London, Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1965), ix–x .

25 United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), Economic Development in Africa: Doubling Aid: Making the Big Push work (Geneva/New York, United Nations, 2006).

26 United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), Economic Development in Africa: Rethinking the Role of Foreign Direct Investment (Geneva/New York, United Nations, 2005).

27 Thandika Mkandawire and Charles C. Soludo, Our Continent, Our Future: African Perspectives on Structural Adjustment (Trenton, NJ/Dakar, Africa World Press and CODESRIA, 1999), 35–36.

28 Mkandawire and Soludo, Our Continent, Our Future, 36.

29 See Grieve Chelwa, ‘Does Economics have an “Africa Problem”?’ Economy and Society 50, no. 1 (February 2021): 78–99.

30 UNCTAD, Economic Development in Africa.

31 ‘IMF Deal: Cry My Beloved Zambia,’ Grieve Chelwa, accessed March 11, 2024, https://gchelwa.substack.com/p/imf-deal-cry-my-beloved-zambiahtml.

32 Mkandawire and Soludo, Our Continent, Our Future, 5.

33 Mkandawire and Soludo, Our Continent, Our Future, 6.

34 Thandika Mkandawire, ‘Thinking about Developmental States in Africa,’ Cambridge Journal of Economics 25, no. 3 (May 2001): 303.

35 Mkandawire and Soludo, Our Continent, Our Future, 36.

36 Mkandawire, ‘Thinking about Developmental States in Africa’.

37 Mkandawire, ‘Thinking about Developmental States in Africa’.

38 Organisation of African Unity, Lagos Plan of Action for the Economic Development of Africa: 1980 to 2000 (Addis Ababa, OAU, 1980), 4.

39 Quoted in Rose M. D’Sa, ‘The Lagos Plan of Action – Legal Mechanisms for Co-operation between the Organisation of African Unity and the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa,’ Journal of African Law 27, no. 1 (Spring, 1983): 13.

Can Africans do Economics? can be ordered through Inkani Books here.

Grieve Chelwa is Associate Professor of Political Economy and Chair of the Social Sciences Department at the Africa Institute. He is also a senior fellow at Tricontinental: Institute for Social Research. His current research focuses on the political economy of development in Africa. Chelwa has previously held academic and administrative positions at The New School, the University of Cape Town and Harvard University. He holds a PhD in economics from the University of Cape Town.

For 50 years, ROAPE has brought our readers path-breaking analysis on radical African political economy in our quarterly review, and for more than ten years on our website. Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive. Please consider subscribing or donating today.

Africa and permanent (global) wars

ROAPE’s Elisa Greco and Ben Radley introduce Volume 52 Issue 183 of the journal, with an editorial on Africa and permanent (global) wars. The issue features contributions from Mnqobi Ngubane on land and labour in Lesotho and South Africa, Antonater Tafadzwa Choto on working class struggle in Zimbabwe, Sam Chian on Immanuel Wallerstein as Africanist and Jens Stilhoff Sörensen on humanitarian permanence in South Sudan. It also features a debate piece from Patrick Bond on the pitfalls of resource nationalism, alongside a briefing from Ben Radley on an alternative vision for a new global order. The issue is rounded off with a book review by Mari H. Engh on African Football Migration and an obituary by Dale T. McKinley on the life, thought and struggle of Prishani Naidoo.

Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive. Please consider subscribing or donating today.

By Elisa Greco and Ben Radley

In the history of capital, militarism has become a province of capital accumulation (Luxemburg 1913 (2003)). Militarism and wars – alongside waste – have become a key domain of capitalist accumulation in the age of US imperialism (Capasso and Kadri 2023). To remind the public that the war in Ukraine is not the only ongoing war, we stick to our remit: we keep eyes on Sudan, Palestine, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Somalia, Libya, Western Sahara. Our eyes get tired from the feeling of powerlessness that this state of constant war produces.

War is the ultimate tragedy for the people – yet it is very good for business. Militarism remains a core element of the capitalist system and the wars that it sustains. The imperialist power of the US has been founded on a permanent war economy (van der Linden 2025) and liberalism has succeeded in normalising permanent war and militarisation, while desensitising people about it (Amin 2006). In early March 2025, the EU shakes its magic money tree (yes, there is a magic money tree!): a new rearmament programme is announced, ReArm Europe (EU 2025), freeing up €800 billion from other national budget allocations, and redirecting it towards public financing of European defence, including a plan to borrow up to €150 billion to lend to national governments to fund weapons production (Bahceli 2025). Given that the EU massively relies on the import of US weapons, European leaders rapidly reacted to the US withdrawal of military aid to Ukraine. In Germany, the Christian Democrats (CDU) and the Social Democrats (SPD) are negotiating to form a coalition government and seemingly agree on the creation of a €500 billion fund for investment and infrastructure spending (Rinke, Alkousaa and Marsh 2025). The presumed future chancellor Friedrich Merz (CDU) justifies this with the need for more spending on ‘defence’: ‘In view of the threats to our freedom and peace on our continent, the same must now apply to our defence: whatever it takes’ (Deutschlandfunk 2025). Economists have been quick to stress the potential economic benefits of the new EU defence plan: this surge in public investment in the defence sector could ‘help jumpstart Europe’s flat economy’ (Bahceli 2025), as the weapons industry could boost interconnected industrial sectors that have been declining for decades and absorb the job losses in the EU automotive sector.

Beyond the policy jargon, we are looking at a significant policy shift: the EU gives the green light to national governments that are willing to direct public financing to national factories of deadly weapons – and betting on weapons export to boost declining national economies. If this plan has the intended consequences, it will represent a major shift, one that is bound to have long-term repercussions at the global level, and particularly in Africa, which is one of the main recipients of EU arms trade. As documented by the Campaign Against Arms Trade (CAAT), from 2020 to 2022 the EU exported a total value of €27 billion in arms and licences to Africa and the Middle East only, with Italy, France and Germany being the biggest exporters, and Egypt the largest buyer (CAAT 2025). This policy shift will probably encourage a trend of global rearmament, fuelling permanent war while most likely leading to more financial austerities for education, health services and welfare. Marx insisted on the necessity to interpret and analyse each war and its significance from the point of view of the working class, and distinguish between imperialist wars and revolutionary wars that unleash the potential of the working class to seize state power. We reiterate the importance of careful analysis of the relation between specific conflicts and imperialism, as, for example, in the current war in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC).

War in the Democratic Republic of Congo

Goma and Bukavu are the two largest cities in the eastern DRC, lying on the northern and southern shores of Lake Kivu respectively. Each city is home to somewhere between one and two million residents, and both are situated on the border with Rwanda. On 27 January 2025, as part of a renewed offensive that had seen it capture strategic towns and cities across eastern DRC since 2022, Mouvement du 23 Mars (M23) took control of Goma. Three weeks later, on 16 February, it took Bukavu. The DRC army, Forces armées de la RDC (FARDC), put up little resistance. Reports indicate that M23 has since been moving north to Butembo and south to Uvira, with some signs that it has also begun to move west. M23 has been fighting not only FARDC but other armed groups, most notably the Forces démocratiques de libération du Rwanda (FDLR), a militia founded by members of the Interahamwe, who committed the 1994 Rwandan genocide against Tutsis and afterwards fled to the eastern DRC to seek refuge.

These latest events follow a decades-long history of continuing war and conflict in the region (Muhindo 2014; Stearns 2022). While the context today is different, we have been here before. M23 formed in 2012, following the failed integration into FARDC of militia soldiers, many of whom were former members of the Tutsi-dominated Congrès national pour la défense du people. Today, its ranks remain heavily populated by Congolese Tutsi, including its military leader Sultani Makenga. Beginning in March 2012, M23 led an offensive across eastern DRC culminating in the capture of Goma in November. This proved short-lived, lasting just a few weeks before M23’s withdrawal and eventual surrender.

In its latest offensive, as was the case back in 2012 (UN Security Council 2012), M23 has received direct backing from the ruling Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), led by President Paul Kagame. In June 2024, according to a UN Security Council (2024) report, the Rwanda Defence Force (RDF) deployed an additional 3,000 to 4,000 of its troops to eastern DRC – around one-sixth of Rwanda’s military – to provide further support to M23 operations. This has taken place alongside RDF’s deployment of drones, armoured vehicles, GPS-jamming equipment and surface-to-air missiles (Kennes 2024). M23 is also a member of Alliance du Fleuve Congo, a Congolese coalition of political parties and armed groups formed in 2023.

More than 700,000 people have been displaced by the conflict since January 2025 alone (United Nations 2025) and several thousand people have been killed (Livingstone 2025). Newspaper reports and residents’ testimonies in February and March suggest a climate of fear and uncertainty in the DRC’s Kivu provinces. On 22 February, 12 young men were shot dead in Goma, thought to have been killed by M23 for refusing to join its ranks (Maludi 2025). Five days later, on 27 February, an explosion occurred at Bukavu’s Independence Square during a meeting held by Alliance du Fleuve Congo’s leader Corneille Nangaa, killing 11 people and injuring many more (Barhahiga and Pronczuk 2025). Most shops and banks remain closed. Many parents fear sending their children to school, preferring to keep them at home.

While the RPF denies its support to M23, the latest offensive appears to have come at a cost to both the ruling party and its armed forces. Hundreds, if not thousands, of RDF soldiers have reportedly been killed since its increased operations with M23 began around three years ago, according to high-ranking intelligence officials (Townsend and Wrong 2025). With international aid representing around US$1.3 billion of Rwanda’s US$4 billion annual budget (Afrique XXI 2025), in March 2025 the Western states of Belgium, the UK, Germany, Sweden, Denmark and Canada had stopped delivering certain (but not all) forms of aid. (In the case of Belgium, Rwanda took the first step in suspending this relationship.) In addition, the EU had sanctioned three senior RDF officials and the US had imposed sanctions on Rwanda’s State Minister for Regional Integration, James Kabarebe (who served as Rwandan Minister of Defence from 2010 to 2018), and M23 spokesperson Kanyuka Kingston. The Rwandan government has spoken out strongly against these measures. It summoned the Canadian High Commissioner in Kigali to express its displeasure at the measures taken and to argue that the crimes it stands accused of ‘are committed in broad daylight by FARDC and DRC government militias’ (Gahigi 2025). This refers to FARDC’s reported collaboration with FDLR, which Rwanda sees as an ally of the Congolese army. Germany and the UK received a similar response. On March 17, the Rwandan Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation released a statement announcing that the Rwandan government was severing all diplomatic relations with Belgium, requiring all Belgian diplomats to leave the country within 48 hours (Government of Rwanda 2025).

Two related questions will be explored here. First, how might we think about the timing and possible objectives of M23’s latest offensive? Second, how do ongoing events in the DRC relate to the broader forces and structures of the imperialist world economy within which they are taking place? While the first question has been the primary focus of recent commentary by close observers, the second question has been mostly absent (see Serumaga 2025, for a notable exception). This reflects Ray Bush’s (2024, 357) observation, writing in the editorial of a recent issue of ROAPE, that while imperialism provides ‘the structural underpinning to the world economy that produces and reproduces inequality, poverty, war and famine’, it ‘is omitted from almost all analysis of Africa’. Meanwhile, some international anti-imperialist groups have been quick to frame M23’s offensive as part of continuing imperialist violence against the people of the DRC, driven by the need to exploit the country’s mineral riches for imperial gain, and in which Rwanda is acting as ‘a proxy for Western interests’ (Progressive International 2025).

Events of recent years have arguably provided fertile ground for this interpretation. According to Eric Kennes (2024), the RDF today has become

an important instrument for the implementation of aspects of UN, USA and EU policy in the region, including the struggle against Islamist movements in the region of Cabo Delgado in Moçambique, or the delivery of troops for UN missions in CAR and South-Sudan.

In Cabo Delgado, French and other Western multinationals are making huge profits from gas and oil exploitation (Makonye 2022) and are seeking to develop new offshore gas mega-projects. Currently, a major TotalEnergies gas project worth US$20 billion is on hold because of the ongoing insurgency there. In 2022 and 2024, the EU twice provided the Rwandan army with €20 million to support its peacekeeping operations in Mozambique. In late 2023, the EU announced an investment of €900 million in Rwanda through its Global Gateway programme, and in 2024 it signed a Memorandum of Understanding with Rwanda for a strategic critical minerals partnership (Titeca and Kennes 2025).

Yet to read the RDF-backed offensive in the DRC as Rwanda acting ‘as a proxy for Western interests’ seems an analytical misstep that fails to take the question of Rwandan agency seriously, however constrained this might be by the country’s subordinate position in the world economy. In addition, it’s not readily apparent how Western imperialist interests are any further served by M23’s latest offensive than was already the case. While some coltan, gold and other minerals in eastern DRC might now come under more direct Rwandan control, at least in the short-term, these minerals were already flowing freely to international markets via Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda prior to the latest offensive. Moreover, Congolese copper and cobalt, the DRC’s two major exports, are located outside the Kivu region to the southeast of the country. Their continued ownership, control and exploitation by mostly Chinese industrial mining companies (alongside Anglo-Swiss mining giant Glencore) has been unaffected by recent events.

So, what might the RPF be seeking to achieve through its latest support to M23’s advance, and why now? Following the 1994 Rwandan genocide, pro-Hutu extremist soldiers and militias who committed the genocide fled to eastern DRC seeking to escape reprisal. This led to the formation in 2000 of the Hutu-dominated FDLR. M23 has long claimed it is fighting in the eastern DRC to protect the Kinyarwanda-speaking Congolese Tutsi communities from persecution by the FDLR (and to a lesser extent local Mai-Mai groups) who have threatened to expel or eliminate them (Ntanyoma 2023). For its part, as Frederick Golooba-Mutebi (2023) has noted, successive DRC governments have failed to neutralise FDLR and the militia’s continued persecution of Kinyarwanda-speaking Congolese.

It is in this context that, in recent years, the idea of the Rwandan government using eastern DRC as a buffer zone to protect its own political, security and economic interests has seemingly begun to gain traction (Kennes 2024; Manzi 2024) and has reportedly become openly discussed in Kigali (Titeca 2025). Taking this further, some analysts see Rwanda as having more permanent and long-lasting expansionist ambitions. This idea dates to the colonial period, with several Rwandan government planning documents, such as ‘Rwanda Vision 2020’, noting that in 1910 ‘a big part of Rwanda was annexed to neighbouring countries. This caused the loss of one-third of the Rwandan internal market and a large part of its natural resources’ (Government of Rwanda 2000, 7). When Rwanda launched its first offensive in the DRC in 1996, officials reportedly ‘showed diplomats a map of a Rwanda 50 percent larger than its current borders, extending into the DRC’ (Stearns and Titeca 2025). During an official visit to Benin in 2023, President Kagame commented that ‘a big part of Rwanda was left outside, in eastern Congo, in south-western Uganda … this is a fact’ (Tampa 2025). In 2025, Theogene Rudasingwa, President Kagame’s former chief of staff and a former Rwandan ambassador, told the New York-based Foreign Affairs magazine that ‘within the inner kitchen cabinet I belonged to, Kagame constantly alluded to the Greater Rwanda idea’ (ibid.). Influenced by these notions of a Rwandan ‘buffer zone’ and a ‘Greater Rwanda’, Jason Stearns and Kristof Titeca (2025) have argued that early indications suggest

that this rebellion wants to reshape the region. The rebels have begun to set up administrative structures – a population census, tax offices, and even new customary chiefs – that suggest that they are here to stay. They have recruited – sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not – local leaders to undergo political and ideological training in the various camps, and they have set up their own police force.

According to some, and linked to these ideas of Rwanda’s expansionist objectives, recent events in the US have had a determining impact on the timing of M23’s latest offensive. For Murithi Mutiga, the Africa director at International Crisis Group, the election of Donald Trump to the US presidency and Trump’s assertions that the US can expand its territory to Canada, Greenland, Panama and elsewhere, are likely to have influenced the timing of President Kagame’s decision-making (Peltier 2025). Whether or not any of this will materialise remains an area for speculation.

Meanwhile, there are some signs that the broader Alliance Fleuve du Congo political coalition of Congolese political parties, groups and armed militias, of which M23 is a part, wants to continue further onto Kinshasa and overthrow President Félix Tshisekedi’s government. This is, after all, the coalition’s stated ultimate objective. Here, President Kagame’s reach and influence might not be as all-encompassing as is often assumed. In addition, regional forces remain a factor, with thousands of Burundian and Ugandan troops operating in the DRC. This has led some commentators to note that the RDF-backed offensive might escalate into another regional war on a scale not seen since the official end of the Second Congo War in 2003 (Dutta et al. 2025). The gradual withdrawal of the Southern African Development Community’s troops from the region, announced on 13 March, has been welcomed in some quarters as de-escalating this tension (Ngorora 2025). However, while the Angolan presidency says that direct peace talks between the DRC government and M23 will begin on Tuesday 18 March in Luanda, it remains uncertain whether President Tshisekedi will support these talks. According to Patrick Mundeke, a politician with the DRC opposition party Ensemble pour la République, ‘The whole world thinks we need a negotiated solution, except Mr Tshisekedi’ (Ngorora 2025).

While the regional dimension is critical to unlocking the analytical puzzle of understanding the timing and motivations behind recent events, the structuring role of imperialism in continually creating the conditions for war is ever present, on both sides of the border. This dates from the colonial carving up of land and the reification, racialisation and institutionalisation of ethnic identity divisions (Purdeková and Mwambari 2021) to postcolonial external interventions in various guises. In the DRC, this has included the assassination of the DRC’s first prime minister and nationalist leader, Patrice Lumumba (De Witte 2001), structural adjustment programmes that produced ‘widespread social and economic suffering’ (Moshonas 2018, 3), and the opening up of the national economy to the benefit of foreign capital (Kabongo 1999; Boyce and Ndikumana 2012; Trapido 2015; Radley 2023a, 2023b).

This context matters when seeking to understand the war in all its dimensions. Many commentators raise the weakness of the Congolese state and FARDC’s inability to neutralise FDLR or defend its borders as part of the explanation for the ongoing crisis. Seen through only a regional lens, a reader might be inclined to attribute this as solely due to internal DRC governance failures. Seen through the wider lens of imperialism, a more nuanced reading is opened up. Similarly, seeing African states, governments or political parties as only agents or victims of imperialist powers erases more complex realities. Even in instances where this has appeared more clear-cut, such as Rwanda’s military presence in Mozambique, it is worth pausing to consider the possibility that, here too, Rwanda has been pursuing its own interests and agenda by seeking to bolster its international reputation and develop future diplomatic leverage for precisely such a moment as this (or other purposes).

In locating analytically, then, the role of imperialism in the current crisis, we are perhaps best served by recalling Bush’s (2024, 357) observation that the imperialist world economy structurally reproduces inequality, impoverishment and war. Placed in its long-run history, eastern DRC has been the locus of precisely this reproduction of war and impoverishment for nearly three decades now, a war over which colonial legacies and neocolonial interventions cast a long shadow. Meanwhile, the world economy has been continually served by the free flow of coltan, gold and other minerals extracted and exported from the eastern DRC through an imperialist process of appropriation and unequal exchange (Ilonga 2024). At the same time, as Aymar Nyenyezi Bisoka has argued in relation to the DRC and Rwanda following the most recent fall of Goma and Bukavu

it is essential to understand this violence within the framework of political actors’ calculations. This agency of political actors – as a capacity for action despite structural constraints – is influenced by a constantly evolving conjuncture and structures that are certainly stable but always navigable. (Bisoka 2025, 6–7, translated from the original French by B. Radley)

Such an understanding requires leaving behind a rigid framework that only understands the actions of African countries as either serving or suffering from Western imperialism, and embracing a more dialectical materialist perspective that opens up the space for tension and contradiction to emerge. Any attempt to understand recent and ongoing events in the DRC cannot ignore its regional dimension, and the calculations and decisions made by the range of local and national political actors operating in the country.

Wars and a radically different future

Keeping an eye on the constant state of war also means reasoning about what needs to be done, what the future looks like if we are imagining a deep systemic change. ROAPE has most recently focused on the relevance of permanent war as a stable element of the inter-imperialist state system, for example, in Libya (Capasso 2020). The US global ‘war on terror’ has a profound impact on Africa, yet it receives little attention. Take the secretive US war in Somalia, ongoing since 2001. As Mueller has most poignantly argued, justice and liberation will at a minimum require establishing and delivering full US reparations to the Somali people (Mueller 2023). We are at a moment where imagining the end of class relations is hard, because the imagination is stifled by the class victory of the bourgeoisie. The most immediate example is the dismissal of any serious attempt to address the climate and environmental crises – the ultimate betrayal of future generations.

Future generations! The humankind we haven’t yet met: this boundless invisible potential, existing in possibility; a long line of descendants that constitute the invisible yet real human community – a community that exists beyond individuality, and bound nonetheless by its constraints but ridden of individualism. Future humanity is at the heart of communism: liberation of the human community, where concepts like radical kinship (Aouragh 2023) would become superfluous because new social relationships are at their very core liberated. A long path of regenerative and detoxifying practice lies ahead of us: of the environment and of people – the regeneration brought about by the abolition of the class relation. Coupled with that, the enormous work of carrying out historical reparations, that Africa can spearhead. This goes against the interests of the ruling class; and political imagination is so constrained because constrained are the material lives of the majority in this political phase. Gramsci called the social groups that professionally produce knowledge and tend to represent the interests of the ruling class specialised intellectuals, to contrast them with organic intellectuals, who rise from the rank and file of the working class and, while often lacking formal education, have the ability to develop not only class consciousness but also the political and organisational skills to mobilise the majority. In this issue, Bond reminds us of Fanon’s indictment of specialised intellectuals in the South: Fanon’s sharp pen wrote that

the unpreparedness of the educated classes, the lack of practical links between them and the mass of the people, their laziness, and, let it be said, their cowardice at the decisive moment of the struggle, will give rise to tragic mishaps. (in this issue, 102)

And many of the specialised intellectuals, the educated class, are servants; and so they serve.

On comradeship

Fostering comradeship means fostering those – especially the youth – who are refusing to become servants, understanding and analysing the past to understand the present while keeping alive the perception of awareness of our human continuity with the future human community – this whole new world that is ours to build. This is an unlikely call at a time when escaping from distraction, being present and showing up has become a challenge for many: precarious lives and the cumulative effects of the pandemic have left many feeling ‘out of it’ (Bissel 2025), deflating radical activist communities too.

Reflecting on the longer process of decline of one such community – the Tanzanian radical left-wing activist network – Nyamsenda and Chachage ask the crucial question of how to revive comradeship (Nyamsenda and Chachage 2024), in Tanzania and beyond. Since independence, Tanzania has provided a learning political space and an experience of politicisation for so many. Incidentally, in this issue of ROAPE Sam Chian recalls that it was in mid-1960s Dar es Salaam that Immanuel Wallerstein, during his frequent visits to Giovanni Arrighi, met Walter Rodney; and this is only one example of the importance of creating spaces of resistance, protecting them and fostering them, sustaining the networks of resistance (Bush 2011). This sparks a realisation of the desert we are living in: a desert that has been made by the class victory of the bourgeoisie – with how many imprisoned, disappeared, killed? How many marginalised and criminalised? How many simply converted to a quiet life of individualism and consumerism, for the sake of survival – because the price to pay just became too high? Chian poignantly adds that Wallerstein’s daughter Katharine observed that it was thought that about half of the comrades who attended her father’s wedding in 1964 ‘were at some future point assassinated’ (71). Observing the criminalisation of pro-Palestine activism and engaging with comradeship now is very much reflecting about survival; in many places, many feel that resistance is no longer an option if one is to keep body and soul together. Walter Bgoya, a first-generation Tanzanian activist and comrade, responds to Nyamsenda and Chachage by thinking through three generations of comrades in Tanzania. Comradeship, he says, does not end when political meetings are over. He vividly concludes with an exhortation of what is a complete description of radical comradeship: ‘Let’s meet, eat, drink together. Let’s laugh and be happy, help each other when needed. Let’s comfort each other in difficult times’ (Bgoya 2024).

Bgoya points towards the work of care. There is a point of realisation: we have been waking up for too many months to experience the powerlessness of witnessing the genocide of Palestinians, and the silencing, defamation, slandering and imprisonment of comrades who have denounced it. Yet the dismantling of class relations can only happen if we start from building and rebuilding these networks of resistance and question our own comrades when they silently reproduce racial and patriarchal structures. Part of rebuilding comradeship means that the work of deep thinking and the work of deep caring go together; developing an awareness of one’s racial, gender and class position and critically allying with comrades who refuse to exploit their own position of power and instead commit their energies to erode them. In intellectual work, be it a collective or a research group, it means men doing the secretarial and administrative work that is still very much until today shouldered by female academics, and that brings with it the emotional work of communicating with tact, respect and awareness, freeing up black, brown and white female academics to do the heavy lifting of theoretical and applied research. It means prioritising payment for racialised comrades, reflecting critically on how research projects are structured and budgeted, and developing the ability to manoeuvre and bend budgeting rules, very often within the constraints of neocolonial institutions that fund the majority of research, pushing against the boundaries of a majority of institutions that remain neocolonial in their functioning. The work of comradeship means remaining supportive while handling disagreement and debate and doing all this while knowing that changing individual behaviours is not enough to challenge the structures that oppress us: that collective change – a change from and for the majority – is the goal. It is the way to open up the other to our own lived experience and its internal contradictions that will inevitably exist as we are constrained by, but also part of, a majority who are crushed by capitalist realism – that is based on the generation of continuous contradictions – even when that means suspending judgment. Racism, patriarchy and class relations are structures of domination that cannot be changed through individual behaviour; deepening our own perception and caring deeply about how they affect us all, even within comradeship, means rejecting identity politics. Identity politics transformed some networks of resistance into yet another form of exclusionary socialisation, one that isolates rather than connects. We refuse to let ideology prevail over the lived human togetherness that binds us as the majority of humankind.

In this issue

Mnqobi Ngubane brings to light the intrinsic connection between land and labour questions by sketching an innovative and politically daring trajectory towards addressing these interwoven questions. His paper presents new evidence on Basotho immigrant workers on farms located on the border between Lesotho and South Africa in Eastern Free State province. He sees them as being part of the footloose army of labour that expresses a global crisis of social reproduction, stressing the gender component. He also argues that labour performed by Basotho farm workers is the contemporary expression of a neocolonial pattern of land expropriation. These farm workers, who are victimised and criminalised, are the historical descendants of the Basotho who have been evicted from those same lands that constitute contemporary South Africa. To add to the political complexity, these workers are often hired by black beneficiaries of the land reform in South Africa, highlighting the limits of the market-based neoliberal land reform in the country and more broadly in the region. Ngubane challenges the South African left from the left, and does so in a politically compelling way. The real challenge, he proposes, is to recognise the interconnectedness of land and labour questions in Lesotho and South Africa, acknowledging that both countries have so far not resolved their land questions, and considering the implications of this recognition to deliver historical justice and reparation to the Basotho. Crucially, Ngubane argues against productivist understandings of land reforms and in favour of land redistribution as a measure to support the social reproduction of workers. With all the limits and obstacles faced by land reform debates in South Africa, the inclusion of Basotho beneficiaries seems a remote possibility to many; yet Ngubane proposes that this would pave the way for working class redistribution and true transhistorical justice in this border region.

ROAPE has widely documented the 1996/97 protests against structural adjustment programmes (SAPs) in Zimbabwe. Antonater Tafadzwa Choto analyses the leadership of these protest movements as working-class organic intellectuals, rising from the rank-and-file leadership of the working class. In this respect, Choto’s application of Gramsci’s concept of organic intellectual is coherent not only with Gramsci’s original theorisation but also with the political practice – which is to be praised, given the often derivative use of Gramscian concepts outside political economic analyses. Choto sees these workers and the ordinary urban working class deploying their political and organisational skills to make a revolt succeed: very much what Gramsci observed in the Italian worker-led revolts of 1919/20. Basing her research on original primary evidence, such as interviews with organic intellectuals and first-person participation in the movements, she argues that working-class organic intellectuals were marginalised at the 1999 National Working People’s Convention (NWPC) by another group of intellectuals from the National Constitutional Assembly (NCA) whom the workers saw as middle-class intellectuals. The sidelining of these organic intellectuals is very significant, given that the NWPC led to the formation of the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) – a liberal formation that became the leading opposition party – instead of the worker-based party that had been called for by the organic intellectuals who led the protests.

Sam Chian’s fascinating account of Immanuel Wallerstein’s engagement with Africa highlights the influence of his African studies – which constituted the first two decades of his intellectual work – on the development of his later thinking and the elaboration of world-systems theory, driven by the need to develop an effective theoretical framework that explains the radical interconnectedness and the global nature of multiple crises occurring in different parts of the world.

Patrick Bond’s analysis discusses resource nationalism, seen as drawing on Fanon’s disgust for the national bourgeoisie – a series of pitfalls misleading the educated classes, using GDP as a measure of prosperity. Samir Amin argued against erasing Marx’s analysis on resource exploitation; Bond argues that resource nationalism – with its blend of national sovereignty and ‘damage control’ reforms of extractive industries – is a symptom of what Marx called the ultimate bourgeois attitude of acting in total disregard of future generations: ‘après moi, le deluge’. The bourgeoisie is a class that is relentlessly acting in the pursuit of immediate capital accumulation, with complete disregard for the effects of present actions on future generations. Bond attacks the analytical erasure of the social and environmental damage of resource nationalism: the depletion of non-renewable resources, aggravating the use of fossil energy and greenhouse gas emissions in extraction and smelting, generating multiple pollution crises and biodiversity loss at the local level in extraction zones, and causing massive social impacts on local residents. These issues have been prioritised by anti-extractivism social movements, which are also regularly erased by intellectuals defending resource nationalism as a progressive agenda.

Ben Radley analyses the Program of Action on the Construction of a New International Economic Order (NIEO) that was presented in September 2024 by the Havana Group of the Progressive International, timed to match the fiftieth anniversary of the 1974 UN’s original NIEO programme. This is of prime importance to our journal, as the ROAPE collective is a member of the Progressive International, though it did not participate in the initiatives of the Havana Group. Radley observes that while the Third-Worldist spirit is retained with a strong focus on how to bridge the North–South developmental divide, capitalism itself as a workable system remains unquestioned. Although the Progressive International lists anti-capitalism among its guiding principles, the Program presents itself as a top-down vision that sees workers as recipients of policies, rather than as key movers and makers of historical change. This implicit erasure of class relations at the global level, deriving from the Program’s almost exclusive concern with North–South divides, risks the Programme ultimately becoming politically disempowering.

The issue includes a review by Mari Engh of African Football Migration: Aspirations, Experiences and Trajectories, by Paul Darby, James Esson and Christian Ungruhe. It discusses in some detail the considerable empirical material presented in the book and the interdisciplinary collaborations that led to this collective publication. Engh draws attention to the book’s original contribution on football as a sport that condenses the social mobility aspirations of the youth, focusing on ‘how the desire to “become somebody” animates the lives and focus of young men’ (129). The role of football as a symbol of social mobility is heightened by the loss of confidence in the formal education system, which is seen as unable to offer secure pathways to desirable jobs.

The review is followed by a tribute by Dale McKinley to Prishani Naidoo, a radical activist and tireless comrade, remembering her journey of politicisation and how she relentlessly sought out and continued to find new spaces for activism. The obituary commemorates Naidoo’s life of radical comradeship.

Jens Sörensen’s article underlines the self-serving nature of the humanitarian aid industry, arguing that most of the humanitarian funding entering South Sudan ends up fostering the service sector in the ‘aid hub’ of Juba rather than serving the people of South Sudan at large. In South Sudan this has created a ‘humanitarian permanence’, that is, a vicious circle of humanitarian aid financing the service sector in Juba city. This article will provoke debate in several respects – it already has, within our own collective. In particular, it raises the question as to whether our understanding of South Sudan can – following De Waal – be reduced to that of a state functioning as a ‘political marketplace’ which depends on international aid and, more specifically, humanitarian funding for its very existence, and where sovereignty is the ultimate commodity. We look forward to a debate around this question and remind readers of ROAPE’s commitment to nuanced and carefully researched analyses of complex social realities on the ground (Allen 1995), also on the role of war, warfare and violence in the collapse of some African states (Allen 1999) and in Sudan (Duffield and Stockton 2023).

The entire issue can be accessed, downloaded and read for free here.

Elisa Greco is an editor on the Review of African Political Economy.

Ben Radley is a Reader in International Development at the University of Bath and an editor on the Review of African Political Economy.

For 50 years, ROAPE has brought our readers path-breaking analysis on radical African political economy in our quarterly review, and for more than ten years on our website. Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive. Please consider subscribing or donating today.

The enduring colonialism and neoliberalism in Africa – A close look at Nigeria’s political-economic entanglements with imperial structures

Many observers wonder why numerous countries that gained independence long after most African nations now enjoy significantly stronger economies and development indicators. Looking beyond superficial explanations requires understanding how neocolonialism functions as a persistent system of control and extraction by Western powers, effectively preventing genuine independence and sovereignty across much of Africa. Maro Akpobi explores the issue in relation to Nigeria.

By Maro Akpobi
The Colonial Project Never Ended

Nations that failed to secure their independence through sustained resistance and sacrifice typically remain under foreign control through increasingly sophisticated mechanisms. Paper independence means little without strong institutions capable of defending national interests. In their absence, former colonizers invariably return to continue extracting resources and value, leaving countries trapped in cycles of dependency that make meaningful recovery virtually impossible.

Most non-African countries that have prospered successfully resisted foreign interference in their governance structures and development policies. Singapore under Lee Kuan Yew maintained tight control over its political and economic systems largely to prevent external influences from undermining national development priorities. In stark contrast, African countries have experienced waves of coups and political instability, frequently with the tacit or active support of foreign governments. These interventions have repeatedly destabilized countries like Nigeria, devastating institutional development and setting back economic progress for generations.

Western powers apply dramatic double standards in their responses to democratic disruptions. When coups or anti-democratic movements emerge in Western nations, they face immediate condemnation and resistance, as evidenced by the overwhelming response to the January 6th, 2021 Capitol attack in the United States. However, similar events in Africa are often treated as routine or even expected developments. This attitude was perfectly encapsulated in former UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s consistently pro-colonial statements and offensive poems during diplomatic visits, revealing a deeply entrenched colonial mindset that persists among Western political elites.

The post-independence history of Nigeria vividly demonstrates how military coups function as effective tools for external control and resource extraction. Since gaining independence, Nigeria has endured six successful military takeovers, with each regime bringing increasingly destructive waves of corruption and institutional damage. The pattern runs from Buhari’s misappropriation of NGN2.5 billion in Petroleum Trust Fund money (later exposed by Saraki in an interview with Vera Ifudu) through Babangida’s systematic looting of the treasury to Abacha’s massive theft, with billions still being recovered from foreign banks decades later. These military regimes collectively devastated Nigeria’s development prospects while serving foreign interests.

Western governments’ responses to these anti-democratic takeovers reveal their true priorities. Ronald Reagan, then president of the US, routinely addressed coup plotter and military dictator Babangida as “President” in official correspondence, with his letters containing only vague, occasional references to eventual democratic transition. This normalization of military rule represented deliberate policy rather than diplomatic oversight. Military leaders proved particularly useful for implementing the devastating Structural Adjustment Programs, which Western financial institutions sought to impose on reluctant populations, bypassing democratic resistance to these exploitative economic reforms.

The personal corruption facilitated by these arrangements reached staggering proportions. Babangida’s wife, Maryam, reportedly maintained a single bank account containing £72 million by 1993, representing just one of many repositories for stolen wealth. This massive accumulation of personal fortunes occurred with implicit Western approval as international institutions simultaneously pushed economic policies through the IMF and World Bank that systematically undermined Nigeria’s economic foundations.

Babangida embraced these neoliberal prescriptions without reservation, establishing conditions for the catastrophic and ongoing decline for the country’s currency, the naira. Under his implementation of externally designed “reforms,” the currency plummeted from near parity with the dollar to approximately 4 naira per dollar by 1986. When he finally relinquished power, it had collapsed further to 17 naira per dollar. This represented the most severe currency devaluation in Nigerian history, fundamentally undermining economic sovereignty and creating long-term structural dependencies that persist to this day.

The Brutality Beyond “Reform

Any assessment of neocolonial arrangements must acknowledge their devastating human costs. Babangida brazenly annulled the 1993 presidential election widely recognized as the freest and fairest in Nigerian history, crushing democratic aspirations and popular hopes for meaningful political transition. Throughout these military regimes, citizens who voiced dissent faced systematic torture, indefinite imprisonment, or extrajudicial killing. Such brutal repression would spark international crises if attempted in the very countries that quietly supported these dictatorial regimes while extracting resources and influence.

The true motivations behind Western interventions occasionally surface through unguarded moments of candor. A U.S. Senator, Lindsey Graham, provided one such glimpse when discussing American interests in Ukraine, stating plainly that “This war’s about money… The richest country in all of Europe for rare earth minerals is Ukraine, two to seven trillion dollars’ worth. It’s in our interest to make sure Russia doesn’t take over the place.” This unfiltered acknowledgment reveals what critical observers have long understood about foreign interventions worldwide: they primarily serve resource extraction and geopolitical control objectives rather than the democracy and human rights narratives constructed for public consumption.

Non-Profits as the New Colonial Administrators

Recent decades have witnessed the emergence of a new vector for external control over African development: powerful non-profit organizations and private foundations. Institutions like the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and the MacArthur Foundation have fundamentally reshaped development landscapes across the continent, operating largely beyond traditional accountability structures while wielding enormous influence over national policy formation and implementation.

These organizations provide substantial funding to think tanks and advocacy groups that directly shape legislation and governance frameworks in ways that would trigger immediate political backlash if attempted in Western democracies. A foreign foundation actively funding policy formation and implementation processes in the United States or European countries would generate widespread outrage and likely legal challenges, yet such arrangements have become normalized throughout Africa.

Within Nigeria, the Nigerian Economic Summit Group (NESG) receives approximately $7 million from the Gates Foundation plus additional MacArthur funding, allowing it to exert significant influence over economic policy formation. Similarly, the National Assembly Business Environment Roundtable (NASSBER) operates with substantial financial backing from UK/DFID sources. These externally funded entities shape legislation and governance with limited transparency regarding their funding relationships or ultimate objectives. What began as discrete interventions has evolved into permanent secretariats with direct influence over national decision-making processes.

The testimony of Nigerian officials occasionally provides glimpses into the pressure these external funders exert. Former Director of Nigeria’s National Bureau of Statistics, Yemi Kale, candidly acknowledged the constraints imposed by international organizations: “If the World Bank or the UNDP are bringing their money, you are going to do exactly what they want… I had to turn down a lot of funding because I was being compelled to do a lot of things that didn’t help policy makers.” This revelation highlights how external funding frequently redirects priorities away from national interests toward donor agendas.

Even government ministers occasionally break ranks to expose these dynamics. Festus Keyamo, the minister of Aviation and Aerospace Development, described intense international pressure on Nigeria to accept a damaging deal for establishing a national airline that would primarily benefit foreign interests: “Where will all that profit go? It’s not Nigeria… I saw the facilitator of that forum, one American man, crying from one TV station to another, saying that we lost foreign direct investment. We did not lose any foreign direct investment.” Such rare moments of candor from government officials provide valuable insights into the ongoing neocolonial pressures shaping Africa’s economic development.

Cash Transfers: The New Face of Dependency

Labor costs in Nigeria remain largely stagnant across many regions despite accelerating inflation, creating a deeply exploitative economic environment that foreign entities capitalize upon through continuous currency devaluation initiatives. Each devaluation episode triggers cascading socioeconomic effects where segments of the middle class experience downward mobility: those previously in the lower middle class fall into poverty, while the already poor descend further into extreme destitution. This class restructuring serves external interests by creating ever more desperate labor markets with diminished bargaining power.

Against this backdrop, the World Bank and similar institutions promote cash transfer programs as solutions to problems their own policy prescriptions helped create. These transfers, importantly, do not represent grants but rather loans that accumulate interest over time, forcing governments with limited revenue options to raise taxes or cut essential services. The resulting cycle perverts development objectives by redefining poverty rather than meaningfully alleviating it. Recipients find themselves temporarily lifted just above newly lowered poverty thresholds while fundamental economic conditions continue deteriorating beneath them. The brief duration of these transfers, typically lasting merely three months in Nigeria, ensures recipients quickly fall back below even these reduced standards of living, all while the nation accumulates additional debt burdens that will further impoverish future generations.

The 2022 IMF Article IV consultation with Nigeria, combined with the World Bank’s $800 million aid package, perfectly demonstrates this sophisticated process of economic control. IMF officials explicitly acknowledged that their prescribed policies would increase poverty levels, trigger inflation, and potentially spark social unrest. Yet rather than reconsidering these destructive prescriptions, they offered loans purportedly designed to “mitigate” the very social and economic crises their demands were engineering. This approach represents a particularly cynical form of policy manipulation that creates problems while simultaneously positioning the creators as the only available source of solutions.

Implementation details of these programs further reveal their true nature and priorities. A staggering 83% of program funds flow predominantly to urban areas despite rural communities bearing the overwhelming brunt of poverty with more than 106 million rural poor compared to roughly 27 million urban poor. Furthermore, despite ambitious targets to reach 15 million vulnerable households, only 3 million—a mere 20% of the intended recipients—actually receive any benefits. Requirements for national identification numbers and digital payment system access effectively exclude most impoverished citizens, particularly throughout rural regions where basic infrastructure remains virtually nonexistent. These systematic barriers suggest intentional program design rather than mere implementation failures.

The Mask Slips Away

Throughout the post-COVID era, the pretense of benevolent intervention by powerful nations has increasingly fallen away, revealing the raw power dynamics that have always underpinned international relations. U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham (mentioned earlier) provided a particularly telling admission when discussing international law, declaring without apparent self-consciousness that “The Rome Statute doesn’t apply to Israel, the United States, France, Germany, or Great Britain because it wasn’t conceived to come after us.

This remarkably forthright statement encapsulates what critical observers have long understood: the rules, laws, and policies that powerful nations create systematically exempt themselves while binding smaller nations they wish to control. Western governments routinely construct international governance systems that preserve their freedom of action while constraining the sovereignty of others, particularly across Africa and the Global South.

While ordinary Western citizens bear little responsibility for these arrangements, their ruling political and economic classes, backed by powerful corporate interests, pursue foreign policies that systematically devastate African economies and societies while simultaneously presenting themselves as benefactors and models for emulation. This fundamental contradiction remains largely invisible to Western publics through sophisticated propaganda systems that sanitize imperial relations.

Understanding neocolonialism doesn’t require specialized academic training or obscure theoretical frameworks. What prevents widespread recognition of these patterns primarily stems from cultivated indifference toward global inequalities, driven by political and economic systems that prioritize individual advancement over collective wellbeing across national boundaries. Western educational and media systems systematically minimize historical and contemporary exploitation while emphasizing narratives of aid, development assistance, and supposed civilizational advancement.

For genuine African development to emerge, nations must identify and systematically dismantle these neocolonial arrangements while establishing authentic economic sovereignty. This process requires more than merely criticizing external actors; it demands building alternative development frameworks that prioritize African needs, capabilities, and perspectives. The fundamental challenge involves recognizing existing mechanisms of control while simultaneously developing practical strategies to overcome them through collective action and solidarity.

Across Africa, various movements and governments have begun this difficult work of creating counter-hegemonic alternatives to neoliberal development models. Their diverse approaches share a common recognition that economic independence represents the essential foundation for political sovereignty in a deeply unequal global system. Supporting these efforts requires moving beyond simplistic narratives about African governance and corruption to understand the structural forces that continue shaping development possibilities throughout the continent.

Maro Akpobi is a Nigerian independent researcher and writer known for developing low resourced language datasets for Natural Language Processing (NLP) and contributing insightful social commentary on Nigerian societal issues

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Senghor, Asilah and “Afro-Arab Civilization”

Hisham Aidi offers a compelling account of how Morocco became a key site for competing political and cultural discourses in support of African and Arab pan-African solidarity. He shows that a militant and anti-essentialist vision of this unity emerged in 1966 around the magazine Souffles (Anfas in Arabic), founded by Moroccan writers influenced by the thought of Frantz Fanon. However, Aidi argues that this early initiative was superseded by the more culturally oriented the Afro-Arab Forum, established in Asilah in 1980 by the Moroccan diplomat Mohammed Benaissa under the auspices of Senegalese President and Poet Lepold Segar Senghor’s. Grounded in Senghor’s vision of civilisational métissage, the Asilah Forum has worked to resist efforts to draw a dividing line between North and Sub-Saharan Africa and continues to do so today.

By Hisham Aidi

The Senegalese poet-president Léopold Senghor and the Martinican psychiatrist-philosopher Frantz Fanon, both had a keen interest in North Africa and competing visions of the relationship between “Arab and Negro.” Morocco would play a significant role in their intellectual formation and political trajectories. Fanon’s experience in the Free French army, stationed in Casablanca during World War II, would leave a mark on his political thought. In 1953, after completing his military service and studies the Martinican doctor had written to Senghor hoping to find employment in Senegal, but Fanon never received a response from the Senegalese poet and so headed to Blida, Algeria. As the Algerian struggle developed into a war, Fanon would return repeatedly to Morocco for meetings and training. It was in Oujda, in June 1959, that the Martinican, following a suspicious car accident, suffered serious wounds that would leave him temporarily paralysed, and severely affect his health.

Senghor, a close friend of King Hassan II, was a regular presence in Morocco from the 1970s to the late 1990s, appearing at conferences and media events, commenting on the continuities and similarities between Senegal and the North African kingdom, extolling both countries as models of civilisational métissage. Historians have highlighted the parallels between Morocco and Senegal, noting the persistence of French colonial legacies (how colonial policies implemented in Morocco, were often first tried in Senegal,[1]) the centrality of Sufism, the emphasis on religious diplomacy, and the institutional capacity of Sufi tariqas, which in both countries play a role akin to political parties. Scholars have long noted how Morocco’s self-image is shaped by its relationship to Spain[2] and al-Andalus,[3] and the circulation of religious discourse and symbolism between Morocco and Senegal, with Senegalese political discourse depicting Morocco as a mirror or wellspring.[4] But Moroccan political discourse also tends to speak of Senegal as a political mirror and source. The credo of Morocco as a tree rooted in Africa but open to Europe, recalling Senghor’s calls for “enracinement et ouverture,” was born at the annual Afro-Arab Forum (al-muntada al-arabi al-ifriki) launched in 1980 in Asilah by the Moroccan diplomat Mohammed Benaissa.  The prevailing discourse of Afro-convivencia, as I call it, which locates Morocco as rooted in the Sahel, but extending to Iberia, portraying the kingdom as a mirror and extension of both Spain and Senegal, found its modern expression in Asilah as a result of dialogue between Arabophone, Hispanophone and African intellectuals.

Black Maghrib

Since the post-war years, North African pan-Africanism has, reflecting political circumstances, tended to vacillate between Fanon and Senghor. In 1944, when the nineteen-year-old Fanon was stationed outside of Casablanca, his Free French division was organised hierarchically, with European volunteers and fighters from the West Indian colonies like himself positioned at the top, Senegalese and sub-Saharan infantry at the bottom, and Moroccan and Algerian troops in between. At times the French commanders would “whiten” the army, leaving out Senegalese troops but taking only Moroccan and Algerian fighters or, better yet, just the French Maquis. The racial practices that Fanon witnessed within the army in colonial North Africa would inspire the Martinican to call for a pan-African anti-imperialism, based on solidarity between “Negroes and Arabs.”

In her recent book, Maghreb Noir, historian Paraska Tolan-Szkilnik describes how North African capitals were vibrant centres of pan-Africanism from the mid-1950s to the early 1970s. From 1956 to 1961 when Morocco was part of the Non-Aligned Movement and “the Casablanca bloc,” Rabat was home to various liberation movements.[5] The Bissau-Guinean theorist-revolutionary Amílcar Cabral and the Angolan poet-revolutionary Mario de Andrade of the MPLA were based in the Moroccan capital. Nelson Mandela and Frantz Fanon were attending training camps in Oujda. For almost two decades, Rabat, Algiers, Tunis and Cairo were, at different times, centres of African liberation movements and pan-Africanist intellectual networks. Upon assuming power in 1961, King Hassan began to shift the kingdom, away from the non-Aligned movement towards the pro-American camp. African liberation movements and pan-African intellectuals would depart Morocco. This political turn and the crackdown in 1965 on student and worker protests would inspire left-leaning Moroccan intellectuals to launch the magazine Souffles, a pan-African, Tri-continental publication, which published its first issue in Rabat in 1966.  Souffles (Anfas in Arabic) was launched by a handful of Moroccan writers and poets in Paris, who were writing for Présence Africaine.[6] The founders of Souffles – poet Abdelatif Laâbi, Mustafa Nissabouri, Mohammad Khaïr-Eddine, Mohammed Melihi, Mohamed Chabaa, Farid Belkahia saw the Martinican thinkers Aimé Cesaire and Frantz Fanon as “elder brothers,” but they were most galvanised by the Fanon’s theory of national culture and liberation. Fanon’s thought would become central to the Souffles-Anfas project.

In dialogue with writers in Francophone and Lusophone Africa, France, and the Caribbean, Souffles would emerge as a flagship publication of the Moroccan Left, a platform for debates about the definition of Africa and the meaning of Negritude. The Souffles collective supported Fanon’s critique of Senghor. Fanon acknowledged that by affirming a black past, Negritude could help colonised Africans develop a positive sense of self. He granted that Aimé Cesaire’s writings had helped spark a political awakening among West Indians. But Fanon found the language of Negritude totalising, and echoing of colonial stereotypes; knowledge of black history was inspiring but talk of a “mythical past” was unproductive.  In The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon observes that extolling the greatness of Songhai civilisation would do little to help the exploited Songhan. In privileging “race” and ignoring class conflict, Negritude enabled bourgeois rule and by extension neo-colonialism.

To be sure, Aimé Cesaire – who coined the idea of Negritude – was also a major reference point for the Souffles collective. Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine’s explosive 1964 poem “Nausée Noire (Black Nausea)” about a brutal head of state, was clearly influenced by Cesaire’s classic poem Cahier de Retour.  But in the debate about Negritude, the Souffles journal solidly backed Fanon’s class-based critique, publishing a number of critiques by Marxist pan-Africanists. The most well-known was the Haitian poet René Depestre’s address at the Cultural Congress of Havana in January 1968 titled “The Winding Course of Negritude.” Similarly, in April 1966, the late Moroccan art critic Abdullah Stouki penned a scathing review of the Dakar International Festival for Negro Arts that Senghor organised. He lamented the absence of progressive voices like Paul Robeson and the anti-apartheid activist Miriam Makeba, noting that Senghor was holding a festival under the patronage of General de Gaulle and John F. Kennedy. Senghor would respond to the Fanonists that he saw cultural values as conditioned by geography, history and ethnic and racial groups, adding that race is not a physical community, but a cultural community.

The rivalry between the leftist continental pan-African camp and the Negritude-inspired pro-Western camp played out – and still plays out – at cultural festivals. The Pan-African Cultural festival held in Algiers in July 1969, was partly a response to Senghor’s festival in Dakar. A 3000-word Pan-African Cultural Manifesto was reprinted in Souffles as a critique of Senghor’s division of Africa into a “Berber-Arab” zone (with its “Bedouin virtues”) and a “Negro-African world.” In a 40-minute taped message, Ahmed Sekou Touré of Guinea, a rival of Senghor, repudiated the Senegalese president’s ideology. The response to Sekou Touré was read by the distinguished Senegalese diplomat Mohtar M’Bow, who would later become the general director of UNESCO and a close associate of Leopold Senghor and King Hassan II. M’Bow argued that Negritude represented an intellectual-political bridge between Arabism and the “Negro-African world.” These tensions would erupt again eight years later when Nigeria decided to host the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture (FESTAC 77) as a follow-up to the Dakar festival. From the outset, Senghor demanded that North African states only have observer status at the festival. His minister of culture said Senegal would boycott the event if it was not limited to Black countries only. General Obasanjo of Nigeria, however, wanted the North African states to participate as full members, and, Nigerian officials – as The New York Times would report – would accuse the Senegalese of exhibiting “racial bigotry in the most nauseating sense.”[7] It has since been argued that Senghor opposing the participation of North African states, because of alleged Algerian political agitation.[8]

In 1972, Souffles was shut down, and the editors were arrested. The pan-African left would be repressed across North Africa. The Black Panthers would depart Algeria; Samir Amin, David Dubois and the Marxists would leave Cairo for Dar Es Salaam, and then Dakar. Souffles was at the centre of the debate over pan-Africanism. After its shutdown, for several years there was little pan-African organising in North Africa, and few intellectual ties between Morocco and the rest of Africa – until the late 1970s when a new initiative was launched in Asilah centred around Leopold Senghor.

Front cover of Souffles The journal was published quarterly (with some double-issues) and ran 22 issues over its brief history (Credit: Revolutionary Papers)

Cairo to Asilah         

By the late 1970s, as North African states shifted rightward, a new pan-Africanist discourse centred on identity and civilisation began germinating – briefly in Egypt, but mostly in Morocco. In February 1967, Senghor had been invited to Egypt by Gamal Abdel Nasser, where he delivered a lecture at Cairo University on the foundations of Africanité.[9]  Senghor argued that most African leaders were conceiving of African unity as based on anti-colonialism. This was not a pro-active, positive foundation for unity. Senghor wanted to identify values common to all Africans. The Senegalese president explained that the foundations of Africanité are essentially cultural, based on the “complementary symbiosis of the values of Arabité and the Negritude.”  He would distinguish his vision of African civilisation from the Casablanca bloc’s anti-colonial politics, insisting that “Arab and Negro” were simply different ways of being African. The poet-president was clearly distancing himself from Fanon’s revolutionary vision of Black and Arab anti-colonial solidarity, but he was also subtly countering historian Cheikh Anta Diop’s vision of pan-Africanism. Diop, a vocal critic and political opponent of Senghor, didn’t draw a cultural boundary across the desert, and saw Egypt as a source of African civilisation, not as part of a separate civilisation. “Egypt is to the rest of black Africa what Greece and Rome are to the West,” Diop would write.[10]

Senghor’s civilisational project received a tepid response in Nasserist Egypt. The Egyptian president had his own vision of Arab-African-Islamic concentric relations based on anti-imperialism.  Four years later, however, Senghor would find himself back in the Egyptian capital, this time at the behest of Anwar Sadat. The Egyptian president of Sudanese descent would find Senghor’s talk of spirituality, African-Arab symbiosis and pro-Westernism appealing. The duo would form a friendship, and broach the idea of establishing a Francophone university in Egypt named after the Senegalese poet. (Senghor University of Alexandria would open its doors in 1990). With Egypt’s suspension from the Arab League in 1979, Sadat and Senghor would consider forming an Afro-Arab international organisation.            In the mid-1970s, Mohammed Benaissa was a young journalist and international civil servant official working for the UN in Ghana, and considering returning to Morocco for a run at political office. A quadra-lingual native of Asilah, Benaissa had grown up under the Spanish Protectorate, spent his high school years in Cairo, thanks to a scholarship from the Arab League – and attended the University of Minnesota in the early 1960s (along with future Ghanaian diplomat Kofi Annan.) Upon graduating from college in 1963, Benaissa had settled in Harlem, New York, doing an internship at the United Nations and taking classes at Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs. Benaissa would often recall living on 190th and Broadway, visiting churches on Sunday mornings and attending Black nationalist rallies. He would describe the Sunday afternoon in February 1965, when he was taking a train down to the United Nations, when the train was suddenly delayed on 125th Street, as police flooded the station. A man would come aboard and cry, “They shot Malcolm X.”[11]

Benaissa would subsequently join the Food and Agriculture Association of the UN (FAO), serving for eleven years in Accra, Rome and Adis Ababa, Ethiopia (alongside Kofi Annan). In 1971, he met Senghor in Dakar, and they would strike up a friendship, brainstorming ways to build bridges across the Sahara. In 1976, Benaissa returned to Morocco, assuming the position of city councilman and eventually mayor of Asilah. He would go on to become Morocco’s Minister of Culture, Minister of Foreign Affairs, ambassador to Washington through much of the 1990s, and would remain until his death in February of this year, an elder statesman of the Moroccan government.

In 1978, Benaissa and the Asilah-born painter Mohammed Melihi founded a cultural association called Al Mouhit (The Ocean), that hoped to leverage art and culture for development and for the restoration of the old city of Asilah. Intrigued by Senghor and Sadat’s idea of an Afro-Arab international organisation, Benaissa would use the association to launch a local initiative called the Afro-Arab Cultural Forum (al muntada al thaqafi al arabi al ifriqi) based in Asilah.  A founding charter would be signed a year later in Amman, Jordan, by Leopold Senghor and Prince Hassan of Jordan, the latter was invited by the Benaissa to fill in for the Egyptian president.  In 1978, Benaissa would invite the artists and writers who had left Souffles when it took a Marxist turn in 1967  – Mohammed Melihi, Fareed Belkahia and Tahar Benjelloun – to join the Asilah project. Moroccan sociologist Fatima Mernissi, Egyptian writer Nawal al Saadawi, Senegalese Mohtar M’Bow would also join the Afro-Arab collective. Benaissa would note that maybe one day the Asilah Forum could be expanded into a broader Afro-Arab organisation, but the first step was an annual conference to build an intellectual network, alliances and an archive. The founding charter states: “The recommendations adopted by the Second Forum should be taken into account in the preparation of the draft programs, particularly those relating to the establishment of a data bank and Arab-African cooperation in the cultural field.”

From 1980 until 1999, African, Arab and Latin American writers, intellectuals and politicians would meet annually at the coastal town in August for a cultural festival that would include dialogue sessions presided over by Senghor and Benaissa. From the start, the Afro-Arab forum envisioned a tri-continental geography similar to that advanced by Souffles magazine, with Morocco as a bridge between Africa, Asia and Latin America, and with a keen interest in Andalusian influence among “the peoples of Latin America.”[12] In addition to the Afro-Arab forum, Benaissa would launch a summer institute called “La Universidad Ibero-Americana-Marroqui al-Mu’tamid Ibn Abbad,” that aimed to connect Morocco to the Spanish-speaking world, and invited Latin American writers like Brazilian novelist Jorge Amado.[13]

Mohammed Benaissa and Leopold Senghor (1979, Asilah)

Berbéritude

When historians of Berber/Amazigh culture discuss Senghor’s impact on Morocco, the focus tends to be on Senghor’s friendship with the Berber politician Mahjoub Aherdane, and more broadly on Negritude’s influence on the Amazigh cultural movement.[14] Senghor introduced the idea of Berbéritude at a speech he gave at l’Académie Française in 1980.[15] In November 1981, the Senegalese president would participate in a conference in Rabat with a range of Amazigh leaders including Aherdane, scholar Mohammed Chafik and Abdelhamid Zemmouri, who had founded the Association Culturelle Amazighe in 1979.[16]  Yet all this came on the heels of the Afro-Arab forum, which was more focused on Negritude’s relationship to Arabité (than to Amazighité), and both identities’ links to the Francophone and Hispanophone worlds across the Atlantic.

The Omani Kenyan historian Ali Mazrui coined the term “Afro-Arab” in the 1960s, but largely in reference to the Gulf and the Swahili people; he had spoken of “Arab Negritude,” yet mostly referring to classical Arab poets who took pride in their dark skin. (Benaissa knew the Kenyan historian and would often reference Mazrui’s writings, but to his recollection, the two did not cross paths while at Columbia in the early 1960s.)  In Asilah, a different understanding of “Arab Negritude” would take shape, with the Moroccan-Senegalese relationship conceived as the foundation of a broader Afro-Arab relationship. As Benaissa would say, Asilah was to be “the seed” of a broader “complementarity” that would break down “the pseudo wall of the grand Sahara.” And Senghor, Benaissa would write, was a perfect partner: wasn’t Senghor the first sub-Saharan head of state to introduce Arabic into Senegal’s educational system?[17] Senghor had envisioned Negritude as a universalism that included Arabité; the two were co-constitutive, with Arabic as a connector between the “Negro-African” and “Arabo-Islamic” civilisational spheres of Africa.[18] Benaissa hoped Asilah – “this little Afro-Arab town” (“cette petite ville Afro-Arabe”) – could become a place to cultivate this vision, a space for the kind of cultural cross-breeding that Senghor had long called for: le co-nnaitre – co-birth.[19]

From the outset, the Afro-Arab forum would award the Lepold Senghor prize for African Literature. In 1989, they began awarding the Tchicaya U Tamsi prize for African poetry – named after the late Congolese poet. In 1991, the prize was given to the Haitian poet René Depestre, another Marxist who had railed against Senghor’s ideas while writing for Souffles. The awards committee would include the Sudanese novelist Tayeb Saleh, Paul Dabei of Cameroon, Henry Lopes of Congo, Edouard Maunick from Mauritius, and Charbel Daghel from Lebanon.  In 1990, on the 10-year anniversary of the Afro-Arab forum, a ceremony was held in honor of Senghor. A plaza was built in central Asilah in the president’s honor, using soil mixed by painter Farid Belkahia. Senghor was given a certificate – “the first certificate” – as citizen of Asilah.  The event was attended by Prince Moulay Rachid of Morocco and Federico Mayor, the Spanish poet and director-general of UNESCO – who gave a stirring tribute to Senghor: “This square which, on one side, is protected by high ancient walls which, if stones could speak, would tell us so many stories, and, on the other, opens out onto streets leading to the sea, in other words to other lands, to things universal, this square will then be called henceforth Leopold Sedar Senghor Square. All year-round men, women and children from Asilah and elsewhere will stop here. Some of them will utter and repeat the name, knowing who Senghor is; others will learn to read and pronounce the name, perhaps for the first time. They all will know, however, that this square honors a poet whose essential merit is that he has, through his work, which has been translated all over the world, opened up to the people of his native Senegal, to all Africa’s peoples and, beyond this continent, to the black diaspora as a whole, the paths of dignity, notwithstanding the vicissitudes of history.”[20]

In 1984, Morocco withdrew from the Organization of African Unity in 1984, following that organization’s acceptance of the Sahraoui Arab Democratic Republic as a member state. This would imbue the Moroccan-Senegalese relationship with a new urgency. Through the 1980s and 1990s, Senghor was on the diplomatic circuit, extolling the kingdom as a paragon – a country that, like his native Senegal, was a brilliant mix of civilisations. It was in the 1980s, in Asilah, where the discourse of Morocco as a tree rooted in West Africa, with branches in Europe would congeal.  In April 1980, when King Hassan inaugurated the Royal Academy in Fez, Senghor would praise the kingdom’s cultural and biological metissage, the allying of “Berberitude and Arabité.” In May 1987, at a joint event that he organised for the Moroccan royal academy and l’Académie Francaise, Senghor would explain that his aim was to use Morocco as a bridge to bring “Afro-Arab civilization” to the Francophone world, praising King Hassan as a central figure of l’Afro-Arabie.[21] The Senegalese president and Moroccan monarch had been friends since 1974, joined by their love of the French language, opposition to Communism, and more. As philosopher Abdourahmane Seck observes, “Senghor and Hassan II were both obsessed with identity, and saw each other as gateways. They saw that they could enhance each other’s prestige. Senghor, the father of Negritude, could boost Hassan II’s reputation as a pan-African leader, and the Commander of the Faithful could reinforce Senghor’s reputation as a nation builder and (Christian) leader of a Muslim nation.”[22]

Prix Tchicaya U’Tamsi de la poésie africaine awarded to Haitian poet Rene Depestre

A vision for the Afro-Arab future

In 1996, on the occasion of Senghor’s 90th birthday, UNESCO published a book of tributes to the Senegalese poet, including contributions from Aimé Cesaire, René Depestre, Tahar Benjelloun and Boutros-Boutros Ghali, the former Secretary General of the United Nations, who would thank Senghor for helping deisolate Egypt in the 1970s. The collection also included a tribute from King Hassan. The monarch would praise the Senegalese poet-president for his humanism, for representing the spirit of evoking several tree-related aphorisms by Senghor: “l’arbre ne tombe pas s’il est l’esprit de l’arbre ». (“The tree does not fall if it is the spirit of the tree.”)[23] He would also cite a well-known sentence from Senghor’s 1977 book on Negritude and universalism: “For only a man firmly rooted in his original civilization can actively assimilate external contributions, like a tree which, planted in rich topsoil [humus], flourishes and blossoms in water and sunlight.”[24] In March 1986, on Throne Day, the Moroccan monarch, echoing Senghor, had proclaimed “Morocco is a tree whose roots run deep into Africa and that breathes through its leaves in Europe.”[25]

The UNESCO tribute came right on time. The 1990s was a challenging time for Negritude and civilisational arguments more broadly. In June 1993, Samuel Huntington published his infamous article, “The Clash of Civilizations,” arguing that Islam’s borders were bloody, and drawing a line across the Sahara separating Islamic and African civilisations. This thesis would draw much criticism, and inspire a counter-discourse of anti-essentialism. Why the desire to reduce civilisations to an essence or “civilizational logic”? Why deploy the impossibly broad category of civilisation anyway? Negritude would come under similar critique for the civilisational-qua-culture-talk. Fanon’s critique would be revived, as Senghor’s thought was deemed as essentialist, evading questions of political economy and anti-imperialism.  With the collapse of the Soviet Union, scholars would also begin to take stock of African leaders’ views on decolonisation, their stance during the Cold War, and Senghor’s role as an  anti-“progressive” ally of the US and France.[26] Critics would reference a meeting between Senghor and Jimmy Carter in 1978, where Senghor explains to the American president the three splits rending the African continent – between Francophones and Anglophones, between “Arabs and Negroes,” and the gravest rift which was between moderates and Soviet-backed “progressives.” Senghor would observe that Senegal was located in the middle of this Arab-Negro “dividing line” – not far from the civilisational fault-line that Huntington claimed divided Islamic and Negro civilisation in Africa. The Senegalese president would note that the “progressive” states of Algeria and Libya were meddling in the Sahel, in Mali and Niger, threatening “to split all of these states,” in an attempt to gain control over local Arab populations, when the truth is “Hardly five per cent of the people in the Sahara however are pure Arabs.”[27]

After September 2001, public opinion would shift again. In November of that year, as the Bush administration embraced the discourse of “Clash of Civilizations,” launching a war in Afghanistan, Kofi Anna would call for a Dialogue Among Civilizations, to counter extremism, eventually leading to the UN’s Alliance of Civilizations in 2005, spearheaded by Spain and Turkey. Senghor’s calls for a dialogue, reciprocity and the “civilization of the universal” would find a new audience – and come to be seen as an antidote to the “clash of civilizations” rhetoric. In Morocco, as a discourse of Sufism and Afro-Convivencia was embraced, Senghor’s ideas would be discussed at the Afro-Arab forum of Asilah,[28] and the Gnaoua festival and newly-launched Andalusian festivals of Fez and Essaouira, all inspired by the Asilah festival. As Morocco geared up for a return to the African Union in 2017, the kingdom’s historic ties to Senegal and the Sahel would be celebrated.

Senghor’s thought nourished multiple intellectual currents in Morocco. The Senegalese poet and Amazigh politician Mahjoube Aherdan would organise gatherings on Amazigh culture. Senghor would write an epilogue to Aherdane’s epic poem “Iguider ou le mythe de l’Aigle” (1990), stating the Moroccan writer’s symbiosis of Berbéritude and Arabité, reflected an African form of humanism. (The Senegalese poet would also curiously observe that before Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks and Arabs arrived in Africa, Africa’s populations weren’t divided into White and Black, but rather into “Grand Africains” (Big Africans) who lived in northern Africa down to the Sahel, and “Petits Africains” (Little Africans) who lived beneath the Sahara and spoke “click languages.”)[29] Anthropologist Bouazza Benachir, a friend of the Senelagese poet, is another Moroccan intellectual inspired by Senghor as seen in his works Le siècle de Léopold Sédar Senghor (2006) and Négritudes du Maroc et du Maghreb (2011.) Morocco’s current minister of museums the poet-painter Mehdi Qotbi, was also a protegé of the Senegalese president, who dubbed him “the magical Afro-Arab poet.”

The Afro-Arab forum, now in its 45th year, set the cultural stage for Morocco’s current Africa orientation and festivals policy, and for the rise of Gnaoua music. American jazz artists and Gnawa musicians had been jamming at Dar Gnawa in Tangier since the 1960s, and Randy Weston’s Blue Moses album (1972) record included Sufi chants, and the follow-up record Tanjah (1974), included chants and oud. But the first recording of a live Gnawa-jazz session was Asilah 80 (1980), featuring English pianist Peter Lemer and the G’Naoua d’Asilah at the local Al Kamra Theatre. As Asilah became a musical destination, Moroccan cultural officials would see the possibilities of this musical fusion and launch the Essaouira festival in 1997, which is today one of the largest jazz festivals in Africa.

In August 2015, on the eve of Morocco’s return to the African Union, Benaissa gave a speech in Asilah, laying out his vision of Morocco’s place in the continent and the Afro-Arab future. Evoking Senghor again, he observed that the universal was “the local without walls.”  He spoke of mirroring between Morocco and Senegal, and between Africa and Europe. He emphasised the obligation to cultivate local knowledge of Africa, the need to challenge colonial taxonomies, especially the distinction between “Black Islam” and “Arab Islam.”[30] Praising the 13th century Malian sovereign Sundiata Keita, founder of the Manden Charter, one of the earliest documents to speak of human rights and pluralism, Benaissa called for a repudiation of “Afro-pessimism.”  He would conclude with a reference to the Senegalese philosopher Souleymane Bachir Diagne’s idea of ubuntu, “becoming human together, in reciprocity.” Mohammed Benaissa died on February 28 2025, a few months before the Forum was to celebrate its 45th year. This year’s conference is now set to commemorate Asilah’s eminent native son and his half-century effort to make his hometown a focal point in the Afro-Arab world.

Featured photograph: First Cultural Moussem of Asilah (July 1978)

 Hisham Aidi is a Moroccan-American political scientist, author, music critic, filmmaker, and senior lecturer in international relations at the School of International and Public Affairs at Columbia University

[1] Spencer D. Segalla, The Moroccan Soul French Education, Colonial Ethnology, and Muslim Resistance, 1912-1956 (Omaha: The University of Nebraska 2009)

[2] Hisham Aidi, “The Interference of Al-Andalus: Spain, Islam and the West,” Social Text (Summer 2006)

[3] M’hammad Benaboud, Estudios sobre la historia de al-Ãndalus y sus fuentes (Editorial Verbum, 2015)

[4] Abdourahmane Seck, “Sénégal-Maroc: Usages et Mésusages de la Circulation des Ressources Symboliques et Religieuses entre deux Pays “Frères”” Africa Development (September 2015)

[5] Paraska Tolan-Szkilnik, Maghreb Noir: The Militant-Artists of North Africa and the Struggle for a Pan-African, Postcolonial Future (Stanford University Press 2024)

[6] For more on the history of Souffles, please see Hisham Aidi, “Souffles: Fifty Years Later” Souffles Monde Issue # 1 Fall 2022)

[7] John Darnton, “Islam Stirs Controversy in West Africa,” The New York Times (May 30 1976)

[8] This argument has been made by the Senegalese philosopher Souleymane Bachir Diagne, “African Humanities” Workshop, UM6P University, Ben Geruir, Morocco, December 16 2024

[9] Sophia Azeb, “Crossing the Saharan Boundary: Lotus and the Legibility of Africanness,” Research in African Literatures Vol. 50, No. 3, African Literary History and the Cold War (Fall 2019), pp. 91-117

[10] Chris Gray, Conceptions of History in the Works of Cheikh Anta Diop and Theophile Obenga (African World Press 1989) p.20

[11] Interview with author, September 7, 2025 Asilah, Morocco

[12] Abdelrahim Al-Alam, ed., Kitab Asilah: fi dhikra thalathin li-mawsim Asilah al-thaqafi al-dawli (Rabat: Mahfoudhat al-Nashir 2008) p.247

[13] p.240 ibid

[14] Michael Peyron, The Berbers of Morocco: A History of Resistance (2022) p.247  Brahim El Guabli, “My Amazighitude: On the Indigenous Identity of North Africa,” The Markaz Review (June 6 2022)

[15] Roland Delcour, “Hassan II a inauguré l’académie royale de Fès,” Le Monde (April 23 1980) “Repondant au roi au nom des members etrangers, le president Senghor a celebré “le double métissage biologique et culturel qui fait les grands civilisations” et qui, au maroc, a allié “la berbéritude et l’arabité”

[16] http://www.mondeberbere.com/azayku_bio_fr.html

[17] Benaissa writes: “N’est-il pas le premier Africain au sud du Sahara à avoir introduit la langue arabe dans les programmes d’en-seignement au Sénégal?” in Benaissa, “Léopold Sédar Senghor, l’Afrique, le monde et le siècle,” Présence Senghor: 90 Écrits En Hommage Aux 90 Ans Du Poète-Président UNESCO (1997 ISSN collection)  p.93

[18] In February 1969, at an address at the University of Algiers, Senghor had explained his decision to introduce Arabic to Senegalese students: “Si nous encourageons et si nous organisons scientifiquement l’enseignement de la langue et de la civilisation arabes à l’Université de Dakar, c’est parce que l’arabité fait partie du patrimoine culturel africain et que nous autres, de la civilisation nord- soudano-sahelinne, nous l’avons assimilée comme élément fécondant.” Léopold Senghor, Liberté 3, Négritude et Civilisation de l’Universel (Paris: Seuil, 1977)

[19] On the cultural commingling of North Africa, Senghor would write “l’universel c’est, pour vous Arabo-berbères, et pour commencer, la civilisation arabe,” Leopold Senghor, Liberté III, Négritude et civilisation de l’universel (Editions du Seuil, Paris 1977) p.152

[20] https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/48223/pf0000089410

[21] Léopold Sédar Senghor, Discours prononcé lors la réception solennelle de l’Académie du Royaume du Maroc (June 11 1987) https://www.academie-francaise.fr/discours-prononce-pour-la-reception-de-lacademie-du-royaume-du-maroc-0

[22] Communication with author August 1, 2022

[23] Sa Majesté Hassan II, “Hommage à Léopold Sédar Senghor,” in Léopold Sédar Senghor, l’Afrique, le monde et le siècle,” Présence Senghor: 90 Écrits En Hommage Aux 90 Ans Du Poète-Président UNESCO (1997 ISSN collection)  p.23

[24] “Car seul l’homme solidement enraciné dans sa civilisation originaire peut assimiler activement les apports extérieurs, comme l’arbre qui, planté dans un riche humus, s’épanouit, fleurità l’eau et au soleil » Leopold Senghor, Liberté III, Négritude et civilisation de l’universel (Editions du Seuil, Paris 1977) p.152

[25] Béatrice Hibou and Mohamed Tozy. Tisser le temps politique au Maroc – imaginaire de l’État à l’âge neoliberal (Paris: Éditions Karthala. 2020)

[26] Christopher T. Bonner, Cold War Negritude: Form and Alignment in French Caribbean Literature Book; Jean-Michel Djian, Léopold Sédar Senghor: genèse d’un imaginaire francophone (Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 223-224.

[27] “President Senghor pointed to one split in Africa between Arabs and Negroes. Algeria and Libya are playing on this. Senegal is on the dividing line and has removed both tribalism and religious wars. A more important split is the cultural one between Francophones and Anglophones. Senegal is combatting this by developing bi-lingualism. President Senghor said that the worst split in Africa is between “progressives” and moderates. The progressives, supported by the USSR and Eastern Europeans, seek to destabilize areas that they do not control. The OAU refuses to accept an East-West split in Africa and condemns intervention. Algeria however opposes Morocco and Mauritania and has intervened in Mali and Niger. They and the Libyans are interfering in the Western Sahara, and want to split all of these states to gain control of the Arab populations. Hardly five percent of the people in the Sahara however are pure Arabs.” https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1977-80v17p2/d35

[28] https://www.jeuneafrique.com/219274/archives-thematique/quel-choc-des-civilisations/

[29] Mahjoubi Aherdan, Iguider ou le mythe de l’Aigle (Socodif, 1990) p.69-70 I am grateful to Aomar Boum for directing me to Leopold Senghor’s contribution to this volume.

[30] Mohammed Benaissa, “Africa in the Mirror of Europe,” a version of the address would be published: https://www.cirsd.org/en/horizons/horizons-summer-2024–issue-no-27/africa-in-the-mirror-of-europe

Decarbonization reproduces colonial inequalities

Brandon Marc Finn and Patrick Brandful Cobbinah argue that in the DR Congo, industrial mining companies and political elites operate under the banner of decarbonization while perpetuating historic injustices.

By Brandon Marc Finn and Patrick Brandful Cobbinah

Decarbonization is a major response to climate change mitigation in the 21st century. However, our research in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) shows that the pursuit of decarbonization is building on and recreating colonial inequalities. We urgently need to understand these inequalities and address them adequately. Such disparities are rife in the mining industry for critical minerals in Africa.

Recent online footage of a hillside collapse at a mining location in the southern DRC illustrates the working conditions of many miners who source the minerals fundamental to decarbonization around the world. This event is part of a broader dynamic unfolding in the country at the nexus of mining, poverty, and neocolonialism.

The working people in DRC sustaining the green transition are being displaced, suffering severe health and environmental consequences, and risking their lives to meet the global demand for critical minerals. Some of the world’s poorest and most vulnerable people are exposed to extreme pollution and dust levels because of decarbonization-related mining with limited governmental regulation. Indigenous communities across the globe are losing access to their land to enable mining companies’ access to industrial concessions.

Rich mineral ore on mine site, DRC (copyright Brandon Marc Finn)

Mining for critical minerals such as cobalt in the DRC presents this example. The world urgently needs cobalt and copper for electric vehicle batteries. However, meeting this demand currently rests on dispossessing local people from their communities and land, paying workers poverty wages, and turning a blind eye to the social and economic conditions that make child labor a necessary condition of survival for families in countries like the DRC.

Mining corporations and governments often demonize ordinary people working as artisanal and small-scale (ASM) miners for risking their lives to source the supply of minerals that we all need in society. We are confronted with stories about child labor and ASM in the DRC and other countries, including Colombia and Ghana. These are real concerns that need empathetic solutions. However, in thinking through these problems, we must also consider why people endure these working conditions as their best and often only survival strategy.

Our academic paper on the DRC’s mining history demonstrates why these conditions exist today and who is implicated in them. Belgian colonial control of the region in the early 20th century worked to disrupt existing social conditions and recruit labor to extract copper to meet the world’s booming demands for electricity supply. This process displaced communities and forced them into work in mines so that they could pay the taxes imposed on them in a foreign currency. Colonial violence and coercion were a key characteristic of this process.

A mine worker in the Katanga region of the Belgian Congo, 1942 (Wikimedia Commons)

The same region that was a leader in global copper supply in the early 20th century provided some of the uranium used in the atomic bombs dropped by the US on Japan in 1945. The leading Belgian copper mining company owned the uranium mining concession that enabled the Manhattan Project. During this time, mining uranium by hand was common and documented, and state-mandated child labor was enshrined in law. More than 60 years since the DRC’s independence, these conditions persist today and are being recreated to satisfy the world’s mineral demand for the green transition.

ASM miners are linked to cobalt extraction’s environmental and social harms. We show how these challenges are related to international industrial mining companies and Congolese political elites and do not act separately from these more powerful actors.  The mining landscape in the DRC and its associated environmental degradation, dispossession, and economic inequality are new forms of old colonial practices.

Swiss company Glencore, the world’s largest commodity trader, was required to pay $1.1 billion in restitution after a decade-long international corruption charge found them guilty of bribery and market manipulation. In the DRC alone, Glencore paid $27.5 million to public officials to secure favorable mining conditions. Chinese state-backed company CMOC agreed to pay $800 million  to settle a dispute over its copper and cobalt operations in the DRC. CMOC also relocated communities to access ore deposits without adequate compensation. Are these the companies we want leading perhaps the world’s most significant transformation in the 21st century?

Mining companies like Glencore and CMOC are fundamental to this green transition and, like other multi-billion dollar operators, are trying to frame themselves as its leaders. We indeed need industrial mining operations to provide the minerals to sustain low-carbon technologies. However, these mining companies have not taken their corporate social responsibility seriously, which is compounding inequalities and poverty in the world’s most vulnerable regions.

Industrial copper and cobalt processing plant near Lubumbashi, DRC (copyright Brandon Marc Finn)

Decarbonization arguably offers the best chance to limit climate change’s devastating impacts. However, achieving a fossil fuel-free future does not equate to an inherently just one. We cannot continuously ignore the current processes that enable decarbonization just because we want to decarbonize.

We can support decarbonization while urgently bringing attention to actually existing neocolonialism through industrial exploitation. Colonialism persists because its history provides the backdrop for industrial mining companies and local political elites to operate under the rubric of decarbonization while perpetuating injustice.

If we are concerned with making the green transition just, we must consider two imperatives on geography and history. We must consider where the resources we need for decarbonization come from and whether this process relies on and recreates histories of oppression and dispossession to access them. Equitable mining practices and decarbonization supply chains can only be achieved by addressing the current inequalities which are built on the DRC’s past.

Dr. Brandon Marc Finn is a research faculty member at the School for Environment and Sustainability at the University of Michigan. Dr. Finn directs the Informal Sustainability Lab and leads ongoing work on copper and cobalt mining in the Democratic Republic of Congo and electronic waste recycling and urban poverty in Ghana. 

Associate Professor Patrick Brandful Cobbinah is a co-director of the Informal Urbanism Hub (InfUr) at the University of Melbourne. His research focuses on urban planning and climate change in Africa and the outcomes of inappropriate planning practices and theories on African cities. He is the Africa editor of Journal of Urban Affairs, a member of the Planning Institute of Australia and the advisory board member of the Ghana Institute of Planning.

Featured image: Copper and cobalt mine near Kolwezi, DRC (Copyright Brandon Marc Finn).

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Oligarchy and the subversion of democracy – warnings from South Africa

Wim Naudé warns that South Africa’s oligarchy offers a case study in how elite control can subvert democracy and entrench inequality. Since the end of Apartheid, the country has embraced neoliberal economic policies that favour mining, finance, and agri-business elites, pointing to a strong collusion between oligarchs and the ANC. While corporate profits and market capitalisation have soared, most South Africans face poverty, high unemployment, and poor public services. Naudé argues that South Africa’s stagnant, exclusionary economy can only be transformed through dramatic reforms.

Wim Naudé

The world has an oligarchy problem. It threatens economic and social stability and accelerates planetary environmental destruction and global warming. While much has been written about Russian oligarchs, it has become clear that the West, particularly the US, has a similar and growing oligarchy problem. Thom Hartmann writes how ” The American Oligarchs Have Arrived to Destroy US Democracy.” George Monbiot describes the UK’s oligarchy and how they “seek the destruction of oversight”, which has led to “UK bodies such as the Environment Agency and the Health and Safety Executive” to have been “comprehensively gutted.”

This article highlights the ultimately destructive nature of an enduring, long-standing oligarchy: South Africa. It provides a stark warning to the rest of the world how insidious, damaging, and pervasive the oligarchic control model of capitalism can be once it is entrenched. South Africa has, at least since the mid-17th century, been South Africa Inc. – a corporate project of global capitalism – controlled successively by the Dutch VOC, the British Empire, and a narrow Afrikaner elite who extracted much wealth from the country’s land and mineral resources.

The oligarchy’s incorporation of the ANC

When the African National Congress (ANC), established in 1912 and fighting for the liberation of the country from colonialism and apartheid, came into power in 1994, the new democracy was rapidly subverted by the business oligarchy, which incorporated the top of the ANC. “Democratic” South Africa was efficiently absorbed into global capitalism’s neoliberalist project, and the oligarchy could continue business as usual in South Africa.

The oligarchy’s incorporation of the ANC had been so effective that the ANC after 1994 embraced 30 years of fiscal and monetary conservatism: tariff liberalisation, protection of property rights (however obtained in the past), international financial openness, and Central Bank independence-in fact, all the orthodox policies that mark World Bank structural adjustment programs. The oligarchy’s incorporation of the ANC, whose current leader, Cyril Ramaphosa, is himself a billionaire oligarch, was so effective that by 2024, the ANC had lost its majority in parliament. It concluded a Government of National Unity (GNU) cooperation agreement with the Democratic Alliance (DA), the “most business-friendly” party. The corporate-controlled press immediately greeted the coalition government as welcome and calls were made for even more fiscal austerity and financial liberalisation.

In other words, after more than 30 years of neoliberal policies, which had only led to a stagnant economy that had entrenched the highest levels of inequality in the world, South Africa’s business sector was jubilant. This insanity – given that the definition of insanity is keeping on doing something that does not work, can only be explained by the fact that it does work – for the corporate sector, but not for the vast majority of South Africa’s citizens.

For the cast majority of South Africa’s citizens, the captured and controlled democracy did not bring much social and economic progress. This is reflected in the country’s dismal economic growth record. Fig 1 shows that per capita GDP growth has been negative for most of the decades. since the 1970s. In the country’s modern history, the 2000s until Jacob Zuma’s presidency, which started in 2009, was the golden period. And it wasn’t much of a golden period, with a paltry 2,6% annual growth on average.

Source: World Bank Development Indicators

A growth model for the billionaires 

The mainstream explanation for the poor growth record, favoured by corporate South Africa and the IMF and World Bank, is that it is broadly the result of poor governance: the state capture scandal, government inefficiency and crumbling public infrastructure are most often blamed. This, of course, is used by corporate SA to argue for the privatisation of “inefficient” public services. Another favoured explanation is that South Africa’s education system does not turn out to be the type of skilled labour that would promote growth.

These are all real problems. But they are not the main problem—in fact, they are all symptoms of an economy built around the interests of a narrow set of oligarchic industries—mining, finance, and the agro-industry primarily. South Africa has an underappreciated oligarchy problem. To see how this causes low growth, whose benefits accrue to a privileged few, consider that economic growth is driven by technological innovation and the accumulation of labour and capital. Use more labour or capital, or make them work smarter using technology, and GDP has to increase. This is standard economic growth theory. In South Africa, technological innovation and labour accumulation have not driven economic growth over the past two decades, given the dismal rates of productivity growth and high unemployment. The slight growth we have observed since 2000 has thus been due to the remaining factor: capital intensification.

In fact, intensifying capital deepening through mechanisation and other tools that reduce the labour share has been facilitated by low and declining real interest rates in South Africa. At the same time as the decline in real interest rates, the Rand Exchange rate significantly depreciated against the dollar and other hard currencies. Fig 2 below shows these two trends over the past decades:

Source: World Bank Development Indicators

The exchange rate depreciation provides an incentive for exporting – it raises South Africa’s competitiveness. The combination of low interest rates and a depreciated exchange rate is excellent news for capital-intensive, resource-based (and heavily polluting) industries – such as mining and agriculture. Thus, the vast bulk of the meagre economic growth that the country enjoys is due to mining and agricultural products being exported. The financial industry greatly benefits from facilitating the money flows associated with the capitalisation and mechanisation of mining and agriculture and their international transactions. In the process, only the privileged few who controlled or shared in the extraction of minerals and land got rich, at the costs of the majority of the population and at the cost of a deteriorating natural environment.

The problem is that this growth model is independent of the economic prosperity of ordinary South Africans. These sectors are insulated against the deterioration in real wages and the entrenchment of poverty. Indeed, if ordinary South Africans became richer, consumed more, and required more investment in local infrastructure, it would push up interest rates, appreciate the Rand, and hurt the business model of South Africa INC—the interests of the mines, big farming, and the bankers.

This is why, despite economic growth stagnating in South Africa, the share prices and market capitalisation of Big Capital, perversely, keep growing. In 2003, the JSE had a market capitalisation of around R 344 billion. Currently, it is around R 20 trillion. That is a 61-fold increase. The JSE is dominated by 49 companies (“Big Business”) whose market capitalization is worth around ZAR 4,7 trillion. These financial-mining giants include FirstRand, Standard Bank Group, Capitec Bank, Gold Fields, AngloGold Ashanti, and Sanlam. And these giants are swimming in profits, unlike most South Africans who have to count every cent. If only the top 49 companies on the JSE were to be liquidated, then given that around 30 million people in South Africa live below the most recent upper-bound poverty line of R 1558 per month (as calculated by StatsSA), everybody in poverty could be lifted out of poverty for almost 10 years.

These oligarchic firms are swimming in profits. FirstRand, for instance, recently reported that its normalised earnings had increased in 2023 by 12% to ZAR 36.7 billion, and it paid out a handsome dividend. Standard Bank reported that for 2023, headline earnings of ZAR 42.9 billion, Capitec Bank’s headline earnings are up 15% to R9.7 billion, and Gold Fields achieved normalised earnings of around ZAR 16 billion. And so one can continue. No wonder, as a recent research paper documents, a mere 3,500 individuals in a population of 60 million “own 15 per cent of household net worth, more than the bottom 90 per cent.

Indeed, as the Harvard Growth Lab recently concluded, “Three decades after the end of apartheid, the economy is defined by stagnation and exclusion.” As Statistics SA documents, gains in the quality of life of the poorest in South Africa barely improved in more than twenty years: 23% of households still rely on open fires fuelled by wood and coal for cooking and heating. Around 45% of youths are unemployed. Environmental racism continues unabated, including deliberately placing landfills and polluting industrial plants in low-income and migrant communities, often along racial lines. Progress in terms of most of the SDG’s is off-target. And with 35 murders per 100,000 population each year, one is safer in warn-torn Afghanistan and Iraq.

Tax the rich

South Africa’s fundamental challenge is to address its oligarchy problem. The first step is to tax away their windfall profits and invest them in infrastructure and public services benefitting low-income households. Interest rates should be raised, which would also strengthen the Rand, and strict exchange controls on financial outflows should be imposed. Like Indonesia and Chile, the country should also restrict and /or nationalise the export of critical raw materials, amongst other iridium, reserving it for domestic beneficiation and value creation. Although these are already radical policies, given the current neoliberal-dominated policy debate in the country, much more is needed to ultimately re-align the interest of big corporations with the welfare of all South Africans.

 

Featured Photograph: A protest placard of Atul Gupta carried by two EFF members on either side of it at the Zuma Must Fall protests in Cape Town (Wiki Commons).

Wim Naudé is a visiting professor at RWTH Aachen University in Germany. He’s a Fellow at the African Studies Centre at the University of Leiden in the Netherlands, and a Distinguished Visiting Professor at the University of Johannesburg

The Day Rhodes Fell: Ten Years After

By Heike Becker

Ten years after one student’s bold action a month earlier inspired protests which led to the removal of Cecil John Rhodes’ statue at the University of Cape Town (UCT), Heike Becker recounts this historical occasion by linking this as well as subsequent and earlier protests to broader conversations about decolonisation and concerns about racism, marginalisation and inequality.

On 9 March 2015, Chumani Maxwele, then a student at the University of Cape Town (UCT), flung a bucket full of human excrement at the statue of British colonialist and mining magnate Cecil John Rhodes on the UCT campus. With this defacing act, Maxwele called for the removal of the statue, which had been sitting in a prominent campus location for eighty years, purportedly because of Rhodes’ ‘generous gift’ of the land to the new academic institution in the late 19th century.

From this initial moment, a massive student uprising developed quickly that forcefully demanded the elimination of a symbol of colonialism and the long-called-for transformation of the university. The movement that became known as #RhodesMustFall (also: #RMF) combined militant street protests with intensive social media campaigns (Becker 2018; Nyamnjoh 2016). After a month of forceful student protests, the university’s governing structures sanctioned the removal of the statue, which happened on 9 April 2015.

#RMF kick-started a succession of student-led protests in South Africa between 2015 and 2017, which became known collectively as the ‘Fallist’ movements, primarily including, in addition to #RMF, the #FeesMustFall movements. FeesMustFall started in October 2015 at Wits University in Johannesburg and eventually swept through academic institutions in the entire country. Their key demands were free education in a dual sense, including free access to higher education, and curriculum changes to reflect the full range of South African and human expressions, rather than the Eurocentric focus, hitherto dominant in the South African academy.

Questions: What remains?
Commemorating the tenth anniversary of this momentous protest movement challenges us to think through a range of questions about the impact of #RMF and the movements that followed it.

Some argue that the activism was unsuccessful since South African universities still charge their students substantial tuition fees. The past few years have seen student protests across institutions at the beginning of each academic year in February. Those have been triggered in the main by students’ widespread calamities and sheer despair, commonly caused by a lack of affordable accommodation, and financial exclusion. One may ask, of course, whether the success or failure of protest movements can, and even should, be measured by whether or not their immediate, practical calls have been achieved.

Should we not rather develop a different approach to thinking about the impact of young people’s dissent and movements of rupture? What has been the impact of the student-led movements in South African universities, considering especially curricula change in terms of content and pedagogy? Beyond the university: Have the student-led movements made a change in the moral, intellectual, cultural and political structure of South Africa, the Southern African region, the continent, and even in global perspective? What has changed in the quest for an inclusive, fair and just society? How has activism concerned with anti-colonial and anti-racist politics evolved over the past decade?

What has this movement been to me?
In March 2015 I was teaching at the University of the Western Cape, located on Cape Town’s poverty-stricken periphery, twenty kilometres away from UCT’s glorious setting on the slopes of Table Mountain. By sheer coincidence I had designed a focus on affect and politics for the postgraduate course in anthropological theory I was teaching that semester. When the protests against the Rhodes statue emerged with such force, I asked my students to go to the UCT campus, observe what was happening there, and conduct informal conversations with their peers at that other university.

At the same time, I, along with other academics from across the Western Cape’s academic institutions, became involved as a “participant observer-ally” of the #RhodesMustFall movement. During March and April 2015, I spent much time hanging out at UCT, trying to respectfully listen to, and learn from the vibrant discussions of students and black academics. During the late afternoon of 9 April 2015, I was among the thousands gathered at UCT to watch the removal of the Rhodes statue. The student-led protests struck me as an important rupture, demonstrating from early on during the month-long campaign, that this crusade was not just “about the statue.”

RMF: Practical and ideologically trajectories
When Maxwele flung a bucket full of human excrement against the bronze statue of the seated Rhodes, his performance expressed inherent anger and frustration about the coloniality of the South African university as much as of South African society as a whole. Ostensibly an individual act, this work of memory against hegemonic structures of power and privilege was clearly intended as a performance for a wider audience. The activist had brought friends along who recorded the act on their mobile phones; they uploaded the videoed clips on social media, especially Twitter, where they went instantly viral, and helped launch a mass movement.

Three days after Maxwele had tossed the bucket full of poo onto Rhodes, a well-attended meeting took place to discuss the future of the statue. A week later, students marched to the seat of the UCT administration and demanded a date for the removal of the statue.

While then UCT Vice-chancellor Max Price was addressing the protesters, students occupied the university’s main administrative building, which they renamed Azania house, thus expressing their allegiance to Pan-Africanist positions. They transformed it into an alternative university, which challenged the content and hierarchical structures of colonial education.

Over the next few weeks activists successfully disrupted ‘business as usual’ on the UCT campus, and initiated a debate about racism and demands to decolonise education. Students put Frantz Fanon’s notion of mutual recognition as a precondition of true humanism into practice, for instance, when they walked around campus with ‘recognize me’ written on placards hanging around their necks. This extraordinary initiative got students and academics engaged in vibrant conversations about inclusion and decolonisation.

The movement succeeded to find the support of the university’s governing bodies. On 9 April the objectionable statue was removed under the thunderous applause of a large crowd who had gathered to watch this significant moment. From there, the protests spread quickly to other universities, initially especially those that are similar to UCT, historically white English-medium institutions, steeped in the ‘liberal’ South African tradition with deep roots in British colonialism and a corresponding institutional culture.

Throughout the South African winter and spring of 2015 students campaigned for changes of their universities’ symbolism; they demanded the removal of colonial memorials and the renaming of buildings. They also called for the appointment of more black academics. And they insisted upon the reform of curricula, which they said conveyed racist and colonialist forms of knowledge and ignored, even scorned African intellectual experience (Becker 2018). Eventually, in October 2015 the movements transformed into protests for free and decolonised education, which became known as #FeesMustFall, and shook the formerly Black universities as much as the historically privileged universities such as UCT.

‘Decolonisation’ became the catch phrase of the movements. A closer look shows that this often concealed the resurgence of older variants of Black Consciousness philosophy, particularly at the formerly ‘white’ universities, including the ‘English’ institutions such as UCT, Wits, or the small university in the Eastern Cape which bears the name of Rhodes, as well as the historically particularly conservative Afrikaans-medium universities, such as Stellenbosch University near Cape Town. The demographics of these institutions, which had previously catered predominantly for white students, had changed dramatically; by 2015, with one exception – Stellenbosch University – they had a black majority among their student body. In contrast, their institutional cultures, symbolism, and curricula, and the demographics of the professoriate had changed only marginally.

The slow institutional changes became a crucial issue of the new South African student movement. Black students described their experiences on historically white campuses as alienating; in expressive spoken and written observations they pointed out that the norm at universities continues to cater for white, middle class, able-bodied and heteronormative identified male students (Naidoo 2016: 181).

Central to the movement’s pursuit was the aim of ‘decolonising the mind’. Palpable was the hunger for new forms of knowledge, the extraordinary return to radical black intellectual traditions, to black feminism, queer theory, and critical race studies. With keen re-readings of Fanon’s and Steve Biko’s writings in particular, the new generation took up a philosophical critique of racism and the postcolonial condition, insisting on radical, and at times controversial, practice. With claims to mutual recognition and decolonisation as a precondition of true humanism, the activist practice focused on disruption: disruption of the spaces at universities and beyond that insist that ‘business as usual’ prevented the decolonisation of the post-1994 academy and South African society at large.

The radical framework that surfaced with the movements became known as ‘Fallism’. Fallism transcended concerns about education and academic institutions, developed into an emergent decolonial theory (Ahmed 2017). It embraced a notion of intersectionality, acknowledging that interlinking oppressive systems needed to be combated together, primarily race, class and gender (but also heteronormativity, disability, and others). One poster, for instance, which #RMF protesters held up next to the contested Rhodes statue proudly proclaimed: ‘Dear history, this revolution has women, gays, queers & trans. Remember that.’ The #RMF campaign became a space of vigorous and at times controversial yet productive related discussions. Later that year, co-surfacing with the FeesMustFall movements, student activists, radical academics and labour activists, particularly in Cape Town and Johannesburg built new alliances with a call to action for fair labour practices, and the end of the outsourcing practices that marginalised the most vulnerable university workers (Becker 2020).

Protest: embodied performance and the arts
From the earliest days, #RMF activists made extensive use of digital social media; South African Twitter was the space where the movement made their presence most felt to organise action as much as in debate about their concerns, aims and demands. At the same time, embodied performance took centre stage in the movements.

Chumani Maxwele was not the first South African activist to use human waste as a medium of protest. It is worthwhile tracking South African “poo protests” over the past 15 years to understand their role as a medium of embodied and affective performative protest. In October 2011, the late Ayanda Kota, of the ‘Unemployed People’s Movement’, dumped a bucket of human waste in the foyer of the municipality offices in Makhanda (formerly known as Grahamstown) to reinforce demands for the provision of proper toilets in the poor areas of the town. Two years later “poo protests”, as they became known, forcefully brought the private shame of unenclosed toilets into the public space of metropolitan South Africa, when activists from Khayelitsha township emptied the contents of portable toilets (portaloos) in several spaces of the genteel city, most effectively at Cape Town International airport, the gateway that brings millions of tourists to the city every year (Robins 2014).

This act of making private suffering public strongly resonated in Maxwele’s act of two years later, as he re-embraced forms of protests from South Africa’s poor. Standing shirtless in front of the large, looming statue of Cecil John Rhodes at UCT, wearing a bright pink mineworker’s hardhat, Maxwele said he felt suffocated by the overwhelming presence of colonial names and memorials on the campus. Most black students at the university couldn’t breathe on campus because of the English colonial dominance. “There is no (black)collective history here – where are our heroes and ancestors,” he asked before emptying the container of human waste on to the statue (cited by Robins 2015)

From Maxwele’s initial act to the momentous events of April 9, 2015, when thousands gathered on the UCT campus to watch the removal of the Rhodes statue, embodied site-specific performance took centre stage.

The removal was accompanied by an expressive living sculpture performance by Sethembile Msezane, then a Fine Arts Masters student at the university. As the crane removed the statue, for four hours the artist-activist stood on the plinth she had constructed, her face covered by a veil made of golden beads, wearing high-heeled stilettos and holding up wings, which she had made of human hair, lace and brass for the occasion, for two minutes and after a break of 10 minutes raising them again. Chapungu – the day Rhodes fell, as she named the intervention, demonstrated that the rising female bird from Great Zimbabwe was spreading her wings and taking back from the colonialist who had stolen her land and her spirit (Msezane, 2015/ 2023: 212-214).

The counter-memorial performance was more than a symbolic challenge. Msezane’s performance intervention defied the deficient decolonisation of the public space; significantly, however, the activists’ concerns did not stop with concerns about the continued staging of former colonial empire on their campus. They engaged with persistent racism and inequality. Their focus quickly turned from campus-based concerns to issues in broader society; student activists addressed a host of forms of oppression, structural as much as symbolic, and long histories ruled by male capitalists and white supremacy.

Art-based interventions such as Chapungu have since taken on increasing significance for contesting fragmented memories of the colonial past and calls for repair and care. Student and youth-led movements in South Africa and also in South Africa’s former colony, Namibia, have been, and continue to be a source of inspiration for innovative artistic activity (see, e.g., Brandt 2023). Artistic creativity has become the most sustained radical force, over and above orthodox forms of mass protest.

In an early instance, in October 2016 a theatre performance premiered at the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town, which gained widespread international recognition and drew much attention to the student-led movements in South Africa. The Fall featured a clever play on words in its tagline (‘All Rhodes Lead to Decolonisation’). Eight graduates of the University of Cape Town’s Centre for Theatre, Dance and Performance Studies wrote, directed, and acted the production. Based on their real-life experiences, the piece offered a (self-)critical reflection on the hopes and fears of the student-led protest movements. The Fall was by no means straightforward agitprop. Rather, the young crew delivered a subtle exploration of the spontaneity and idealism, as well as the trauma that accompanied their political campaigns. This extraordinary workshop theatre production won the ensemble theatrical awards both at home and abroad.
Next to, before and beyond stage performances, activists re-appropriated older expressions of struggle creativity. New forms of astonishingly nuanced protest poetry played a vital role, as evidenced by the pieces that appeared in the young protest movements’ first publications, such as the collection guest-edited by #RMF for the Johannesburg Workshop of Theory and Criticism in 2015. At Wits University in Johannesburg young performance artists also took part in a live performance outside the university’s main lecture hall in October 2015, where they critically expressed their experiences at the ‘colonial’ post-apartheid university.

International inspiration
In South African memory, FeesMustFall and the calls for free education have become the most widely remembered facet of the Fallist movements. Internationally though, #RhodesMustFall had a profound impact. The campaign inspired similar actions to change the public space also internationally, especially in the United Kingdom and the United States (Ahmed 2020).

Students at Oxford university in the U.K. took the cue from their counterparts in Cape Town and campaigned for the removal of a statue of Cecil John Rhodes from Oxford’s Oriel College, which honoured its imperial benefactor. On 6 November 2015, some 300 students gathered outside Oriel College in central Oxford chanting in call-and-response fashion–‘Rhodes Must Fall! Take it Down!’–and asking inconvenient questions about Oxford’s imperial past. They had collected nearly 3,000 signatures in support of this aim. The protest disrupted Oxford’s ordered and typically unquestioned hierarchy (Chigudu 2020).
Unlike the South African campaign, RhodesMustFall Oxford did not succeed to send Rhodes off. Almost five years later, during the global Black Lives Matter protests after the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, the Oxford campaign renewed their efforts. On 9 June 2020, a protest march brought 4,000 out in Oxford. Standing in front of a placard that read ‘Decolonise Oxford Uni’, Simukai Chigudu, in 2015 a doctoral student and a prominent voice of #RhodesMustFall Oxford, now an academic at the university, reminded the protestors powerfully that RhodesMustFall was started in 2015 in Oxford because of the students in South Africa who were tired of colonial iconography and white supremacy.


What remains?
Another five years later, while Rhodes remains up at Oriel College, Rhodes House, Oxford, hosts ‘Entangled’, an exhibition of southern African artists about colonialism, monuments and memory (https://www.rhodeshouse.ox.ac.uk/programmes-events/calendar-of-events/2024/june/entangled-at-rhodes-house-oxford/). To see this exhibition, curated by Rhodes scholar Julie Taylor and her Guns and Rains gallery in Johannesburg, featuring works by artists from South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe in the home space of the Rhodes Trust, is a powerful reminder of the complex, at times contradictory impact of the student-led movements that took off in Cape Town ten years ago. It strongly resonates Simukai Chigudu’s powerful reflection, made in his 2020 speech about the Cape Town origins of the global surge of BlackLivesMatter, and his written reflection of “how a particularly potent British national imaginary has memorialized the country’s imperial past and is unable to deal with racism in the present” (Chigudu 2020).

#RhodesMustFall inspired forms of decolonisation memory activism across the global south and north. Equally, there can be no doubt that the Fallist movements were a catalyst for more radical questions about the legacy of colonialism, and the persistence of colonial structures – coloniality – in South Africa. A generation after the end of apartheid, they exposed deep-seated anger about the unfulfilled promises of liberation, persistent racism, and rising inequality. Despite undeniable polarising effects, the activists’ more radical transformative agenda continues to reverberate in contemporary discussions, not in the least in conversations among activists and intellectuals about practices of solidarity with local community struggles, which face the vibrant Palestine solidarity movement.

The largest impact the Fallist movements have had, however, concerned the essentials of decolonising South African higher education in practice. On the one hand, South African universities introduced top-down institutional structures with lofty aims to “decolonise the curriculum”. These centralised exertions remained, by and large, rather unsuccessful. In contrast, sustained changes of curriculum and, equally importantly, pedagogy have been made at the coalface of academic departments that listened to the robust conversations initiated by the student movements about epistemological and pedagogical issues that had previously not been raised in the post-apartheid South African academy. Questions about the politics of knowledge and curriculum reform were forcefully put on the agenda by the massive movements and opened the space for intense debates about the decolonisation of academic institutions and knowledge production in teaching and research. Our experience of developing reinvented undergraduate and postgraduate programmes in the UWC Anthropology Department has certainly been replicated in many instances. We, for one, responded with the development of new, critical content and a pedagogical approach that emphasises multimodal critical inquiry through intensive writing practice, including free writing as we strive to create space for students to speak, and to listen to each other’s experiences of navigating multiple life worlds every day. Our department, and others too, have begun to understand that listening is critical for academics teaching in South African universities to learn imagining how decolonisation, critique and our disciplines fit together.

References:
Ahmed, A. Kayum. 2020. #RhodesMustFall: How a Decolonial Student Movement in the Global South Inspired Epistemic Disobedience at the University of Oxford. African Studies Review 62(3): 281-303.
Ahmed, A. Kayum. 2017. ‘#Fallism as public pedagogy.’ Africa Is a Country, & March 2017.
https://africasacountry.com/2017/07/fallism-as-public-pedagogy

Becker, Heike. 2020. ‘From Johannesburg to London: student-worker struggles’. Review of African Political Economy online. 30 January 2020.
https://roape.net/2020/01/30/from-johannesburg-to-london-student-worker-struggles/

Becker, Heike. 2018: Dissent, disruption, decolonization: South African student protests, 1968 to 2016, International Socialist Review, Issue 111 (Winter 2018-19): 31-47.

Brandt, Nicola. ‘Practices of self’: Embodied memory work, performance art, and intersectional activism in Namibia. Memory Studies 16 (3) (2023), 533-45

Chigudu, Simukai. 2020. Rhodes Must Fall in Oxford: a critical testimony. Critical African Studies 12(3): 303-312.

Msezane, Sethembile. 2015/2023. “It’s coming down today.” In Activism: Documents of contemporary art, eds. Afonso Dias Ramos and Tom Snow, pp. 212-214. London and Cambridge, MA: Whitechapel Gallery and MIT Press.

Naidoo, Leigh-Ann. 2018. ‘Contemporary Student Politics in South Africa’, in Students Must Rise: Youth Struggle in South Africa Before and Beyond Soweto ’76, eds. Anne Heffernan and Noor Nieftagodien. Johannesburg: Wits University press.

Nyamnjoh, Francis B. 2016. #RhodesMustFall: Nibbling at Resilient Colonialism. Bamenda, Cameroon: Langaa.

Robins, Steven. 2015. ‘Back to the poo that started it all’, IOL, 9 April 2015.
https://www.iol.co.za/news/opinion/back-to-the-poo-that-started-it-all-1842443

Robins, Steven. 2014. Poo wars as matter out of place: ‘Toilets for Africa’ in Cape Town. Anthropology Today 30(1): 1-3.

Heike Becker is currently a fellow at the Stellenbosch Institute for Advanced Study (STIAS) in South Africa. Before, she taught Anthropology at the University of the Western Cape for 24 years. Heike has written widely on contradictions of memory culture and politics, decolonial activism, the public space and the arts in Namibia, South Africa and Germany. She has also published on popular culture, gender politics, student movements, and South African anthropology.

The Unemployed-Bound Subject: the lives of Blacks in South Africa’s economy today

In this piece, Gumani Tshimomola draws attention to the reality of unemployment which continues to place South Africa’s black population between precarity and exclusion, a condition which sustains the economic power relations and capitalist endeavours for the benefit of the white minority. This represents a historical continuity from the apartheid era.

By Gumani Tshimomola

Ah, the problem of unemployment. The high levels of both young and old people, languishing on the periphery of the South African economy, trapped in the long shadows, forced to beg for jobs at entrances of affluent suburban shopping complexes and mega hardware shops. They look for any form of menial job just to make ends meet.  

We, in South Africa, know this challenge very well and have become accustomed to it. We hear about it a lot in the news, at social gatherings and for many who are directly affected by it, this is an unfortunate reality that threatens not only their lives but their sense of being in the world. In the case of most South African black families, this is more the norm than the exception, as unemployment is likely to affect one personally. In most Black households you are most likely to have a cousin, brother, sister, uncle or aunt who has been unemployed for an extensive period and in extreme cases, years. Unknown to many—perhaps deliberately ignored—there are even adults who have never been employed formally in their lives.  

As I page through Abdul R. JanMohamed’s book, “The Death-Bound-Subject: Richard Wright’s Archaeology of Death”, reliving the terror and fear experienced by black slaves in America’s South in the late 1800s and early 1900s, I cannot help but feel the need to question the nature of phenomena such as death by lynching. In what appears to be a less extreme form, ‘unemployment’ is nonetheless a key question to South Africa today. I will later argue that unemployment is as significant as death, as it brings out similar fears equivalent to the fear of death itself. In the context of the asymmetric distribution of power and resources between powerless black people and powerful whites, the very fear is then weaponised against the powerless to maintain such unequal power relations.  This is not the fear of the unknown but the fear of the known. And it is this known known that has been used to maintain these power imbalances in order to sustain the status quo of the rich getting richer and poor getting poorer. 

I must admit, the first time I tried to read the JanMohamed’s book seven years ago, I could not bring myself to continue because of the fear of opening myself up to such traumatic scenes of the racist, hateful, and evil practice of lynching black men, women, and sometimes even young boys and girls to death. This was done simply to maintain socio-political power relations that favoured whites. 

Looking at South Africa todya, with the resurgence of Afrikaner nationalism and the outright white racist attitudes, things are likely to get worse for black people unless something is done. Racism and Afrikaner nationalism are not simply ends in themselves but a means to an end, which is about maintaining economic power and control of the minority whites over the majority blacks.  Black people in South Africa are just a numerical majority but are still a minority culturally. This is because the dominant culture that dictates the terms of reference in how we navigate through the systems of power are very much Euro-Western in nature.

What we are seeing for example with the Basic Education Laws Amendment Act (BELA)—an attempt to bring some sense of equality to access to education, particularly in the previously ‘whites-only’ areas—is a situation wherein state-funded schools with relatively better infrastructure continue to operate as enclaves for whites, thereby reproducing this racist economy in the world’s most unequal country. 

Let’s return to JanMohamed’s book just for a moment to establish some basis for this rather unusual analysis and attempt to bring a different interpretation to the function of high levels of unemployment in South Africa’s economy today: the obscure relationship between a racist economy, black people, and unemployment or the fear of unemployment. Drawing insights from psychoanalytic theory, we can consider how deeply entrenched economic inequalities are perpetuated not only by external systems of oppression but also by internalised fears and anxieties, which serve to reinforce these dynamics. This analysis aligns with broader philosophical studies of the binaries of ‘self’ and ‘other’, where identity and power are continuously shaped through domination and subjugation.  

JanMohamed and many others who have written on the lynchings argue, and even empirically illustrate, that death or the threat of death by lynching served a specific function in the relationship between the slave and master: total submission. If you knew that you could be publicly lynched to death simply for not saying “Sir” when addressing white men, including young boys of your age or younger, you would submit. 

From a psychoanalytic perspective, this dynamic can also be underscored as a psychological mechanism of control, where the constant threat of death shapes both individual and collective consciousness. The unpredictability of punishment functions as a tool for creating a state of perpetual anxiety, undermining the subject’s capacity for resistance. This internalised fear, rooted in the psyche, mirrors broader philosophical ideas about how power is sustained through domination, with the oppressed becoming trapped in an imposed sense of inferiority and vulnerability. 

In this unequal relationship between the oppressor and the oppressed, the oppressor finds himself/herself/themselves being relegated to what Frantz Omar Fanon calls, the “zone of non-being”, a place of nothingness where black bodies become objects of derision. It is the direct experience that unfolds in this lacuna of non-existence of black people in the eyes of a white supremacist establishment that JanMohamed’s book brings to our attention. 

More so, when things that you could be lynched for were not clearly defined or trivial, this unpredictability introduced an element of unimaginable terror. Whites would regularly kill black people, hang them for public display, and even sometimes hang an animal, particularly a dog, just for control and as a symbol of the worthlessness of a black person’s life, a life of no consequence, equal to an animal, so to speak.  And this is the fate that black people were made to endure as a race in America.  It is this lynching of blacks that prompted Billie Holiday to sing about “Strange Fruit” hanging from the Southern trees in 1959 referring to blacks whose lifeless bodies were hung from trees to instil fear.  

In South Africa, black people have faced similar fears across history: the fear of land being taken by British settlers and Boer trekkers during wars of resistance and apartheid; fear of being forced into becoming an immigrant labourer in the terrible mining and farm conditions in the late 1800s and early 1900s; the forced proletarianization of black men and much of life after the enactment of the Natives Land Act of 1913, when a “South African Native found himself, not actually a slave, but a pariah in the land of his birth” as Sol Plaatjies puts it in his 1916 book titled Native Life in South Africa. There have been more fears, including the fear of being in the white men’s town after the permitted time without a dompass[1], fear of losing one’s dompass; fear of being imprisoned or killed for one’s political activism; fear of being killed in exile without one’s family knowing; fear of the apartheid police and soldiers storming into one’s four-roomed dwelling, sleeping on the floor in the middle of the night, stark naked; humiliated and stripped off one’s dignity even in front of their children; and fear of teargas and bullets as a student in Soweto. All these fears were instilled to bring the black South African into complete submission. 

South Africans endured the fear of retribution for simply failing to say, “Yes Bass” as a full-grown man addressing a 16-year-old white laaitie[2], the same way slaves in America had to say “Sir”, to white people. Those who overcame these fears paid dearly, many with their lives. 

Black South Africans’ relationship with white people has always been governed by fear. In South Africa today, 30 years after ‘the end’ of apartheid, unemployment – or the fear of unemployment –  still functions as a source of total submission of black people within the economic system and reinforcing existing power relations.

There are more than nine million people who are unemployed in South Africa today, of whom the vast majority are black people. And this is only according to what Statistics South Africa terms the ‘official definition’, meaning that it excludes another three million people who have given up finding employment. They don’t look anymore and are categorised as ‘discouraged’ worker-seekers. Added to this, the number of unemployed graduates continues to increase, sitting at 9.8% today. In extreme cases, you will find a graduate with a BSc Financial Mathematics or a BCom Accounting degree standing in Greyston Drive in Sandton, in the merciless scorching sun with a placard listing all their qualifications, begging for a job. 

Just watch the news and you will find, for example, the Minister of Health, Aaron Pakishe Mostoaledi, justifying why we have medical officers—what we here in South Africa refer to as doctors—protesting outside government buildings against their own unemployment. This has been coming. 

This brings us back to the historical continuity of fear. The reality is that the majority of the 16 million people fortunate enough to have a job live in fear of losing that job. It is the knowledge that it can happen anytime, with or without qualifications or experience. You can excel in what you do as a black professional in the banking sector and still lose your job for the most trivial reasons. Such is the life of a black person today in South Africa. And once you lose that job, there is a big chance that you are unlikely to find another one immediately, if you even ever do. It’s like crime and policing: you will think our police system is completely dysfunctional—until you commit a crime. In a similar way, lose a job and see how difficult it is to get another one. The fear is real. This is the lived experience of many black South Africans. 

This is why people hold on to jobs even at the expense of their mental health, burnout, outright abuse, racism and sexual harassment, which are all too common in South Africa today. So strong is the fear of unemployment that even those who are unemployed, particularly women, are subjected to the horrendous ‘sex-for-job’—or, for those fortunate to be employed, ‘sex-for-promotions.’ This is prevalent in municipalities and government departments across the country. 

Now, it is here where I try to make the link between the fear of unemployment today with the fear of death 300 years ago, to illustrate that it is this fear that compels the majority black people to submit to the South African economic structure—a structure that relegates them to the position of inferior participants. It makes them create wealth for a white capitalist system that continues to remind them of their non-beingness as bodies that can be manipulated at will.  

Drawing on JanMohamed’s framework, where Black bodies were caught between being flesh (the bareness and vulnerability of life) and meat (the finality of what he calls actual death), I would suggest that Black people in South Africa exist as The Unemployed-Bound-Subject. Here, they are trapped between two oppressive states: precarity and exclusion. Precarity represents the unstable, exploitative conditions of low-wage work or underemployment, symbolising the fragility of holding onto a job. Exclusion, on the other hand, is the state of unemployment itself, where millions find themselves marginalised, some labelled as “discouraged workers,” and stripped off economic agency. Much like the unpredictability of lynching created a state of perpetual fear, the unpredictability of losing one’s livelihood enforces submission to a system that relegates black people to inferior economic roles.   

This alternation between precarity and exclusion mirrors JanMohamed’s description of black lives caught between flesh and meat. For the unemployed-bound-subject, the fear of falling into complete exclusion ensures compliance within a system designed to maintain racial and economic hierarchies. This fear is not just a psychological weapon but a structural mechanism, wielded by those in power to maintain the status quo. 

From a Marxian perspective, this relationship between the unemployed-bound subject and capital accumulation is both deliberate and structural, thus systemic. In South Africa today, the unemployed-bound subject is not merely a passive victim of the system but a crucial part in its profitability. Precarious working conditions ensure that wages remain suppressed, while the vast pool of the unemployed serves as a reserve army of labour, creating competition and fear among those who are employed. This fear—of losing a job and falling into exclusion—enforces voluntary submission to exploitative conditions, ensuring compliance and acceptance of inequalities in the workplace. Much like in slavery, where labour was provided without wages out of fear of death, today’s labour is coerced by the fear of unemployment. At the core of accumulation in South Africa’s capitalist society today, it is the unemployed-bound subjects who are instrumental to the profitability of many corporates and their relentless accumulation of wealth.

The concept of hegemony, as articulated by Gramsci, sheds light on how the unemployed-bound subject is coerced into complicity. Through economic and cultural dominance, those in power frame what constitutes work and its conditions, ensuring the precarious and exclusionary state of being persists. This hegemony sustains systemic inequality, reinforcing the fear of unemployment as a tool of control.

This why many black people are willing to take salaries lower than their white counterparts, sometimes despite having more experience and qualifications, simply because of this fear. Few will dare to challenge the status quo inside those financial institutions, including those who may find themselves in the boardroom or decision-making spaces, sometimes as high as the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) positions of some of the biggest corporations.

The visibly unemployed in South Africa, much like the public displays of lynched bodies hanging in trees during slavery, serve as a constant reminder of the fragility of one’s economic standing. This visibility reinforces the fear of exclusion, deterring resistance and ensuring compliance within the exploitative economic system. Such public spectacles of exclusion do not merely reflect the realities of unemployment but are weaponized as structural tools to sustain systemic inequalities. The unemployed are thus not just victims of the system but symbols of the consequences of defiance, perpetuating a state of collective submission. 

I hear those crusaders who have made it against the odds talking big, saying how dedication, commitment, and hard work are all you need to succeed in the corporate world. However, they, too, are driven by the same fear of unemployment, even as they accuse people like me of making everything about race and class. By this, I can only assume, they mean those of us who refuse to lose the race and class perspective in our efforts to understand the world around us.

More often than not, you hear comments like: ‘Just move on already.’ But can you truly move on from systemic oppression? And what does moving on mean when these asymmetries still exist today? All in all, to be black in South Africa today is to exist as an ‘unemployed-bound subject,’ until such time when we can transform South Africa’s economy, reduce inequality, and allow for the redistribution of wealth where race is not a pre-determining factor, as it is today. And here, I repeat, I am not focused on the exceptions but the norm – a broad societal representation of the majority: the forgotten, living on the periphery, begging for a mere job at the entrances of shopping complexes, spending hard-earned money constantly fearing unemployment. This is the harsh reality of The Unemployed-Bound-Subject, the lives of blacks in South Africa’s economy today—integral to the profitability of corporates while being excluded from the fruits of their own labour


[1] A dehumanizing identification document imposed on Black South Africans during apartheid

[2] A person younger in age

Dr. Gumani Tshimomola holds a PhD in Geography Economics from the University of the Witwatersrand. As a senior researcher in the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) with over a decade of experience at high political and national levels, his work focuses on the role of the Treasury in South Africa’s political economy, fiscal policy decision-making, austerity measures, and their impact on state capacity and unemployment. He also explores the historical experiences of Black South Africans and their connection to contemporary socio-economic challenges.

The Mozambican people enter the political realm

Rehad Desai writes in the aftermath of last year’s elections in Mozambique, how the country has seen a massive social uprising in the urban areas. Dozens have been killed, beaten and imprisoned as the state has attempted to restore order. The revolt has taken place in the context of disputed elections, economic stagnation and crisis, which has seen the ruling Frelimo party hold onto power with increasing repression.

By Rehad Desai

The Mozambique general election results were announced in late October 2024. The Electoral Commission declared the ruling party, Frelimo, the outright victor in the Presidential, National and Provincial elections. Since then, the country has witnessed an unparalleled social revolt concentrated in the country’s urban areas. Over 100 people have been killed. With the ongoing revolt and repression, by the beginning of January this figure had climbed to an estimated 278.

The upturn in protest is happening in a wider economic context where the country’s economic growth has been stagnant since 2016, despite recent exploitation of natural resources.

The steep rise in the death toll is a result of increased police repression against a largely unarmed populace. They have refused to accept the imposition of the modified election results announced by the government appointed Constitutional Council, the apex court of the country, at the end of December. The judges declared that indeed irregularities had occurred, and went on to decrease the ruling party’s margins of victory. But they still declared Frelimo the overall winner, without providing any substantive evidence as to how they calculated their voting figures.

What is Frelimo?

A potted history of Mozambique’s ruling party is required to help fully grasp why the country is unravelling, creating an uprising of discontent.

Frelimo began its life in 1962 as a nationalist movement dominated by the urban African elite. It was located in the country’s capital in the south of the country, that shares a long and entwined history with the people and economy of South Africa. The geography becomes important because Mozambique has one of the largest coastlines on the continent, stretching a full 2,700km. With an economically weak colonising power, the central and northern parts of the country became a zone of intense extraction. The high degree of naked oppression and exploitation undermined its policy of assimilation, designed to the local Black elite. They instead looked to the wave of anti-colonial revolutions occurring across the world.

It proved impossible for the Portuguese colony to maintain a firm grip on the entire country. Armed resistance to colonial conquest first emerged from the Makonde peasants in the Cabo Delgado region and only ended in 1921. The geographical terrain lent itself to the prosecution of guerilla warfare during the 1960s, allowing Frelimo to create liberated zones with the support of the Mozambique African National Union. The turning point was the Carnation Revolution, initiated by Portuguese soldiers against their own dictatorship in 1974.  This led to the rapid collapse of the colony as the settlers fled. Frelimo soon declared a ceasefire. Rather than winning power militarily, or politically through mass support at home, it was handed to them. This was the context of what locals have dubbed ‘the first war’.

Independence occurred at the height of the Cold War between the US and the USSR. It was formally declared in 1975. following negotiations between Frelimo and Portugal.  Angola, another former colony, soon fell under similar circumstances. It spurred on the confidence of all those who sought an end to the brutal racism of settler colonialism and the cherished goal of national self-determination.

Mozambique’s most southerly and economically developed region borders South Africa, and the country was deeply integrated into the regional capitalist system, an economy dominated by its militarily aggressive apartheid neighbour. They wasted no time in destabilising the country. Consequently, Mozambique had very little choice but to join the Russian economic orbit, where continued military support for its army was traded for political influence. Unsurprisingly, in 1977 Frelimo the movement transformed itself into a political party, declaring itself ‘Marxist Leninist’ and a one-party state. Aware that isolation would doom the nationalist project, it provided bases for the neighbouring liberation movements to train combatants. We all sang the Miriam Makeba song, Mozambique,  Aluta Continua.

Solidarity with the people of Mozambique has been replaced with support for the Frelimo regime, intent on holding onto power at any costs. Since 1994, the ruling party has been compliant in the reintegration of its economy, largely on the terms laid out by South Africa’s economic elite. Many of Frelimo’s leading party members have personally benefitted from the new order of things.

A proxy war?

South African and Rhodesian military offensives against its neighbour were supported by the US. Renamo emerged from Frelimo’s internal frictions that followed its alignment to Russian ‘communism’, aided significantly by its aggressors. Renamo was able to muster local political support in the densely populated north-central part of the country, due to Frelimo’s policy that curtailed the power of the rural chiefs in favour of a party led by urban-based intellectuals. A deeply impoverished peasantry fostered recruitment into the armed sections of Renamo.

A civil war ensued, dubbed ‘the second war’, which led to the loss of over one million lives, a high percentage lost in the Cabo Delgado region. Conventional wisdom viewed the conflict as a proxy war. But it also had deep internal roots that were simultaneously social, political and linguistic. The Macua and Makonde in the north, the Sena and Shona groups in the central parts of the country, and the Shangaan in the south, all experienced power and benefits from independence differently. Only the educated African elite had a command of Portuguese, entrenching the divide. Rural Southern African culture and religion did not sit well with the imposition of autocratic control, accompanied by a programme of ideological conversion.

Democracy only if you turn a blind eye

The emergence of multi-party democracy in 1992, and the reintegration of the south of the country into the Southern African economy, buoyed the emergence of a new and powerful economic elite. The 1990s saw investment limited to the south of the country and added to the notion that the Shangaans (Frelimo) are only interested in looking after themselves. Renamo did spectacularly well in the first elections held in 1994, and there is a strong likelihood it won the 1999 elections. The refusal of international observers to view the final tabulation process raised deep suspicions regarding the official outcome.

The negotiation process to a multi-party democracy ensured the electoral process remained fully and legally under the Frelimo-controlled Election Commission. Membership of the Commission was determined by the party share of the vote. There has been no in-built transparency of the final tabulation process, so elections have been marred by fraud for twenty-five years. Joseph Hanlon is a respected senior academic and analyst who has reported on the country for over four decades. He recently penned a comprehensive report on the history of electoral fraud committed by Frelimo.

A culture of impunity developed alongside a rapid transition away from a state-driven economy to a free market economy. The World Bank and the IMF made support conditional on speedy structural economic reform, in exchange for state loans in the early 1990s. Growth remained consistent for the first decade, but given the weakness of state institutions, a free for all for those with political connections was created. It was the return of the Wild West, a new context in which leading journalists like Carlos Cardoso could be gunned down in broad daylight for his investigative reporting into economic crime.

A struggle for resource wealth

The accumulation of wealth by the new elite was not something that could be hidden. Rather it was flaunted. At the same time, state subsidies to keep transport and food cheaper were gradually being eroded, creating the first waves of street protests by 2010. Around this time, some of the largest deposits of coal and gas in the world were discovered in the country. Corporations were soon queuing up to get in on the act, within an overly intimate relationship between government and big business. David Harvey has titled it an era of Neo Liberalism as Creative Destruction. A cauldron of dissent was in the making, opening new avenues of struggle.

Negative proof can be found in the civil war in Cabo Delgado region that began in 2017. This followed the exploitation of one of the world’s largest offshore gas deposits. Its roots began with unresolved conflicts over local timber, graphite and diamond resources. These represented local grievances, in many instances, and resulted in state-led repression. The region’s ‘third war’ was a result of  many interlocking local and international factors that have recently been studied. The establishment of the gas extraction industry in the far north of the country followed the same pattern as coal mining in the Zambezi.

Community claims to the resources are ignored. The only beneficiaries are the politically connected elites, who receive the crumbs left on the table by the international corporations. The local populace is left to watch as their agricultural and fishing livelihoods are adversely affected. They see themselves as excluded from job opportunities. This is seen by many in academia as the primary driver of conflict.

The Islamists were handed this fertile soil to root their support among the disaffected, particularly among the large number of youth. Their Islamist view, that the natural resources should belong to the people, also clearly resonated. This led to a large military presence of Rwandan, Ugandan and French soldiers to quell the ongoing insurgency, once it became clear that local military were not able to contain the revolt. Presently only the Rwandan military, financed by the EU, remain.

The initial response of the state to local grievances around gas extraction was highly repressive and made the resistance that was emerging more unified. Perhaps the government’s tyrannical response is best understood in the context of the huge loans secretly signed and sealed by the government. This was done on the basis that the country’s recently discovered resource base would allow the country to repay the loans.

The ‘hidden debt’ is known as the ‘tuna bonds scandal’, in which $2.5 billion was loaned in 2012 -2014 by international banks to pay for naval expenditure. It was hidden from parliament and only discovered in 2016. It forced the country to default that year on its sovereign debt owed to the IMF and World Bank, plunging the country into an economic crisis, devaluing its local currency. This is estimated to have cost the country a staggering $11 billion, or an entire year of the country’s GDP, pushing a further two million people into poverty.

A rentier state and class has become openly visible. [1] Shorn of its former radicalism, Frelimo, was embroiled in one corruption scandal after another, and until recently no party or oppositional movement was willing to organise itself against the imposition of this new form of class power. But the increasing disaffection of the ‘Povo’ (the ordinary people) has been most clearly expressed in the urban municipalities. Here, oppositional political forces have emerged to challenge the hold of Frelimo.  However,  its continued control of the Electoral Commission has ensured that the provinces and the capital Maputo would stay in its hands, much to the chagrin of  Venancio Mondlane, the present day leader of the opposition. Hanlon’s report states that Renamo was the clear winner in Maputo in the 2023 municipal election, so Venancio Mondlane should have been the Mayor.

The municipal elections in 2023 were in many ways a turning point when it came to openly brazen fraud. According to Joseph Hanlon:

There was much more central orchestration with little attempt to keep it secret. In the registration, obvious night time registration and busing in outsiders in municipal buses, as well as the WhatsApp group in Beira, look like flaunting power. The Frelimo control of polling station staff with even a book of all polling station staff in Matola, was intentionally provocative. Again, there were no restrictions on the press, CIP or the CIP Eleições – this was the publicity Frelimo wanted. And the final and most public step was the CNE and CC ensuring Renamo did not win Maputo and Matola, despite the overwhelming evidence that they had the most votes. Whereas 1999 had been hidden, this was very public.

The 2024 national elections followed suit. Blatant rigging from above and on the ground by those with vested interests in holding office led to calls for a recount. The Podemos (the Optimist Party for Development),  a centre left grouping running for the first time, came second and officially obtained 25% of the vote.

Elvino Dias, a highly respected lawyer acting on behalf of the organisation’s presidential candidate, Venancio Mondlane, claimed he had possession of the original election tabulations, claiming that victory belonged to Mondlane. A week later Dias was gunned down in death squad fashion. A similar fate met a senior leader of the new party. Police statements brushed aside the killing of the latter as a conjugal dispute.

Mondlane fled the country for his safety. The streets erupted following his Facebook call for a phased general strike. Outrage led to spontaneous anger, to be expressed at state institutions. Frelimo party offices and police stations were specifically targeted. Mondlane’s militant call for protest action galvanised people from across society, leading to numerous internet shutdowns. His anti-corruption and ‘take the country back’ messaging clearly captured the imagination of the disaffected, and particularly the youth. The average median age of Mozambicans is 18.

Who is Venancio Mondlane?

The 50-year-old Mondlane, a university-qualified engineer, first courted popularity through his prosperity-based evangelical preaching. He has praised Brazil’s Bolsonaro, met with Portugal’s far right Chega, whose autocratic rule was overthrown by the 1974 Carnation Revolution, and welcomed Trump’s victory as a protection of American morals and family values. He launched his political career through the MDM, a centre right splinter from Renamo.

In 2023 he decided to run in the presidential elections. He needed a political home, and Podemos needed a presidential candidate, so negotiations began. This led to him becoming the Podemos presidential candidate. This occurred despite his open embrace of neoliberalism, while the party is committed to democratic socialism. A classic marriage of convenience was born. The deal between the two that has recently come to light provides exclusive influence for Mondlane over who gets selected to enter parliament.

To date, the protest movement for democracy has seen hundreds killed, and thousands injured and arrested. Mondlane returned to Mozambique in early January and multi-party talks began,  hoping to extract further concessions from the regime.  Constraints clearly exist regarding the development of an opposition capable of challenging the electoral autocracy of Frelimo and the repressive machinery of the state. But constraints can also be the progenitor of innovation. Unleashed by a charismatic militant right-wing preacher, the entry of the masses into the arena has begun. The regime will be hard pressed to get them to leave. The power to repress should not be equated with the power to rule.

Mondlane called for suspension of the protest movements strikes action and has placed a series of demands that amount for an amnesty for those arrested and detained and free medical support for those injured. Initially he did not rule out accepting an offer to join the government if his conditions were met, but yesterday he backtracked and stated he will not join the government if invited to do so. This had led to the call for low key protests, which have seen the arterial roads into Maputo, the capital to be blocked following the reintroduction of toll fees. The strategy is designed to keep  his support mobilised for the first 100 days of the new Presidential rule of Danile Chapo, the Frelimo candidate and is based on 30 measures which is part of what he calls a ‘Decree’ which involves peoples courts following  an ‘eye for eye’ approach to justice to stem the wave of extrajudicial killings launched by the police.

Whether the embryonic movement can be harnessed by its progressive activists to move beyond a Mondlane leadership, riddled with contradictions, remains to be seen. Unless the movement squarely confronts the class power the neoliberal agenda of the IMF and World Bank has restored, it will quickly lose momentum. History teaches us that clarity and political coherence  are essential for any democratic oppositional movement to confront that power.

A version of this blogpost appeared as ‘Enter the Povo’ on Africa is a Country.

Rehad is a South African  socialist activist, writer and documentary filmmaker. He is currently completing a feature length project on Mozambique, utilising footage shot over a 20 year period.   

Featured Photograph: Electoral Commission of the city of Pemba in Mozambique (2023).

Notes

[1] A rentier class is a class whose wealth primarily comes from passive income, such as rents, dividends, or interest, rather than active work or productive activities.

A just socioecological transformation:  An African perspective

Maha Ben Gadha and Imen Louati report on a two-day workshop held in Tunis, 21-23 February 2025 and convened by the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation. The workshop was part of a collective book project that aims to provide African perspectives on a just socioecological transformation, and served as a critical space for examining the global capitalist order and developing a framework for a decolonised and equitable post-capitalist future.

By Maha Ben Gadha and Imen Louati

The North Africa office of the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation convened a workshop in Tunis, 21-23 February 2025 entitled A just socioecological transformation: An African perspective. The meeting served as a crucial forum for a collective book project, edited by Maha Ben Gadha and Imen Louati. The book’s overarching objective is to challenge the prevailing global economic order which perpetuates accelerated forms of economic domination and ecological plunder in Africa, and to envision an alternative grounded in environmental and social justice, and radical equality.

The book will feature contributions from scholar researchers and activists from across Africa and the Global South. Participants who are also authors in the forthcoming publication included Essam el Korgheli, Matteo Capasso, Mabrouka Mbarek, Razaz Basheir, Asume Osuoka, Maurice Carney, Osama Diab, Emilie Reyes, Safouane Azzouzi, Ndongo Samba Sylla, Fadhel Kaboub and Liu Yé. Ben Radley is also a co-author and other Europe and US based participants in the workshop and overall collaborative project included Corrina Mullin and Ray Bush, Elisa Greco and Giorgos Velegrakis.

During the two days of the workshop, the authors presented their draft chapters and discussed the main thematics of the book. Participants also shared a vision for Africa’s future. Members of the Review of African Political Economy (ROAPE) editorial working group contributed to the project’s review process and the book’s concluding final statement: a manifesto advocating for action and solidarity. Below is a summary of the panels, presentations and debate.

Unmasking contemporary imperialism

The workshop’s opening panel, moderated by Corinna Mullin, provided a critical examination of the enduring legacies of imperialism. The contributors’ analyses revealed that contemporary imperialism transcends mere economic or military dominance, operating as a multifaceted system that actively shapes knowledge production and manipulates financial mechanisms, and controls the movement of money and labour.

Epistemic violence

El Korghli and Capasso argued that contemporary imperialism operates through a ‘constellation of interventionism’ and ‘cognitive warfare,’ aiming to control the ‘ideological-material conditions’ of populations. They supported this claim by analysing the US Congress Global Fragility Act and its impact on knowledge production in Libya, highlighting instances of ‘epistemic violence’ which are practices that aim to undermine and suppress Southern knowledge production that serve to dismantle the intellectual and cultural foundations of resistance. This includes the deliberate erasure of alternative epistemologies (epistemicide), the destruction of educational infrastructure (educide), and the physical targeting of knowledge spaces and individuals (scholasticide), as tragically evidenced recently in Palestine. They concluded with an invitation to a broader theoretical reflection on the kind of knowledge that needs to be produced in Africa that actively ‘delinks’ from imperialism and its military, financial and ideological tools.

A materialist approach

While recognizing the importance of tracing the historical roots and enduring impacts of contemporary imperialism, M’barek advocated for a dialectical and materialist approach, showing the interconnectedness of economic, social, and political factors, by tracing value extraction within capitalism, and focusing on the dynamic movement of money and labour. She used the Tunisian political process after 2011 to expose the financial manipulation that happened, and deployed Modern Monetary Theory (MMT) as a lens to analyse the currency mechanisms used to reinforce imperial control. She underscored how the notion of ‘imperial rent’ effectively captured the extraction of value from the often-unseen social reproductive work performed predominantly by African women, which underpinned global capital accumulation. Critically, she highlighted the structural nature of racism as a tool used by imperialism to divide the working class and maintain racial divisions.

Resisting green imperialism: Toward ecological justice

The second panel of the workshop featured Asume Osuoka, Rezaz Basheir, Safouane Azzouzi, and Maurice Carney, and was moderated by Ray Bush.  The panel critically examined the ways in which seemingly progressive ‘green’ initiatives can perpetuate neocolonial control and resource extraction highlighting the dangers of ‘blind environmentalism’ and growth-led policies. From the discourse of fossil fuel divestment to the design of ‘green cities,’ these case studies demonstrate the hidden strategies employed to perpetuate value extraction. Understanding these strategies is essential for developing effective resistance to them.

Blind environmentalism

Highlighting the disconnect between the expectations of Western environmental groups and the lived realities of communities in the Niger Delta, Isaac Osuoka exposed the inherent contradictions within the dominant climate discourse, particularly concerning fossil fuel divestment and carbon trading mechanisms which often lead to a new form of land grabbing in African countries, perpetuating existing patterns of exploitation.

Seemingly, in the name of northern Green transition, Maurice Carney detailed the ongoing exploitation of the Congo’s resources, particularly critical minerals like cobalt, highlighting the historical continuity of extractive practices from the colonial era to the present and the devastating human and environmental costs in the rain forests and the mining basin. He exposed the role of corporations, governments, and international institutions in perpetuating this exploitation, and highlighted the work of the Basandja Coalition struggle in resisting it.

Razaz Basheir used case studies from Kigali, Kampala, and Addis Ababa to challenge common ‘green mobility myths’ in East African cities. She highlighted how the frameworks promoted by international institutions like the World Bank often fall short in addressing the region’s realities. Her work focused on the unique challenges of African urbanisation, such as fast-growing populations, informal transport systems, and ongoing energy poverty. Basheir showcased how ‘green projects’ driven by global capital, reinforce existing power structures and exacerbate inequalities, emphasising the need for industrial policies focused on low-polluting manufacturing, and the expansion of public goods and services, for a genuine urban African well-being.

In contrast to the urban focus, Azzouzi addressed the role of design in rural contexts. He reviewed the role of design in perpetuating extractivism and neoliberal paradigms. He argued that design, often presented as a solution, is in fact used as a tool for cultural imperialism and the creation of new markets for exploitation. Azzouzi called for a shift from object-centered design to value-centered design, emphasising the importance of commoning and community economies. He used the example of the Oasis in Tunisia, to show how local communities can use commoning and autonomous design to resist the destruction of their livelihoods.

The discussions emphasised the need to move beyond localized victories and false enemies, to confront the systemic forces behind global inequality and ecological devastation. Building on the previous panel’s analysis of the ‘worldwide law of value,’ this session illustrated its practical impact through exploitative practices, reinforcing the necessity for anti-imperialist and decolonised approaches to fundamental transformation. The central question became: how to break free from economic dependency and dismantle unequal power structures to build a truly just and equitable society? The subsequent panel addressed these critical concerns, exploring concrete strategies for decolonised development, and establishing the conditions for sustainable, autonomous, and feminist radical transformation.

 Rethinking sovereign development: Economic alternatives for Africa

The second half of the workshop featured Emilia Reyes, Ndongo Samba Sylla, Osama Diab, Fadhel Kaboub and Liu Yé, and was moderated by Maha Ben Gadha. Each contributor offered distinct yet interconnected critiques of the prevailing global economic order and proposed radical and complementary alternatives to it. Emphasis was placed on the need for economic sovereignty, ecological sustainability, social justice, and Global South solidarity.

Emilia Reyes called for a radical rupture with the capital-centric system, challenging ‘collapsology’ and right-wing narratives, advocating instead for a feminist-informed delinking strategy that prioritizes the ‘logics of life’ over the relentless accumulation of capital. This strategy entails the active dismantling of the imperialist capitalist system, not simply its reform. She emphasised the necessity to challenge the ‘sexual division of labour’ within any sovereign development framework. This vision called for a fundamental rethink of what we mean by ‘development’—one that puts social well-being and environment at its core. It must go beyond financial metrics to include both paid and unpaid forms of economic activity, ensuring the essential conditions for life itself.

Ndongo Samba Sylla shed light on how transnational corporations continue to exploit Africa’s resources, exposing the deep power imbalances at play. He emphasised the urgent need for African nations to regain greater control—both technically and physically—over their export sectors. He then went on to examine the recurring debt crises, methodologically demonstrating why the continent remains vulnerable despite past debt relief initiatives and commodity booms. He used the MMT (Modern Monetary Theory) lens to unpack the concept of ‘external constraint’ and exposed how profit and dividend repatriations far exceed debt service, and how foreign earnings from the export sector reveal the true source of economic plunder. The contribution of Sylla provided a powerful critique of the conventional understanding of debt and development and a crucial understanding for African countries on how to manage real resource constraints. He urged African countries to strengthen their control over export sectors, prioritise locally resourced projects, and engage in strategic economic diplomacy to achieve effective national sovereignty.

Building upon Sylla’s exposure of systemic resource plunder, Osama Diab argued that many Global South countries, particularly in Africa, are trapped in an export-led development paradigm that perpetuates their economic vulnerability. He advocated for a radical shift towards a ‘less for more’ approach, using this approach in very concrete ways for many commodities characterised by low price elasticity of demand, demonstrating that exporting less could actually increase revenues, while simultaneously mitigating the severe ecological devastation caused by relentless resource extraction. He proposed the formation of commodity alliances to counter the power of global monopolies and advocated for controlled production cuts, drawing parallels to historical and contemporary examples of successful interventions.

Addressing these national economic vulnerabilities necessitates a broader understanding of Africa and the Global South’s position within the global economic order and the evolving dynamics of international relations. This understanding is essential to effectively leverage geopolitical power.

Fadhel Kaboub’s intervention centered on the imperative of decolonising the global economic order. He envisioned a unified Global South, with Africa playing a pivotal role, leveraging its renewable energy resources to disrupt the current hierarchy. He advocated for strategic technology partnerships, particularly with China, to reposition the Global South as a central force, rather than a new dominant power. Kaboub also demonstrated the practical application of Modern Monetary Theory, showing how nations with monetary sovereignty can finance their development internally, ensuring economic autonomy through strategic investments. That is, a strategic approach to industrial policy emphasising the importance of redefining ownership models and ensuring equitable distribution of value. He also stressed the need for collective security pacts and food security strategies to counter imperialist pressure.

Liu Yé analysed the transformation of China’s international development cooperation and China’s engagement with the Global South, emphasising the importance of understanding multipolarity as a stage for manoeuvre rather than a fixed end goal. He explained that recent economic challenges and a revival of Maoist-era solidarity have driven China to re-engage with the Global South. Liu Ye stressed the necessity of understanding the nuances of China-Africa relations for achieving genuine equality, emphasizing it as a dynamic, ongoing process.

The ‘Rethinking Development’ panel, enriched by audience contributions, critically examined delinking and alternative development models. While recognising the challenges of collective action and geopolitical risks, the discussion also addressed the very definition of progress. Panellists advocated transformative action centred on social justice, economic sovereignty and ecological integrity. This included building grassroots alliances, reorienting industrialisation towards essential needs, and implementing appropriate technologies for local empowerment.  Central themes were prioritising ‘life’ through decolonised feminist perspectives, and highlighting the need to overcome the ‘crisis of imagination’ to envision post-capitalist futures.

A Manifesto and Call to Action

The workshop served as a critical space for examining the global capitalist order and developing a framework for a decolonised and equitable post-capitalist future. The Manifesto for African Liberation, signed by all participants, is its culmination, and will serve as a powerful conclusion to the book.

Maha Ben Gadha is a researcher, activist, and advocate for social and economic justice, particularly within the context of North Africa and the broader Global South. She is senior economic program manager at the Rosa Luxemburg foundation. Her work focuses on issues of development, decolonization, and alternative economic models. She is co-editor of Economic and Monetary Sovereignty in 21st Century Africa, published by Pluto Press.

Imen Louati earned her PhD in Ecology and Evolution from Sorbonne University in 2015. Since then, she has worked as a researcher and program manager with both national and international organizations. Her research focuses on topics such as food sovereignty, access to water, to energy and to natural resources, trade agreements and the influence of financial institutions on public policies, energy transition and just transition. She works to supports actors in North Africa who are striving to develop transformative socio-ecological alternatives.

For 50 years, ROAPE has brought our readers path-breaking analysis on radical African political economy in our quarterly review, and for more than ten years on our website. Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive. Please consider subscribing or donating today.

For 50 years, ROAPE has brought our readers pathbreaking analysis on radical African political economy in our quarterly review, and for more than ten years on our website. Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive.
We use cookies to collect and analyse information on site performance and usage, and to enhance and customise content. By clicking into any content on this site, you agree to allow cookies to be placed. To find out more see our
For 50 years, ROAPE has brought our readers pathbreaking analysis on radical African political economy in our quarterly review, and for more than ten years on our website. Subscriptions and donations are essential to keeping our review and website alive.
We use cookies to collect and analyse information on site performance and usage, and to enhance and customise content. By clicking into any content on this site, you agree to allow cookies to be placed. To find out more see our