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A Manifesto for an Ecosocial Energy Transition from the South

The world is confronting an unprecedented multidimensional crisis – ecological, economic, geopolitical – each interacting with the other. Yet it is the Global South that yet again is becoming the sacrificial zone, providing the resources for the countries of the North. In a powerful statement from the Global South movements challenge the existing neo-colonial energy model and offer a just alternative.

An appeal to leaders, institutions, and our brothers and sisters.

More than three years after the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic – and now alongside the catastrophic consequences of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine – a “new normal” has emerged. This new global status quo reflects a worsening of various crises: social, economic, political, ecological, bio-medical, and geopolitical.

Environmental collapse approaches. Everyday life has become ever more militarised. Access to good food, clean water, and affordable health care has become even more restricted. More governments have turned autocratic. The wealthy have become wealthier, the powerful more powerful, and unregulated technology has only accelerated these trends.

The engines of this unjust status quo – capitalism, patriarchy, colonialism, and various fundamentalisms – are making a bad situation worse. Therefore, we must urgently debate and implement new visions of eco-social transition and transformation that are gender-just, regenerative, and popular, that are at once local and international.

In this Manifesto for an Ecosocial Energy Transition from the Peoples of the South, we hold that the problems of the Global – geopolitical – South are different from those of the Global North and rising powers such as China. An imbalance of power between these two realms not only persists because of a colonial legacy but has deepened because of a neo-colonial energy model.

In the context of climate change, ever rising energy needs, and biodiversity loss, the capitalist centres have stepped up the pressure to extract natural wealth and rely on cheap labour from the countries on the periphery. Not only is the well-known extractive paradigm still in place but the North’s ecological debt to the South is rising.

What’s new about this current moment are the “clean energy transitions” of the North that have put even more pressure on the Global South to yield up cobalt and lithium for the production of high-tech batteries, balsa wood for wind turbines, land for large solar arrays, and new infrastructure for hydrogen megaprojects. This decarbonisation of the rich, which is market-based and export-oriented, depends on a new phase of environmental despoliation of the Global South, which affects the lives of millions of women, men, and children, not to mention non-human life. Women, especially from agrarian societies, are amongst the most impacted. In this way, the Global South has once again become a zone of sacrifice, a basket of purportedly inexhaustible resources for the countries of the North.

A priority for the Global North has been to secure global supply chains, especially of critical raw materials, and prevent certain countries, like China, from monopolising access. The G7 trade ministers, for instance, recently championed a responsible, sustainable, and transparent supply chain for critical minerals via international cooperation‚ policy, and finance, including the facilitation of trade in environmental goods and services through the World Trade Organisation (WTO).

The Global North has pushed for more trade and investment agreements with the Global South to satisfy its need for resources, particularly those integral to “clean energy transitions”. These agreements, designed to reduce barriers to trade and investment, protect and enhance corporate power and rights by subjecting states to potential legal suits according to investor-state dispute settlement (ISDS) mechanisms. The Global North is using these agreements to control the “clean energy transition” and create a new colonialism.

Governments of the South, meanwhile, have fallen into a debt trap, borrowing money to build up industries and large-scale agriculture to supply the North. To repay these debts, governments have felt compelled to extract more resources from the ground, creating a vicious circle of inequality.

Today, the imperative to move beyond fossil fuels without any significant reduction in consumption in the North has only increased the pressure to exploit these natural resources. Moreover, as it moves ahead with its own energy transitions, the North has paid only lip service to its responsibility to address its historical and rising ecological debt to the South.

Minor changes in the energy matrix are not enough. The entire energy system must be transformed, from production and distribution to consumption and waste. Substituting electric vehicles for internal-combustion cars is insufficient, for the entire transportation model needs changing, with a reduction of energy consumption and the promotion of sustainable options.

In this way, relations must become more equitable not only between the centre and periphery countries but also within countries between the elite and the public. Corrupt elites in the Global South have also collaborated in this unjust system by profiting from extraction, repressing human rights and environmental defenders, and perpetuating economic inequality.

Rather than solely technological, the solutions to these interlocked crises are above all political.

Demands for justice

As activists, intellectuals, and organisations from different countries of the South, we call on change agents from different parts of the world to commit to a radical, democratic, gender-just, regenerative, and popular eco-social transition that transforms both the energy sector and the industrial and agricultural spheres that depend on large-scale energy inputs. According to the different movements for climate justice, “transition is inevitable, but justice is not”.

We still have time to start a just and democratic transition. We can transition away from the neo-liberal economic system in a direction that sustains life, combines social justice with environmental justice, brings together egalitarian and democratic values with a resilient, holistic social policy, and restores an ecological balance necessary for a healthy planet. But for that we need more political imagination and more utopian visions of another society that is socially just and respects our planetary common house.

The energy transition should be part of a comprehensive vision that addresses radical inequality in the distribution of energy resources and advances energy democracy. It should de-emphasise large-scale institutions – corporate agriculture, huge energy companies – as well as market-based solutions. Instead, it must strengthen the resilience of civil society and social organisations.

Therefore, we make the following 8 demands:

  1. We warn that an energy transition led by corporate megaprojects, coming from the Global North and accepted by numerous governments in the South, entails the enlargement of the zones of sacrifice throughout the Global South, the persistence of the colonial legacy, patriarchy, and the debt trap. Energy is an elemental and inalienable human right, and energy democracy should be our goal.
  2. We call on the peoples of the South to reject false solutions that come with new forms of energy colonialism, now in the name of a Green transition. We make an explicit call to continue political coordination among the peoples of the South while also pursuing strategic alliances with critical sectors in the North.
  3. To mitigate the havoc of the climate crisis and advance a just and popular eco-social transition, we demand the payment of the ecological debt. This means, in the face of the disproportionate Global North responsibility for the climate crisis and ecological collapse, the real implementation of a system of compensation to the Global South. This system should include a considerable transfer of funds and appropriate technology and should consider sovereign debt cancellation for the countries of the South. We support reparations for loss and damage experienced by Indigenous peoples, vulnerable groups and local communities due to mining, big dams, and dirty energy projects.
  4. We reject the expansion of the hydrocarbon border in our countries – through fracking and offshore projects – and repudiate the hypocritical discourse of the European Union, which recently declared natural gas and nuclear energy to be “clean energies”. As already proposed in the Yasuni Initiative in Ecuador in 2007 and today supported by many social sectors and organisations, we endorse leaving fossil fuels underground and generating the social and labour conditions necessary to abandon extractivism and move toward a post-fossil-fuel future.
  5. We similarly reject “green colonialism” in the form of land grabs for solar and wind farms, the indiscriminate mining of critical minerals, and the promotion of technological “fixes” such as blue or grey hydrogen. Enclosure, exclusion, violence, encroachment, and entrenchment have characterised past and current North-South energy relations and are not acceptable in an era of eco-social transitions.
  6. We demand the genuine protection of environment and human rights defenders, particularly Indigenous peoples and women at the forefront of resisting extractivism.
  7. The elimination of energy poverty in the countries of the South should be among our fundamental objectives – as well as the energy poverty of parts of the Global North – through alternative, decentralised, equitably distributed projects of renewable energy that are owned and operated by communities themselves.
  8. We denounce international trade agreements that penalise countries that want to curb fossil fuel extraction. We must stop the use of trade and investment agreements controlled by multinational corporations that ultimately promote more extraction and reinforce a new colonialism.

Our eco-social alternative is based on countless struggles, strategies, proposals, and community-based initiatives. Our manifesto connects with the lived experience and critical perspectives of Indigenous peoples and other local communities, women, and youth throughout the Global South. It is inspired by the work done on the rights of nature, buen vivir, vivir sabroso, sumac kawsay, ubuntu, swaraj, the commons, the care economy, agroecology, food sovereignty, post-extractivism, the pluriverse, autonomy, and energy sovereignty. Above all, we call for a radical, democratic, popular, gender-just, regenerative, and comprehensive eco-social transition.

Following the steps of the Ecosocial and Intercultural Pact of the South, this manifesto proposes a dynamic platform that invites you to join our shared struggle for transformation by helping to create collective visions and collective solutions. We invite you to endorse this manifesto with your signature.

Short list of organisational sponsors

Actrices Argentinas
BioVision Africa
Censat Agua Viva-Amigos de la Tierra Colombia
Centre de Recherches et d’Appui pour les Alternatives de Développement – Océan Indien
Centre for Labour Studies, National Law School of India University, Bangalore
Chile Sin Ecocidio
Consumers Association of Penang
Cooperativa Macondo
EcoEquity
Ecosocial and Intercultural Pact of the South
Ekomarin
Endorois Welfare Council
Extinction Rebellion Medellín
Focus on the Global South
Friends of the Earth Malaysia
Global Justice Now
Global Tapestry of Alternatives
Greenpeace
Grupo Socioambiental Lotos
Health of Mother Earth Foundation
Kebetkache Women Development & Resource Centre
Les Amis de la Terre Togo
Mining Watch Canada
NGO Forum on ADB
Observatorio de Ecología Política de Venezuela
People’s Resource Center
Peoples Response Network
Secretariado Social Mexicano
Seminario permanente Re-Evolución de la Salud
Ser Humanos
Sustainable Holistic Development Foundation
Third World Network
Transnational Institute
War on Want
WoMin

Short list of Individual signatories (institutions for identification purposes only)

Alberto Acosta (Ecuador)
Volahery Andriamanantensasoa, CRAAD-OI (Madagascar)
Alhafiz Atsari, EKOMARIN (Indonesia)
Haris Azhar (Indonesia)
Gerry Arances, Center for Energy, Ecology, and Development (Philippines)
Tatiana Roa Avendaño, Censat Agua Viva-Amigos de la Tierra (Colombia)
Nnimmo Bassey, Health of Mother Earth Foundation (Nigeria)
Karina Batthyany, CLACSO (Uruguay)
Walden Bello, Laban ng Masa (Philippines)
Lucio Cuenca Berger, Observatorio Latinoamericano de Conflictos Ambientales (Chile)
Patrick Bond, University of Johannesburg (South Africa)
Mirta Susana Busnelli, Actrices Argentinas (Argentina)
Fiona Dove, Transnational Institute (Netherlands/South Africa)
Desmond D’Sa, South Durban Community Environmental Alliance (South Africa)
Jose De Echave, CooperAccion (Peru)
Arturo Escobar, UNC Chapel Hill (US/Colombia)
Ashish Kothari, Global Tapestry of Alternatives (India)
Makoma Lekalakala, Earthlife Africa (South Africa)
Alex Lenferna, Climate Justice Coalition (South Africa)
Xochitl Leyva, Ciesas Sureste (Mexico)
Thuli Makama, Oil Change International (Swaziland)
Marilyn Machado Mosquera, Kaugro ri Changaina (Colombia)
Kavita Naidu, Progressive International (Fiji/Australia)
Asad Rehman, War on Want (UK)
Oscar Rivas, Partido Ecologista Verde (Paraguay)
Fernando Russo, CTA (Argentina)
Yeb Sano (Philippines)
Rocío Silva-Santisteban, Comite Ana Tallada (Peru)
Gustavo Castro Soto, Otros Mundos Chiapas (Mexico)
Maristella Svampa, Ecosocial and Intercultural Pact of the South (Argentina)
Pablo Vommaro, UBA/CLACSO (Argentina)
Noble Wadzah, Oilwatch (Ghana)
Chima Williams, Friends of the Eath (Nigeria)
Ivonne Yanez, Accion Ecologica (Ecuador)
Raúl Zibechi, Brecha (Uruguay)

Featured Photograph: Climate activists from the Global South outside COP27 in Egypt in (Friends of the Earth International).

Reading Cabral in 1993: Killing a man but not his work

In the first of three essays to mark the fiftieth anniversary of national revolutionary leader Amilcar Cabral’s murder in 1973, first published in the ROAPE journal thirty years ago, Lars Rudebeck celebrates Cabral’s extraordinary writing, speeches and interviews. The piece includes reflections on personal conversations Rudebeck held with Cabral at various points. While celebratory, Rudebeck also perceives in the writings and politics of Cabral inadequate attention to the post-colonial situation and the question of how to democratise power over the economy and transform the relations of production.

By Lars Rudebeck

In the evening of 20 January 1973, Amilcar Cabral was shot to death outside his house in Conakry, capital of the Republic of Guinea. Although acting in collusion with the Portuguese colonial forces, the murderer was in fact a member of the PAIGC (Partido Africano da Independencia da Guine e Cabo Verde), the liberation movement for Guinea-Bissau that Cabral himself had launched in September 1956, sixteen and a half years earlier, and which he had led since then with striking success up until the eve of independence and state sovereignty for Guinea-Bissau.

PAIGC headquarters in Bissau, Guinea-Bissau. Wikimedia Commons, 9 February 2019.

Twenty years after Cabral’s murder, his name is only rarely mentioned in the international media. His historical significance remains intact, however, not only as an outstanding leader of African decolonisation but also as a political thinker and strategist of unusual merits. Although originating and reaching its most concrete goals in Guinea and Cape Verde, in terms of intellectual scope and political impact his work transcended by far the narrow geographical limits of those two countries. Among the leading figures in modern African history, Cabral was in fact unique in his capacity to integrate political practice and theory into a coherent whole; combining as he did elements of classical Marxism and neo-Marxist dependency theory in his analysis of social reality, and skillfully applying this to the concrete task of decolonising his native land.

Cabral’s Written Work

In contributing to ROAPE’s commemoration issue, I was asked to select excerpts from Cabral’s writings. The editors’ idea was for the selected texts to illustrate, within a few pages/not only Cabral’s historical achievements and intellectual methodology but also the way he wanted to combine the two goals of democratic participation and organisational efficiency. A recent authoritative bibliography of Cabral’s collected writings covers over 50 pages of titles on a wide range of topics (Chilcote, 1991:179-231). Furthermore, these have to be viewed in the context of his practice. The challenge was thus considerable and can only be partially met.

Views on Democracy and Organisation

We will begin at the end by quoting Cabral’s 1973 New Year’s message to his Guinean and Cape Verdean compatriots broadcast in early January 1973 by PAIGC’s Radio Libertagao, only a few weeks before he was killed (Cabral, 1980:288-289, 294). This was to become his political testament.

As Cabral was speaking on the radio in his clear intensive staccato voice (Endnote 1), the armed struggle for independence was still raging in its tenth year, victory was within sight. Cabral speaks of it as certain, without demagoguery. Still, at that moment, nobody could predict that in only a little more than a year later, on 25 April 1974, the fascist regime in Lisbon would be toppled by a coup, swiftly triggering in turn the independence of Guinea in 1974, and in 1975, that of the other Portuguese colonies. The fall of fascism in Portugal was brought about by young officers of the colonial army who had learnt the hard way, not least in the swamps and jungles of Guinea, that classical colonialism was coming to its end in Africa. These dramatic events in the history of decolonisation can be causally linked, historically, to the very successes of Cabral’s political and military strategy.

Our extract from Cabral’s 1973 New Year’s message thus illustrates his greatest and most concrete historical achievement, that of leading Portuguese Guinea/Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde to the threshold of independence, despite the determination of the Portuguese colonial regime to endure. By the attention paid to the 1972 elections in the PAIGC-held areas of Guinea and to the formation of a People’s Assembly — which actually did meet eight months after Cabral’s death, on 24 September 1973, to proclaim unilaterally the de jure existence of the state of Guinea-Bissau — the extract also demonstrates the importance Cabral attached to popular participation and to democratic procedure. The serious question of under what conditions radical democracy could actually have been expected to function in the post-colonial situation is not touched upon, however.

New Year’s Message, January 1973

Comrades, compatriots. At this moment when we are beginning a new year of life and struggle and our fight for the independence of our African people is ten years old, I must remind everyone — militants, combatants, members responsible for specific tasks (Endnote 2) and leaders in our great Party — that it is time for action and not words. Time for action in Guine, action that is each day more vigorous and more effective (Endnote 3), in order to inflict greater defeats on the Portuguese colonialists and remove them from all their criminal and vain pretensions of reconquering our land. Action that is constantly more developed and better organised in Cape Verde to carry the struggle into a new phase, in accordance with the aspirations of our people and the imperatives of the total liberation of our African country.

I must, however, respect tradition by addressing a few words to you at a time when all sane human beings — those who want peace, freedom and happiness for all (Endnote 4) — renew their hopes and the belief in a better life for mankind, in dignity, independence and genuine progress for all peoples.

As you all know, in the past year we held general elections in the liberated areas, with universal suffrage and a secret vote, for the creation of Regional Councils and the first National Assembly in our people’s history. In all sectors of all regions, the elections were conducted in an atmosphere of great enthusiasm on the part of the population. The electorate voted massively for the lists that had been drawn up after eight months of public and democratic discussions in which the representatives of each sector were selected. When the elected Regional Councils met, they elected in their turn representatives to the People’s National Assembly from among their members. This will have 120 members, of whom 80 were elected from among the mass of the people and 40 from among the political cadres, soldiers, technicians and others of the Party. As you know, the representatives for the sectors temporarily occupied by the colonialists have been chosen provisionally.

In the course of this coming year and as soon as it is conveniently possible we shall call a meeting of our People’s National Assembly in Guinea, so that it can fulfill the historic mission incumbent on it: the proclamation of the existence of our state, the creation of an executive for this state and the promulgation of a fundamental law—that of the first constitution in our history — which will be the basis of the active existence of our African nation. That is to say: legitimate representatives of our people, chosen by the populations and freely elected by conscientious and patriotic citizens of our land, will proceed to the most important act of their life and of the life of our people, that of declaring before the world that our African nation, forged in the struggle, is irrevocably determined to march forward to independence without waiting for the consent of the Portuguese colonialists and that from then on the executive of our state under the leadership of our Party, the PAIGC, will be the sole, true and legitimate representative of our people in all the national and international questions that concern them.

We are moving from the situation of a colony which has a liberation movement, and whose people have already liberated in ten years of armed struggle the greater part of their national territory, to the situation of a country which runs its own state and which has part of its national territory occupied by foreign armed forces.

Concern with the war and with political work should not, however, make us forget or even underestimate the importance of our activities at the economic, social and cultural levels, as the foundation of the new life we are creating in the liberated areas. We must all, but mainly the cadres who specialise in these matters, give the closest attention to questions of the economy, health, social welfare, education and culture, so as to improve our work significantly and to be ready to face the great problems we have to face with the new situation … so many new problems, but the more complex the more exciting, which we must be capable of solving at the same time as we intensify and develop vigorous action at the politico-military level to expel the colonial troops from the positions they still occupy in our land of Guine and Cape Verde.

PAIGC soldiers in Guinea-Bissau, Coutinho Collection. Wikimedia Commons, 1973.

Intellectual Methodology

The 1973 New Year’s message is straight and clear. In that sense it does indeed illustrate Amilcar Cabral’s intellectual methodology. But for a more theoretical grasp, we have to consult other parts of his work. The most frequently quoted version of Cabral’s general view of the conditions of social transformation in a colonised, dependent and underdeveloped country, such as his own, is found in the address he delivered to the first Tricontinental Conference of the Peoples of Asia, Africa and Latin America in Havana, 3-12 January 1966. (Endnote 5) Cabral adopts the orthodox view that history goes through ‘at least three stages’, each definable by the ‘level of productive forces’ (p.78) which is assumed to rise as history moves on, thus making possible more advanced forms of social and political organisation. Cabral’s scheme differs from the conventional Marxist one by offering a stage of their own to communal societies, thus avoiding seeing these as mere pre-stages to history, while grouping instead feudal and bourgeois societies in the same broad category, thus dethroning capitalism by putting it at par with feudalism.

Here we shall only quote one important introductory point. Cabral had, he said, found that a fundamental part of the struggle for national liberation was actually lacking on the agenda of the conference. This was ‘the struggle against our own weaknesses‘ (Cabral, 1969:74):

Obviously, other cases differ from that of Guinea; but our experience has shown us that … this battle against ourselves, no matter what difficulties the enemy may create, is the most difficult of all, whether for the present or the future of our peoples. This battle is the expression of the internal contradictions in the economic, social and cultural (and therefore historical) reality of each of our countries. We are convinced that any national or social revolution which is not based on knowledge of this fundamental reality runs a grave risk of being condemned to failure.

This is a sternly realistic observation, characteristic of Cabral. But let us turn to an even earlier document, Brief analysis of the social structure in Guinea (Cabral, 1969:46-61), first presented in on 1-3 May 1964, to a seminar held at the Frantz Fanon Centre in Treviglio, Milan to illustrate his way of moving from theoretically penetrating analysis to political conclusions: (Endnote 6)

I should like to tell you something about the situation in our country, ‘Portuguese’ Guinea, beginning with an analysis of the social situation, which has served as the basis for our struggle for national liberation. I shall make a distinction between the rural areas and the towns, or rather the urban centres, not that these are to be considered mutually opposed.

In the rural areas we have found it necessary to distinguish between two distinct groups; on the one hand, the group which we consider semi-feudal, represented by the Fulas and, on the other hand, the group which we consider, so to speak, without any defined form of state organisation, represented by the Balantes.

This distinction between the two groups is theoretically founded in sociology and anthropology. Two years later, in his speech in Havana, Cabral would also use for the first time the terms vertical versus horizontal social structure to denote the conceptual dichotomy implied (p.78). In Milan he still used more common words, although with great precision. The most general point made (pp.49-50) was that it had proved less difficult to mobilise the Balanta and similar groups than the Fula for the struggle against the Portuguese colonial regime, as . . .

the Fula peasants have a strong tendency to follow their chiefs. Thorough and intensive work was therefore needed to mobilise them .. .(on the other hand) … these groups without any defined organisation put up much more resistance against the Portuguese than the others and they have maintained intact their tradition of resistance to colonial penetration. This is the group that we found most ready to accept the idea of national liberation.

Limits of Cabral’s Analysis

It is not possible here to develop the complex theoretical and political issues related to the way Cabral applied the vertical/horizontal distinction. A recent attempt to sum up my own and others’ contributions to this debate is found in Rudebeck, 1992:48-54. In 1964 Cabral consciously focused attention on that dimension of the social structure of Guinean society that was most relevant to the task of mobilising the peasants for anti-colonial resistance. He was successful in this, as we know.

It is easy, today, to point out that Cabral’s analysis was far from complete, and in fact much more limited to the specific tasks of the anti-colonial struggle than was generally thought at the time. This seems to have become clear to Cabral himself, as the struggle went on. In Conakry on 10 May 1972, for instance, he described at length to me the system of government he wanted to see at work in his country after the achievement of independence. This was to be a system with political and economic power firmly anchored in decentralised assemblies of the people. The functions of the state were to be strictly limited. In our discussion Cabral called this ‘cooperative democracy’.

In a revolutionary perspective, the cooperative system obviously rests on the assumption that the people are a ‘revolutionary force’ and not a mere ‘physical force’, as Cabral had labelled the Guinean peasants in his 1964 seminar lecture in Milan (p.50). We see thus, how two different modes of thinking were ambivalently posed against each other within Cabral’s own analysis of the social basis of the liberation movement: one marked by Leninist party theory combined with conventional modernisation thinking, the other revolutionary-democratic. The problem for the future was that the question of the social basis of the democratic alternative was not confronted, thus opening up in practice a one-party system cut off from the majority of the people, once independence had been achieved.

Cabral’s theoretical work mirrors his political task. Taken as a whole, it never reached beyond the point of independence, whether in politics or economics, except for fragmentary pieces. Nowhere in his writings do we find, seriously conceptualised, any realistic way of making the revolutionary-democratic alternative come true in the post-colonial situation. The only way considered is the unrealistic one of asking the ‘petty bourgeoisie’ to ‘abandon power to the workers and the peasants’, as he put it in Milan (1964:57). In Havana (1966:89), in an expression that would become famous, he asked for the ‘class suicide’ of the petty bourgeois leaders of the liberation struggle. The passage is subtly ambiguous. Are we listening to a realist, a voluntarist, or a prophet?

To retain the power which national liberation puts in its hands, the petty bourgeoisie has only one path: to give free rein to its natural tendencies to become more bourgeois, to permit the development of a bureaucratic and intermediary bourgeoisie in the commercial cycle, in order to transform itself into a national pseudo-bourgeoisie, that is to say to negate the revolution and necessarily ally itself with imperialist capital. Now all this corresponds to the neo-colonial situation, that is, to the betrayal of the objectives of national liberation. In order not to betray these objectives, the petty bourgeoisie has only one choice: …the revolutionary petty bourgeoisie must be capable of committing suicide as a class in order to be reborn as revolutionary workers, completely identified with the deepest aspirations of the people to which they belong.

Woman PAIGC soldier playing cards, Coutinho Collection. Wikimedia Commons, 1973.

The Weapon of Theory

The Weapon of Theory is the title of one of Cabral’s most famous texts. It could have been the title of his entire written work. Let us look briefly at three passages, all of which carry significance beyond the context of the anti-colonial struggle, precisely because they are theoretically founded.

The first may seem initially to be limited to the concrete context of the anti-colonial struggle in Guinea. In reality it points toward the future, by shedding light in hindsight on aspects of the development failures of independent Guinea-Bissau. The quote is from my transcription into Portuguese of a crioulo tape recording from a seminar for Party people held in August 1971 (Cabral, 1971:14):

Regardless of their specific responsibilities, the comrades in charge of all branches of our organisation should help our people organise collective fields. This is a great experiment for our future, comrades. Those who do not understand this have not yet understood anything of our struggle, however much they have fought and however heroic they may be.

What disturbed Cabral was that mobilisation in the PAIGC-controlled areas of the country was mainly political and ideological, while very little economic transformation was taking place. Paradoxically, instead, the conditions of the liberation war tended even to reinforce traditional self-reliance in production, in the sense that commercial and administrative links to the colonial system were cut. Since independence, on the other hand, any attempts to develop agriculture through collectivisation have been undermined by the fact that the leadership gave a ‘free rein to its natural tendencies to become more bourgeois’, to use Cabral’s prophetic phrase.

At least in the short run, that fact has in turn contributed to heightening the significance of ethnicity in politics, in Guinea as elsewhere. In 1993, in times of ‘ethnic cleansing’ world-wide, the following definition of ‘ethnicity’ offered by Cabral thus retains all its validity, theoretically as well as politically (my translation from Guinea-Bissau: Alfabeto, 1984:26):

It is not the existence of a race, an ethnic group, or anything of the kind, that defines the behaviour of a human aggregate. No, it is the social environment and the problems arising from the reactions of this environment and the reactions of the human beings in question. AH this defines the behaviour of a human aggregate.

But how is it possible to change environments that give rise to racist or ethnicist behaviour? In another one of Cabral’s lectures to party workers in 1969, we find a philosophical answer to that question (Cabral, 1980:44-45) (Endnote 7):

Our view is the following: man is part of reality, reality exists independently of man’s will. To the extent to which he acquires consciousness of reality, to the extent in which reality influences his consciousness, or creates his consciousness, man can acquire the potential to transform reality, little by little. This is our view, let us say the principle of our Party on relations between man and reality.

What if Cabral Had Not Been Killed?

We noted that Cabral, in his theoretical work, did not go very deeply into the problems of post-colonial development. We shall never know if he would have had the time and force to develop his analyses, had he survived. But if so, this would most likely have been within the realm of political economy. There is an obvious void in his work, as it stands, with regard to linking the transformation of the economy and the democratisation of political structure to each other. This is also the area where the failures of independent Guinea-Bissau are most visible. At the same time, passages like those quoted on collectivisation and ethnicity do indicate a possible direction of thought. Consider the following much quoted words from Cabral’s General Guidelines, written as early as 1965 for the activists of the liberation movement (my translation, Cabral, 1965:23):

National liberation, the struggle against colonialism, working for peace and progress, independence — all these will be empty words without significance for the people, unless they are translated into real improvements in the conditions of life. It is useless to liberate a region, if the people of that region are then left without the elementary necessities of life.

The sharp formulation does express a basic truth, but not the whole truth. It does not raise the question of how to translate the beautiful words into ‘real improvements of the conditions of life’. Taking that question seriously would have led on to issues of how to democratise power over the economy. Yet however relevant Cabral’s philosophical view on ‘relations between man and reality’, the immediate task of decolonisation spurred cultural and political mobilisation rather than transformation of the relations of production.

Bibliographic Note

Ronald H Chilcote, Amilcar Cabral’s Revolutionary Theory and Practice: A Critical Guide, Lynne Rienner Publishers, Boulder & London, 1991; Amilcar Cabral, Palavras de ordem gerais: Do camarada Amilcar Cabral aos responsaveis do Partido, November 1965, PAIGC, 1969; Cabral, Fondements et objectifs de la liberation nationale: I — Sur la domination imperialiste, extracts from Cabral’s speech at the first Conference of the Peoples of Africa, Asia and Latin America, Havana, 3-14 January 1966, Conakry, PAIGC 1966 (mimeo); Cabral, Revolution in Guinea: An African People’s Struggle, Stage 1, London, 1969; Sobre alguns problemas praticos da nossa vida e da nossa luta, transcription from tape recording of a speech at a meeting of the Superior Council of the Struggle, 9-16 August 1971, Conakry, 1971 (mimeo); Unity and Struggle: Speeches and Writings, texts selected by the PAIGC, translated by Michael Wolfers, African Writers Series 198 (Heinemann, London, 1980). Guinea-Bissau: Alfabeto, texts edited by Carlos Lopes, photographs by G Lodi & M Sabbadini, Terra & Imagini, Gruppo Volontariato Civile, Bologna, 1984; Lars Rudebeck, ‘Conditions of people’s development in postcolonial Africa’ in R Galli (ed), Rethinking the Third World: Contributions Toward a New Conceptualization (Crane Russak, New York & London, 1991).

Endnotes

    1. Tape recording of the original broadcast against which I have checked Wolfer’s translation which follows the original very closely.
    2. Wolfers’ translation, ‘responsible workers’ uses the noun responsavel, plural responsaveis, which is very common in political language but difficult to translate.
    3. Wolfers’ translation, ‘time for action in Guinea that is each day . . . ‘
    4. Wolfers’ translation of todos homens, ‘all men’, is literal; however, from the context I infer that Cabral was not referring exclusively to males.
    5. The text is entitled The Weapon of Theory and has been published in a number of versions, in several different languages. The most complete, in English, is in Cabral 1980:119-137. An earlier English version, Cabral, 1969:73-90 does exist which I have found somewhat closer to the PAIGC document in my possession (Cabral, 1966), used here. ‘
    6. Brief analysis is not included in the Cabral, 1980 selection, for which the texts were selected by the PAIGC. It is however, found in Cabral, 1969:46-61, the only English version available.
    7. The quote is from the second of nine lectures delivered by Cabral during a seminar for Party people, 19-24 November 1969. The lectures were held in crioulo, transcribed into Portuguese, and later translated by Wolfers for publication in English (Cabral, 1980:28-113).

Mike Powell, Editor of the Original Special Issue

Featured Photograph: A painting of Amilcar Cabral hanging on the wall at the headquarters of PAIGC in Bissau. Wikimedia Commons, 3 November 2017.

ROAPE in 2024 – an end and a new beginning

From January 2024 all ROAPE’s work will be available on a single platform with no paywalls. There will be equal access for all researchers, activists, and readers, wherever they are based in the world, and for the foreseeable future. 

We are delighted to announce that from the start of 2024, our fiftieth anniversary, ROAPE will become a journal which is freely available to all readers online through an open access platform. The change marks the end of the commercial publishing relationship with Taylor and Francis. We will maintain the journal’s remit and structure, as we advance our activities for researchers and activists engaged in the analysis and radical transformation of Africa. Our articles, briefings and debates will continue to be peer-reviewed and available online and in print.

The move to independent publishing removes the paywall for activists and researchers to access ROAPE content. We break from the system of paid for ‘open’ access and take advantage of recent technological changes that have permanently revolutionised the ways in which readers access content. Our website, roape.net and online publication of the journal have increased our readership, and the widening of our audience has been exciting and inspiring. We will now build on this increased readership. From January 2024 all ROAPE’s work will be available on a single platform with no paywalls. There will be equal access for all researchers, activists, and readers, wherever they are based in the world, and for the foreseeable future. 

Editorial Collective

Review of African Political Economy

The secret of the failure of liberation – a tribute and celebration of Amilcar Cabral fifty years on

To mark the fiftieth anniversary of national revolutionary leader Amilcar Cabral’s  murder in 1973, over the next four weeks, ROAPE will be re-posting a collection of essays paying tribute to Cabral. The collection was first published in the ROAPE journal thirty years ago, and reflects on the extraordinary achievements of Cabral and his organisation PAIGC (the Partido Africano de Indendencia de Guine e Cabo Verde).

By Leo Zeilig, Chinedu Chukwudinma, and Ben Radley

In 1973, fifty years ago, Amilcar Cabral, the leader of the national revolution in Guinea and Cape Verde was murdered. For the next three weeks roape.net will be celebrating his contribution to radical political economy, Marxist and liberation politics in a series of blogposts. We will be republishing a tribute to Cabral that first appeared in our print journal thirty years ago.

Cabral was a unique thinker and fighter for African liberation, and emerged as a leading figure in the ‘second liberation’ struggles against Portuguese colonialism in the late 1960s and 1970s. Throughout the battle to liberate Guinea, Cabral argued for the need to detail one’s own reality and any revolution must be grounded in a concrete understanding of conditions on the ground.

Cabral’s Marxism emerged in part as a reaction to the failures of an earlier wave of national liberation in Africa. The apparent freedom of the first wave of independence had extended and, in some respects, strengthened foreign control of the continent.

Many activists saw in the revolutionary movements in Guinea and Cape Verde (and to some extent in Mozambique and Angola) examples of more participatory and democratic practice, that could be harnessed to provide a radical alternative for the continent. Cabral’s organisation PAIGC (the Partido Africano de Indendencia de Guine e Cabo Verde) was formed in 1956, and for a generation, came to express the hopes for real liberation across Africa.

In 1963 PAIGC embarked on a campaign to explain the realities of the anti-colonial struggle across Guinea which involved a fusion of ideas. Cabral spoke of a people’s culture developing as a result of the liberation movement, and emerging from the ‘masses in revolt’.

Speaking to supporters of Africa’s liberation, in America, and Europe, amid the Black Power movement and revolutionary upheavals across the global North and South, Cabral pushed further than any other figures of radical national liberation. Yet he was acutely conscious of the problems and limitations of the liberation he sought.

Amílcar Cabral with Fidel Castro in Cuba for the Tricontinental Conference. January 1966, Wikimedia Commons.

For Cabral what was done with the state after independence was a central question – the ‘fundamental one’ for him. He acknowledged that this was an issue that had never been satisfactorily answered, yet with brilliant insight he wrote: ‘It’s the most important problem in liberation movements. The problem is perhaps the secret of the failure of African independence’ (1977: 84).

Once independence was won these movements consolidated in the state. In the case of PAIGC after Cabral’s murder, and independence in 1974, the leaders of the party were compelled to take up the statist model of the Soviet Union and quickly transformed themselves into an exploiting class.

The petty bourgeoisie Cabral referred to in his 1966 paper The Weapon of Theory could not continue to identify ‘with the aspirations of the people’ (1969: 89). After independence these aspirations, like many others, were jettisoned.  So the seemingly fluid and radical structures of the anti-colonial revolution hardened into a bureaucratic one-party state.

The short papers in this collection were edited by Mike Powell in 1993. Powell knew Guinea-Bissau and had worked with the radical historian of modern Africa, Basil Davidson, who also contributed to this collection. Powell was close to the politics and disappointments of the PAIGC in the 1970s. Today, we republish Mike’s introduction beneath this piece.

Next week, we will publish Lars Rudebeck’s celebration of Cabral’s extraordinary writing, speeches and interviews, including reflections on personal conversations Rudebeck held with Cabral at various points. While celebratory, and acknowledging that Cabral saw with remarkable prescience the eventual betrayal that would be handed down by the petty bourgeois leaders of the liberation struggle, Rudebeck also perceives in the writings and politics of Cabral inadequate attention to the post-colonial situation and the question of how to democratise power over the economy and transform the relations of production (a point on which Basil Davidson also agrees).

The following week, we look at Shubi Ishemo’s short study of Cabral’s thought and practice, and lessons for revolutionary movements. Ishemo notes Cabral’s stature as an agronomist, a revolutionary theoretician, a political strategist, and an historian. In Ishemo’s recollection of Cabral’s commitment to a rigorous historical approach as he sought to gain a concrete understanding of the social, economic, political, and cultural realities of Guinea and Cape Verde, we find echoes of the Guyanese revolutionary Walter Rodney who took a similar historically grounded approach and rigour to his own research and writing.

In the final week, we will be returning to Basil Davidson’s intimate political and personal portrait of Cabral, who Davidson knew during the 1960s and 1970s. Davidson’s piece contains fascinating detail and insight on Cabral’s principles of organising, as well as how Cabral and his comrades started their successful anti-colonial struggle in the early 1950s, all of which retains its relevance in the context of ongoing struggle and revolt across the continent today.

A Tribute to Amilcar Cabral, 12 September 1924 — 20 January 1973

Mike Powell

ROAPEs decision to mark the twentieth anniversary of the murder of Amilcar Cabral reflects the view that this is an opportune time to consider his achievements and the relevance of both his thought and practice — especially regarding events that are unfolding in Africa today. The contributions from Basil Davidson, Shubi Ishemo and Lars Rudebeck each provide a stimulating analysis that covers enormous ground but hardly overlaps at all.

One enduring relevance of the life of Cabral and of the struggle of the PAIGC (Partido Africano Pela Independencia de Guine e Cabo Verde) is its very success. When the Portuguese responded to a peaceful wage protest on 3 August 1959 by killing fifty dock workers, it must have been inconceivable to the survivors of Pijiguiti Quay that within sixteen years Bissau would be theirs — after defeating a 70,000 strong NATO supplied colonial army. These historical moments need, especially now, to be remembered.

Cabral’s own writing continues to be an invaluable source of inspiration. This is not to suggest, and Cabral himself would have hated the suggestion, that his writing formed some great dogma — the conclusions of which should be obediently followed. What they do provide is an astonishing range of insight and analysis. For instance, environmentalists may discover in his work and in particular his essay on ‘The Utilisation of the Land in Africa’ (first published in the Boletime Cultural da Guine and then in English in Ufuhamu, 1973), an early and possibly original analysis of the links between export-oriented production and soil erosion. As Rudebeck points out, Cabral saw theory not as any end in itself but as a highly practical tool for understanding and changing the reality he faced which was one of armed colonial domination. Soil erosion was important because it affected agricultural production.

The Amilcar Cabral Foundation in Praia, the capital city of Cape Verde. 28 February 2015, Wikimedia Commons.

The role of women was important because their support was vital to the struggle. From as early as the PAIGC’s First Congress in 1964, it was agreed that at least two of the five person committee which would be elected to run each village should be women. Cabral’s commitment to women’s participation did not stop at playing a numbers game. In informal interviews which are published in Return to the Source and with discussions with PAIGC militants such as those interviewed by Stephanie Urdang, it was clear that there was a need to understand the more subtle differences of perception and work towards accommodating them. By the end of the war, women were beginning to put forward their own proposals and did not, in the main, seem to feel they were pushing against closed doors.

According to Mario de Andrade (founder member of the PAIGC), the greatest danger for socialist governments was the failure of communication between the governors and the governed. Cabral clearly gained increasing satisfaction from the results of popular participation in the politics of the revolution, particularly the two-way process of education which was happening as the revolutionary petty bourgeois lived amongst the peasantry and together they shared the joy and the relief of winning a war. It was this shared experience, in the forest, in war, this forging of a common purpose which created the image of the local bourgeoisie changing sides, committing suicide as a class, a concept which has always given more sedentary Marxists conceptual headaches.

However, it is very important to note that Cabral was not simply assuming that all would work out smoothly. He was actively trying to build mass participation into the structures of the state that was being created and, more in interviews than in any major speeches, he appeared to be thinking increasingly of a very decentralised state. I remember one interview i in which he suggested that ministries would be spread around the country and that there would be no traditional capital city.

Cabral’s written and recorded work is important both historically and as a stimulus for creating new ideas. So also is his methodology, described in all the pieces which follow. It was a methodology which, for example, sought to understand ethnic differences through careful studies of how people live, and rather than hiding differences, sought ways for people to unite. It also made exhortations to ‘tell no lies, claim no easy victories’ which might appear banal but, if applied, gain real credibility for any political movement. Equally important in looking at Cabral’s achievements are the skills, in modern parlance, management skills developed during the struggle. As Basil Davidson records, the PAIGC’s ability to train cadres to overcome the warlordism of early years and successfully delegate authority, was vital to its success. In very different circumstances, such training and such delegation are central to any effort to launch a popular-based struggle today.

No direct parallels are being suggested. As Davidson points out, one of the advantages that the PAIGC had was an implacable enemy which left families no room for sitting on the fence. Many of the political struggles developing in Africa now offer far less simple options to the people around them. Cabral’s legacy is not a blueprint for these struggles. What is offered is a wonderful example of victory against the odds, a fountain of ideas, a way of approaching the problems that face us and the benefit of some very practical experience of how to organise.

Featured Photograph: A painting of Amílcar Cabral in the town of Bafatá in Guinea, known as Cabral’s birthplace (13 February 2019).

Braving the high seas to Europe and North America – the many killers of the migrant worker

Yusuf Serunkuma writes that a migrant worker dies many times, and has many killers. They die in their home countries – where they are structurally, violently uprooted –  they then die on the journeys to either Europe or the Middle East and then, they finally die in dehumanising working conditions if they ever arrive. Serunkuma exposes the hypocrisy, racism and murder at the heart of the global north.  

By Yusuf Serunkuma

Six thousand five hundred migrant workers are documented to have died in Qatar in the build-up to last years 2022 World Cup. Since the time of the award to host the tournament in 2011, estimates show that over 6500 people especially from the Indian subcontinent, Asia and a percentage from Africa died from various tournament-related construction projects. For this reason, Qatar was on the spot for its mistreatment of migrant workers—that ended in these many deaths. In the final three months to the kick-off of the tournament (about July-October last year), Qatar came under even more intense scrutiny over several other things, mostly of a cultural nature by an exclusively western media fraternity. Sadly, clumsily, most of these criticisms were crafted in an explicitly orientalist, Islamophobic fashion—as they sought to question the cultures and traditions of Qataris, and Muslims in general. Something like, “how barbaric and backward could they be in this 21st century?” There were threats to boycott the tournament and many football lovers in Europe and North America—turned cultural and pro-migrant activists—never watched the tournament.  While Middle Easterners and football lovers from elsewhere in the world were clearly unbothered by protests and contestations from the western world (as evident in full stadiums and a vibrant cultural life in-between and after games), subaltern intellectuals found themselves in a position that insisted they craft sensible responses to these criticisms. It is not that the pro-Migrant criticisms were bereft of veracity, but there was an acute sense of sanctimoniousness on the part of our western interlocutors, that reeked of ‘rank hypocrisy’ as British media personality Pius Morgan described them.

The cultural conversation about Qatar’s moral and constitutional hue—specifically the issues of sexual minorities—is outside the scope of this essay. This essay is rather focused on the memoirs, life-stories, and general biographies of migrant workers especially those coming from East Africa, Horn of Africa and Central Africa, of whose world I’m more familiar with.  While my intention is not to condone Qatar’s ill-treatment of workers, my contention rather is that simply documenting—however exhaustively—the numbers and conditions under which these deaths occur is deliberately, cleverly, telling a half story. There are close, un-ignorable connections between their final deaths in Qatar to (a) the journeys and (b) conditions that prompted their movement (thus the label, “migrant workers,” and not expatriates). And then their eventual death. Plotting these journeys and dots meticulously requires not just journalistic or academic rigour, but also honesty and empathy. It needs to be understood and acknowledged that a migrant worker dies many times, and has many killers: they die in their home countries—where they are structurally, violently uprooted—they then die on the clearly abusive journeys to either Europe or the Middle East (even if these journeys are by aircraft), and then, they finally die (and could be buried or given chance to remain alive) at their workstations at the final destination.  At this final moment of deaths—which is the crowning of their dehumanisation—their bodies could be rendered lifeless and absorbed into the ground. But they would have died many times before this moment.

Please note that in these many moments of morbidity (dehumanisation, enslavement, exploitation, abuse, border restrictions, etc.) the killer is not one person or one entity.  But many hard-hearted people from different places using different methodologies, all of them driven by a singular motive, exploitation, extraction.  While some killers are structural and  fetishized—tactfully hidden from public view—and could even appear benevolent towards their victims, they are real and dangerous just like those who are openly extractive and violent such as the enslavers enroute or the profiteers and funders of violent conflict on the African continent. Depending on the perpetrator’s point of contact with the migrant (who begins as a native), the killers are driven by two extractive ambitions: (a) exploitation of labour of the migrant, and (b) extraction of the resources of the migrant either freely or cheaply. If found in their homelands on the African continent, the resources of the native have to be exploited freely, cheaply, often violently, which often ends in the dispossession of the native turning them into migrants. (Again, please note that not all dispossession is openly violent. And that is the ugly more difficult trick: because this violence is fetishized, structural, to the point that the victim could even be compensated at market rates). If found enroute, their bodies become the target.  Thus, all of these ugly moments of perpetrator-victim encounter, and the many times of deaths have to be accounted for in narrating the troubled lives of the dead migrant worker.

Kampala

At least since 2010, not a month goes by without Kampala’s social and mainstream media broadcasting a video of a migrant labourer in the Middle East either being tortured by their often-abusive employers, or ailing from a work-related condition that their employers refused to attend to. In some even more grim cases, videos are announcing the death of a colleague (having died under unclear circumstances), while in other cases they feature direct appeals for help in the form of evacuation. This condition became even more intense in the past three years. And against this ill-treatment of migrant/domestic workers in the Middle East, the Ugandan opposition has made it their mission to evacuate some of these clearly ill-treated persons back to Uganda. But while 50 of them would be entering the country through Uganda’s only international airport, at Entebbe, they will be crossing paths with another 500 in the lobby waiting to leave for the same destination. Why is this so? And what does this tell us?

So, the president of the major opposition party in the country, the National Unity Platform (NUP), Robert Kyagulanyi, is often challenged with the question: after you have evacuated these girls, successfully returned them to their homeland, then what is the promise of return? Because if they left because of the material conditions, what then is there for their return? Consider the fact that over 24,000 Ugandans seek employment in the Middle East every year—and this has been happening for the last 10 years! But this is not Kyagulanyi’s problem to solve, it is rather a regional problem, it is the African condition courtesy of Euro-America’s penchant for accumulation by dispossession.

What you are witnessing here is a condition only succinctly summarised in the African adage, “binsobede eka ne mukibira,” which is Luganda for, loosely, life has become difficult both at home and in the woods, or the English equivalent, “caught between a rock and hard place.” There is no place to turn for the African native/immigrant, they are surrounded. They are doomed if they stayed on the continent, and also doomed if they decide to leave the continent.

Erudite pan-Africanist, Abdul-Raheem Tajudeen summarised this condition well when keynoting at conference in Nairobi. He opened his speech by turning our present sensibilities about slavery and slave trade upside down:  if a ship docked at Mombasa Port, clearly marked, “Taking slaves to America and Europe,” we’ll all be shocked by the long queues of Africans pushing and shoving to get onto that ship—towards slavery.’ This statement by the consummate Pan-Africanist drew a great deal of mirthless laughter from the audience, signalling to the outright approval of what Tajudeen had said.  But why would this be true in independent countries with innumerable programmes towards uplifting their people from penury and misery?

Hargeisa

During my feildwork as a graduate student in Somaliland in 2015, I recall vividly witnessing an epidemic where youngsters determined to make the dangerous journeys across the Mediterranean through Libya into Europe in search for a better life. With the slave shops in Libya being well-publicised, and the death of migrants crossing the Mediterranean into Europe, there had been campaigns inside Somaliland (and almost all of the Somali territories) urging young men and women to stop risking these long and arduous journeys to Europe and North America. Tahrib as the phenomena is called was a major talking point in Hargeisa, and remains so to this day.

Diaspora returnees coming from Europe or North America who had only recently returned to Somaliland or were simply visiting pleaded with their local compatriots not to make these journeys because the grass was not greener in Europe or the Middle East, and not worthy of the trauma and sacrifice on the high seas. These enthusiastic and well-meaning returnees where often met with a threefold solid response: (a) a direct question, “what else is left for me here?” (b) a rhetorical question, “how come you made it?” and (c) a philosophical statement, “every dog has his day.” Thus, Tahribbecame unstoppable in the sense that an acute feeling of precarity, absence and lack in the homeland (of opportunities, futures, growth, certainty), was muted by the appearance of the returnees. The returnees who normally appeared fairly dressed, well-fed, well-spoken, with fancier electronic gadgets, and patronised the more affluent hangouts could not convince their homebred listeners that the grass wasn’t greener on the other side. (For an extended discussion of this sense of loss, see Nimo-Ilhan Ali, wonderfully researched book, Going on Tahrib).

The picture that emerges is not that Africans simply love going to Europe, the Middle East or North America, to enjoy the beautiful lifestyles or would rather work abroad than at home.  Despite a strong nomadic lifestyle in some parts of the continent, no African (which is true of all humans) wants to leave their families behind (their beautiful wives, husbands and children), their social networks, their eco-system of friendships and care, to brave the embarrassment of learning new traditions and languages in old age, if it were not for hostile conditions at home.

No one is content to brave the blinding racism in the white-majority countries including in the Middle East. In all fairness—and I do not say this out of sheer Pan-Africanism—Africa is heavenly bliss compared to the rest of the world. It is not just the beautiful weather, a gentle all year-round sunshine or the abundant natural and marine resources. It is not just the people and their traditions—who are still fairly untouched by capitalist individualism and corruptions. It is all those and the fact one can live in absolute harmony with the environment. See, even with the violence and aggressiveness of the GMO industry on the continent, most foods are still organic, and their taste remains unmatched. To live this bliss for the extremely cold winters, occasionaly blazing summers, the cold and hot racism, of Europe or the Middle East, without compulsion, would be lunacy. But the conditions at home—of precarity, lack and absence—make it extremely difficult for Africans to stay home.

The easy, often regurgitated explanation is that Africans, especially their leaders have been unable to transform their God-given resources into meaningful investments for the future.  Claims of African corruption, African laziness, Africans’ failure to build institutions inundate most literature on and about African poverty and precarity. There is a new group of ‘intellectuals of empire’, in media, academia and general commentary building entire careers on stereotyping the African condition.  They are obsessed with studying and making connections between African poverty, precarity, and migration to African leaderships. Thus, books, news bulletins and analyses on “African authoritarianism”, “African monsters” (and its allegedly beautiful opposite, democracy) are common terms while discussing African poverty and precarity.  The ugly trick here is that these analyses pass the guilt of all the African mess on the heads and shoulders of the Africans—most especially the leaderships. And sadly, Africans have been blinded by the actually existing mess in their midst and the exorbitant, luxurious lives of their leaders. But all this is a distraction. It is nonsense.

While I do not seek to downplay the agency and contribution of the Africans themselves, and their leaders, it is my sobering contention that the African condition—and thus the endless desire to travel into slavery in the Middle East, Europe or North America—is the story of the longue durée of Euro-America on the African continent. Thus, focusing on the blighted lives of immigrant workers in Qatar—as emblematic of the Middle East—is tactfully telling half the story. Were it not for the woes of the Euro-American empire, who structurally and directly continue to dispossess natives, surely no native would countenance going on these arduous journeys and living equally ugly lives in their final destinations—be it by plane or sea.

Ruins of Euro-America in Africa

In several essays (see here, here, and here), I have written about the continued imperial control of the African continent by Euro-America. There are numerous chronicles on this continued exploitation of the continent by present and earlier scholars ranging from Kwame Nkrumah, Walter Rodney, Ali Mazrui, Samir Amin, Archie Mafeje, Ezra Suruma, Sam Moyo, Dambisa Moyo and more recently Pigeaud and Samba Sylla, among many others.  The story starts from seemingly benevolent moves such as foreign aid, insistence on democracy (which is actually ‘divide and concur’), to clearly violent ideas such as structural adjustment programmes (an absolute case of double standards as the same does not apply to Europe and North America), to things such as military support, as evidenced recently by  Africa-America, Africa-France, Africa-Russia ‘puppet summits’ where African leaders are bussed around like school children before being subtly—and sometimes, openly—harassed, threatened, conditioned, and hypnotised into signing contracts that mortgage entire countries.

Structural adjustment or privatisation sadly, only opened African infant economies to international capitalists ranging from banks, telecoms, power distributors to mining giants, while at the same time, ruined public goods and service industries that were uninteresting, unprofitable to private capitalists coming from abroad.

A recent study by Jason Hickel, Dylan Sullivan and Huzaifa Zoomkawala put the pillage at $152 trillion dollars between 1960-2018 in the form of lost growth and unequal exchange.  These scholars, an economic anthropologist and data analyst noted that,

the global North (‘advanced economies’) appropriated from the South commodities worth $2.2 trillion in Northern prices — enough to end extreme poverty 15 times over. Over the whole period, drain from the South totalled $62 trillion (constant 2011 dollars), or $152 trillion when accounting for lost growth.

These figures are astounding. If the US economy is just $25 trillion dollars, considered perhaps the biggest economy in the world, consider the loss, which amounts to six times the economy of the United States. This loss translates into the endless conditions of precarity, lack and absence, with no end in sight. Seventy percent of items consumed in Europe and North America come from former colonies, extracted under violent conditions or under conditions of unequal exchange. While the native may not succinctly articulate it, they know that a great deal of what they see in Europe and North America originates from their countries. Noted in the study, these stolen resources are able “to end extreme poverty 15 times over.” But the problem is that these resources are cleverly stolen and taken to Europe and North America.

In conclusion, it is absurd, unempathetic, sanctimonious to tell the story of a dead immigrant only in the place of their death—and squarely blame it on the conditions under which they met their final death. This story might be complex, but easily plottable. It is not just those Africans braving the high seas to Europe and North America who embody the pains of dislocation by Euro-America, but also the young men and women lining up at airports for work in the slave conditions in the Middle East. This is why when they move, they are not called ‘expats’—as the other work-seekers moving from Europe and North America to other parts of the world. This is not because they carry no “specialised skills” (which is itself a colonial construction), but because the conditions under which they move dehumanised them. This dehumanisation becomes their identity, the label under which they move, and thus are named and treated.  Thus, in death, their story ought to be told more explicitly, more empathetically and more honestly—as the walking dead being finally being lowered into the ground.

A version of this blogpost was posted on the website of the Pan-African Review.

Yusuf Serunkuma is a columnist in Uganda’s newspapers, scholar and a playwright. In 2014, Fountain Publishers published his first play, The Snake Farmers which was received with critical acclaim in Uganda, Kenya and Rwanda. He is also a scholar and researcher who teaches political economy and history, and writes regularly for ROAPE. 

Featured Photograph: Migrant workers next to a building site in the West Bay area of Doha, Qatar (1 February 2014).

Where are you really from?

Benjamin Maiangwa asks: Has white supremacy permeated every place on earth and created a world view that favours whiteness so that the question – where are you really from? – is asked to determine your state of being? Being African, Maiangwa argues, you are always idenitifed as the exotic, noble, disease-infected, and chronically misgoverned “other” –  traits or images that outsiders confer on the continent.

By Benjamin Maiangwa

When I’d visit the village as a child to celebrate our religious and cultural festivities, I’d have some adults come up to me at those events, inquiring: “whose child are you?” It’s not uncommon to have other unsolicited adults who were well intimated of my parentage answer in my stead. These custodians of my lineage would respond to the question as follows: “Oh, you don’t know? He’s the son of so and so.” “I see,” the interrogators would accede. “I can even see the resemblance,” some would claim. Or they would say something like, “but he doesn’t look anything like his father.”

I remember traveling to the village with my father a few years ago, and we visited with an elderly couple. The woman greeted and waved us to a chair, her eyes flashing confusion. She then looked intently at me, at my father, back at me, and then asked my father: “Whose child is this?” It wasn’t my father’s response—when he told her I was his son—that was at issue (for he was visibly flustered that for the first time in his life, he had had to prove that he fathered me), it was the surprising disgust on the face of the woman, who made a comment about me not looking like my father or anyone she knew in the village for that matter. At the time, her response felt like a searing rejection or degradation of the authenticity of my place in the family.

As the years wore on, it wasn’t the whose child are you question that tormented my life, but the where are you from ororiginally from question which, if you come to think of it, both contain similar assumptions about one’s sense of (un)belonging. The where are you from question became like an agonizing migraine I had had to contend with, as benign as some would like to think it is, a mere curiosity or ice breaker. Although I had initially bought the idea of the question’s innocuousness, it would create a nervous condition for me during my various peregrinations. In Nigeria, I never thought the question was of significant import, considering the lack of a strong national consciousness I felt was palpable among Nigerians. This near absence of national belonging that I thought so many in the country feel, makes the where are you originally from question for me a banal invocation of our colonially distorted sense of self or community, revealing an obsession to stamp our legitimacy as authentic “peoples of the soil”; a subdued form of resistance to the (post)colonial arrangement.

When I left the shores of Nigeria to study in South Africa, I landed with the most cheering prospect ahead. But the where are you from question was put before me right at the airport, without it being stated. It was my passport that gave me away at the point of entry at the OR Tambo International Airport, Johannesburg. The immigration officer only had to take a glance at my passport before posing the most chilling question I had ever heard: “Did you come with any cocaine today?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was my ready reply. But my response didn’t stop the officer from whisking me into a special room for a special treatment (rummaging through my bags) reserved for people that came from special places.

When I was searching for an apartment in South Africa, a houseowner (a police officer), having inquired “where I came from” said to me in no uncertain terms, “I do not rent to Nigerians.” His response was hardly discouraging. I persisted under his rather strong warning that if he ever had to deal with me bringing drugs into his house, I would be locked up. This is not to say that my experience in South Africa left me with a heart overborne with sadness due to my constant effort to situate myself against the perceived odds of my nationality or race: a burdensome inherence? Quite the contrary, South Africa conjures up images of home for me. It was there that I expanded my limited sense of home, not as a place of birth or consanguineous relationships, but a relational space for shared human and spiritual experience.

My next destination was Japan. I had been forewarned that Japan would be the opposite of South Africa, devoid of a rainbow. But I was excited about this pasture new, partly because my application to extend my study permit in South Africa had been denied as at the time I was out of the country. I had the realization of being far gone when I first landed in Japan. First, the flight was long; 17hrs, excluding a layover in Cairo, Egypt. In Japan, I didn’t need to tell any Japanese where I came from; I was naturally different. Kids would point fingers at me to draw the attention of their parents to what probably was their first sight of an African or a Black man. A few friends in Japan, who could speak Japanese well, shared stories of Japanese kids asking their parents what had happened to their (my Black friends’) colour. “Were they playing too much in the dirt?” The kids would ask. Kids!

The paradoxical reality I encountered in Japan was that the non-Japanese community often stuck together, regardless of race. I was once approached by a man who said “hi” to me, then accompanied it with a big hug, like he had just met his long-lost brother. With his hands still encircled around me, he inquired, “where are you from?” “Nigeria,” I said unhesitatingly because it seemed he had a story to tell. “Do you also get stopped by the goddamn police every now and then?” he ranted. “Don’t even get me started on the police,” I quipped. I could write a whole piece about the Japanese police who, by the way, were not of infernal character or fiendish barbarity as their counterparts elsewhere. Not to say they were entirely free from those degrading vices. I must do them the justice to say that the same policemen on bicycles who would stop to ask me of my alien card on a given day in Japan, would be the same ones who would stop me on a different day to ask of the same card, not minding my usual protest: “You were the same guys who stopped me yesterday,” remember? If I could recall who they were, I thought, they had no right not to recognize me. Their excuse was always, “sorry, no English.” Of course, I didn’t buy it.

But to my tale, the man who hugged me, introduced himself as an English man and called me his brother. Whether he said it due to our colonial history or shared experience of police interrogations in Japan or to remedy colonial injustices, I couldn’t tell. But the experience was telling in some respects. For one, it indicates how the where are you from question could be a source of solidarity, resistance, and homemaking. And probably that was what my English brother meant when he asked the question. Like him, I also embarked on saying “hi” to my other brothers and sisters in Japan without embellishing it with a hug (though with infrequent handshakes). My “hi” was almost always reciprocated with the implicit understanding that we were all connected somehow, experiencing a collective sense of struggle, purpose, and hope in a foreign land.

Then I moved to Canada. My first education was to drop the “hi” that glued me to my brothers and sisters in Japan. I had to drop it because my Canadian brothers and sisters couldn’t care one bit to reciprocate the gesture. Some complemented me with head nods, while others gave me a certain look as if to suggest that something was wrong with me. I got an awkward smile from a few, but that was that.

In my early days in Canada, I felt the horrid dread of being approached by well-wishers with the where are you really (originally) from question. Whenever I’d mention Nigeria, it would prompt a piteous or pseudo empathetic response. “Oh, you must be feeling safe here, I saw what Boko Haram did on TV the other day,” someone once told me. In truth, the year I came to Canada was when Boko Haram decided to internationalize its image by kidnapping 276 schoolgirls in Chibok, a village in Borno State, Nigeria. Those who showered me with this grandiose empathy for having escaped Boko Haram and found sanctuary in Canada, withheld from me the chance to explain that I, in fact, didn’t come to Canada directly from Nigeria, but Tokyo. And that even if I did come from Nigeria, my home in Nigeria wasn’t a fortress of Boko Haram, and my family were quite safe from the group’s mayhem, except for the audacious kidnapping that has now become a lucrative enterprise in the country. So, the where are you really from question in this instance, rendered me a subject of misplaced pity and empathy, foreclosing any potential pathway of knowing my benevolent interlocutors.

At some point, I thought it had become universally understood that I could also pose the same question to others as an outcome of my own benign curiosity to know them better. Thus, I asked a certain gentleman with whom I was exchanging warm pleasantries at a dinner party: “Where are you from?” He looked disgustfully at me before responding with another question, which I thought was only a Nigerian thing (answering a question with a question): “When did you come to Canada?” “Three months ago,” I retorted with much earnestness. After a deep sigh, he told me with great solemnity, “okay, I forgive you. You see, my parents came from Pakistan, but I was born in Canada.” It was the one experience I needed to nip the where are you from or originally from question in the ash tray of social taboo topics such as politics and religion. But I knew that not many would purge themselves of it. So I manufactured a defence mechanism. “If anyone should want to know where I came from,” I thought, “I would say heaven.”

When I first exultingly employed what I thought was an ingenious response to the forbidden question, the man I was talking to said, “that is a good one; I’ve not heard it before. But where are you really from?” My hope was the ‘heavenly’ response would enable us to dig into the depths of our true nature which transcends melanin, extends beyond the corporeal, past geographical origin or political ideologies, and seeks to extract that which we rarely have the time or the courage to explore further than is asked of us in our everyday, material lives.

The best rendition of the question was from a lady who asked me, “where were you before you came to Canada?” I thought that was clever, and I ignored the undercurrents in the question and decided to have fun with it: “I was in japan.” The silence was eloquent, and her looks suggested, “well, go on, you sure aren’t Japanese, are you?” I managed a wry smile. Then she continued, “and before Japan?” “I was in South Africa,” I quickly responded, allowing my smile and silence to linger. I got the sense that she wanted me to keep going, and I decided to put both of us out of the misery of another silent meditation: “How far can we push this question,” I finally asked. She smiled. It registered.

And maybe this is the whole point of this essay. How far can we push this question? Why didn’t the lady above stopped asking when I was clearly not making it simple to access the information? Is her social awareness that different that she was unable to pick up on cues that would indicate someone does not want to be pushed further? Or is the assumption of expecting an answer so overt that she feels she has the right to keep pushing until she gets what she’s looking for? Debra Thompson seems to have a response in her book The Long Road Home where she states that the where are you really from question is by no means innocuous.

Where are really from because you don’t seem to fit in here. Where are you really from, because how long you’ve been here will tell me something about your place in this country. Where are you really from, because my whiteness means that I am entitled to your time, your benevolence, your patience, your attention, and your respect. Where are you really from, because my curiosity is more important than your comfort or safety. Where are you really from, because you can’t possibly be from here.

The micro-aggressive insinuations that could be gleaned from this question are limitless. What’s interesting from my limited experiences, is that the most overt and violent instances of this question seem to come from places whose white supremacy would be assumedly less pronounced, such as in South Africa, Japan, and Nigeria. Whereas the more insidious forms seem to come from “the west”. Why is that? Has white supremacy permeated every place on earth and created a world view in every person’s mind that favours whiteness above all else to the point where whether you are in Japan, Nigeria, South Africa, or Timbuktu, the where are you really (originally) from question seeks to determine your state of being compared to whiteness? Would the elder in Nigeria, or the police officer in Japan agree, or are they similarly ignorant to their own white supremacy?

In certain instances, the where are you really from question may create some transient form of bonding and pseudo-solidarity such as it did between me and my fellow aliens or brothers and sisters in Japan. But not all the relationships were ephemeral. Some stood the acid test of times. I still meet up with a Japanese NGO once a month on Zoom to discuss global issues because its members took genuine interest in what I do and “where I actually came from.” Our subject matter in this forum is almost invariably about Nigeria and my state of origin, Kaduna. Our topics, despite my effort to change them, would always circle back to the exotic, noble, profligate, disease-infected, and chronically misgoverned African “other”, making me feel like an exhibition. These are some of the traits or images that outsiders so eminently bestow on Africa. Any attempt to argue otherwise or present a different picture, if one had the stamina to do so, often feels like an exercise in futility. My dehumanizing home could have consumed or shatter my black body if I hadn’t escaped!

Home may not necessarily be a specific space or place, a comfort zone, a memory, or even people. Home may be deeper and more personal than anything that can appear on the outside of us, or anywhere we’ve been. Home may be a place we’ve never seen or a place that is beyond what we can comprehend within the boundaries of our limited awareness. Home may be like love, a word we’ve prescribed to a feeling that comes and goes, that is neither tangible nor reliably descriptive as a place, but a state of being without the unnecessary interpositions or impassable barriers that we erect and impose on others to distort and call into question the sanctity of their being.

Benjamin Maiangwa teaches in the department of Political Science at Lakehead University. Maiangwa’s research focuses on the intersection of politics, culture, and society. His recent publications use storytelling to explore notions of contested belonging, mobility, and how people experience conflict and peace in everyday life (Benjamin’s writings on roape.net can be found here).

Featured Photograph: A baggage cart vehicle returns to its bag (31 May 2018).

Southern Africa’s workers movement on fire – the South African & Namibian strikes

In 1973, fifty years ago, South Africa experienced a historical turning point. From 9 January 1973, workers of the Coronation Brick and Tile factory in Durban came out on strike. Eighteen months before workers and students in South Africa’s colony South West Africa (today’s Namibia), took dramatic and radical action. Heike Becker writes about how workers made their demands heard across Southern Africa in the early 1970s.

By Heike Becker

50 years ago, South Africa witnessed a historical turning point. On 9 January 1973, workers of the Coronation Brick and Tile factory in Durban came out on strike. Immediately thereafter they were joined in strike by workers from small packaging, transport and ship repairs companies, and women working in the textile and clothing sector.

Between January and March 1973 almost 100,000 workers were on strike in Durban. Through songs and marches workers made their demands heard – the first public mass action in South Africa since the anti-apartheid activism of the 1950s. This was labour action, and at once a political revolt, where workers exercised the power of factory-based mass action. The strikes signalled both militant non-racial trade unionism and an invigorated spirit of rebellion.

What led to this seemingly sudden eruption of resistance during the heyday of apartheid rule?

The upsurge of defiance was not very surprising. Despite brutal repression in the 1960s, circles of anti-apartheid activists had continued forging links in underground networks (Suttner 2008). ‘New-left’ Marxist thinking was resurging among a new generation of intellectuals and activists. Lastly, there was also a significant influence of the Black Consciousness movement in what became known as the ‘Durban moment’; the expression coined by academic and activist Tony Morphet (1990) to suggest a convergence of different radical movements and intellectual activists in the city in the early 1970s.

New repertoires of student and community activism

During the late 1960s and early 1970s Southern Africa saw the emergence of new repertoires of resistance. They first became apparent in student protests that combined counter-cultural forms of activism with more overtly political protests, from the sit-in occupation of a campus building at the University of Cape Town (UCT) through to the public burning of neck-ties at the University of the Western Cape (UWC). Ideologically, the Black Consciousness movement and a renewal of Marxist approaches stand out in the South African student movements, which became significant in the resurgence of broader resistance and left politics (Becker 2018).

Central to these developments were links between young activists and intellectuals. Of special significance for the events that unfolded in Durban was the political, intellectual and personal friendship between Steve Biko, the intellectual and activist leader of the radical 1970s Black Consciousness movement and co-founder of the South African Student Organisation (SASO), and Richard (‘Rick’) Turner, a lecturer in political philosophy at the then University of Natal (UND). Turner was a researcher into labour issues, and a community and labour organiser who had also been involved in student protests in Cape Town after his return, in 1966, from Paris where he had completed a doctoral thesis on the political works of Jean-Paul Sartre.

Biko and Turner signify the importance of the conversation of increasingly radical Black Consciousness ideas, and new-left non-sectarian Marxist thought for the resurgence of resistance politics. In the early 1970s both Biko and Turner were based in Durban, where they influenced student politics, labour and community organising in creative, new ways.

In an extensive interview with their friend and comrade, the activist and photographer Omar Badsha, I learnt that from 1970 Biko, ‘Indian’ black consciousness activists, as well as Turner, and Badsha himself, worked together in running community-based ‘work camps’ at Phoenix Settlement in Durban. This settlement, originally founded by Gandhi in the early 1900s had been a site of experiments with communal living, social and economic justice and nonviolent action. In the early 1970s Kamla Pillay, a resident of Phoenix Settlement, initiated a series of community ‘camps’. Among others, Biko and Turner, who according to Turner’s biographer William Hemingway Kenniston (2010: 87) did not view Black Consciousness and working class activities as incompatible, were for some time both involved in an associated study group for young political leaders. This community-based mobilisation contributed to a groundswell of defiance. And then there were new alliances forged between black workers and a few radical white students in Durban.

Student-worker alliances

Rick Turner was an extraordinary teacher. He challenged the entrenched patriarchal notion and practice in South African universities, that teaching would mean imparting knowledge. He insisted on asking questions. This made him popular with those students who were already leaning towards anti-apartheid and anti-establishment thinking. He thus helped them to develop an understanding of capitalism and a commitment to involve themselves in opposing South Africa’s racist political economy (Kenniston 2010: 85).

Turner encouraged his all-white students to get involved with the black working class, which he saw as the key factor of change. In 1971 students formed the Student Wages Commission (SWC) in Durban. They started interviewing workers at the university about wages and labour conditions. Then they called a well-attended meeting of the workers at UND. The aim was to assist workers to advocate for better conditions of employment (Kenniston 2010: 88).

Soon the students took their commitment to support Black workers beyond the university. Together with organisers from the then legal (white, Indian and Coloured) unions, students became active in the establishment of the ‘General Factory Workers’ Benefit Fund’ that attracted workers into a mutual social benefit association where workers contributed a small monthly payment and could access financial support in the event of sickness, death or firing. The Benefit Fund has been described as “a proto-union and brilliant organizing tool in an environment in which unionism was not yet possible” (Cole 2018: 116). SWC students also established a newspaper, mostly written in isiZulu, called Isisebenzi (‘The Worker’).

Importantly, students started getting involved in challenges to the institution called the ‘Wages Board’. As black (African) workers were not allowed to unionise, this government board set the wages of workers for specific industries. Students involved in the Wages Commission presented their research findings to the Board to advocate for a raise of wages. More importantly even, they encouraged Black workers to attend meetings of the Board in their hundreds and speak for themselves (Cole 2018: 118).

Similar alliances emerged in the early 1970s in several South African urban centres, where small, but vocal numbers of ‘new left’ students and intellectuals engaged a radical critique of the multi-racial liberal politics that had previously dominated (white) opposition. They assessed ‘race’ and its relation to class in apartheid society and explored different forms of Marxist and socialist critiques (Moss 2014: 150). In Durban however, their connections with workers and other new radical movements were stronger than anywhere else in South Africa and made a significant contribution to the turning-point of January 1973.

In Durban underground mobilisation resurged in 1971 and 1972. When I interviewed Badsha, he emphasised the cross-fertilizing energies of the different players in the Durban moment. This was, he said, a moment of tremendous fluidity and convergence. Durban’s mostly young worker and student activists were part of a wider resurgence of mobilisation in the early 1970s.

Namibia: ‘Breaking the Wire’

Eighteen months before the Durban strikes, a reinvention of protest and labour action had already erupted into full public view in South Africa’s colony South West Africa (today’s Namibia). As early as June 1971 (high school) students in northern Namibia took up political mobilisation. More protests and walk-outs happened from August 1971. Students also played an important part in what became the massive Namibian contract labour strike of December 1971 and January 1972.

On 13 December 1971, more than 10,000 contract workers went on strike with the key slogan, “Odalate Naiteke” (“Break the wire”, ie., break the contract system that ties the workers to their bosses – like a wire (odalate, oshiWambo, from Afrikaans ‘draad’). By January 1972, the strike involved about 13,000 to 13,500 workers in 21 towns and 11 mines. These were about half of all Namibian migrant workers at the time.

Collective resistance of Namibian contract labourers against dreadful labour conditions and inhuman treatment had a long history. A key complaint was the essentially forced labour conditions. No hours of daily or weekly work were stipulated; instead, the worker was required “to render to the master his services at all fair and reasonable times” (cited in Ngavirue 1997: 234). Workers did not see their families for 18 months. Meanwhile women in the rural north had to take care of agricultural production and raise families on their own.

Resistance against the contract labour system had been at the heart of the formation of SWAPO in 1960. Following the brutal repression in the 1960s, the flight into exile by many of SWAPO’s founding generation, and the 1967-68 ‘Terrorism Trial’ in Pretoria, where many of the remaining internal leadership were sentenced to long-term incarceration on Robben Island, the spirit of resistance had seemingly been broken.

Upsurge of mobilisation against the contract labour system

In the early 1970s things changed. A young South African who worked as a journalist at Namibia’s then only English-language daily, the Windhoek Advertiser, Stephen Hayes, commented that in 1970 black Namibians had appeared fearful, subservient or bewildered. By late 1971, however, he wrote: “Blacks are becoming conscious of their humanity, and they are walking tall in the streets. …, and the word ‘baas’ has disappeared from their vocabulary.”

Political developments had contributed to the enhanced confidence. In June 1971 the International Court of Justice declared South African occupation of Namibia illegal. This ruling encouraged a sense of impending change.

Central to this upsurge of mobilisation were high school students. As the court sat in The Hague to ponder its ruling, students from the Anglican high school at Odibo near the Angolan border wrote a petition addressed to the International Court of Justice. Thirty Odibo students, together with about 680 from a government school took part in a demonstration at the northern government offices at Ongwediva, and handed over the petition to representatives of Jannie de Wet, then the Commissioner General of Ovamboland.

According to Antoinette (Toni) Halberstadt, in 1971 a young South African teacher at Odibo, plain-clothed policemen circulated among the students, interrogated them and took photos, then bombarded them with tear gas and rubber bullets.

Widespread student demonstrations in northern Namibia exhibited heightened defiance in August 1971. In their aftermath numerous activists who were expelled from government high schools for ‘talking politics’, took up labour contracts. They immediately set out to mobilise against the contract labour system and, cooperating with local worker activists and SWAPO branches, established contact with students and contract workers across Namibia.

The energetic student activists became a key factor in the mobilisation. Mobilisations laid groundwork, however the walkouts happened without a hierarchical leadership, and workers refused to identify individual leaders. Instead, they met and expressed their demands collectively in mass meetings, calling for the abolition of the contract worker system and an end to influx control.

In Owambo the strike turned into an open revolt. It shifted from being merely a challenge to the contract labour system to addressing other issues, such as apartheid, the homeland policy and the Bantustan authorities. Rallies were held in many locations. School strikes continued. For the first time women actively participated, and started attending and addressing rallies. Government’s cattle vaccination points were burnt down since people suspected that the vaccinations administered by the colonial apartheid state, rather than protecting from disease, killed their animals.

Implications of the Namibian strike for South Africa

The Namibian strike played a critical role in the revival of radical politics and resistance. Observers, such as the Namibian political scientist André Du Pisani (1985: 215) noted that, “the political implications of the strike were also felt in the Republic of South Africa when a series of strikes broke out in Natal”. The Namibian strike was widely reported in the South African press. Activists in South Africa keenly picked up this news.

Omar Badsha told me that the workers in the Namibian harbour of Walvis Bay had particularly impressed the Durban dockworkers, especially the refusal of the Namibian workers to name individuals as representatives to speak with the bosses. They insisted that everyone was present during negotiations, where the workers shouted their demands collectively. Badsha said that this strategy was then also adopted by the Durban strikes in January 1973.

These were close links. In the early 1970s Namibia was never far from the minds of South African activists. When ‘new-left’ (white) students at the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits) started a campaign for the release of all political prisoners, they even invited a recently released former Namibian Robben Island prisoner, Gerson Veii, to speak on the Johannesburg campus (Moss 2014: 121-146). The Black Consciousness South African Students Organisation (SASO) also officially condemned the presence of the Apartheid forces in Namibia (Becker 2018).

The legacy of 1973

While the Durban strikes of 1973 have been widely credited for the upsurge of trade unionism in South Africa, the new forms of activism employed by students and workers in South Africa and Namibia, deserve more attention. Of special interest seem the spontaneity and, even experimental forms of activist mobilisation, such as the insistence on tactics of ‘flat leadership’, to use a term employed more recently by the ‘Fallist’ movements of the 2010s.

Both by necessity and choice, the movements that erupted onto the political scene in the early 1970s were non-sectarian and typically of a remarkable openness in their social and political strategies and alliances. Unsurprisingly, their politics could not be sustained due to the brutal repression exerted by the regime. Activists were ‘banned’ from public life, teaching and publishing. Steve Biko and Rick Turner were murdered in 1977 and 1978 respectively.

So, what could be considered the legacy of the strikes and resurging resistance movements 50 years later?

A conference on 50 years of the Durban strikes

A fitting point of departure for considering the legacy of the Durban strikes was a three-day conference that took place in Durban in January 2023. The event’s tight programme included presentations by researchers and activists, among those some who had been part of the 1973 moment.

Inspired by Omar Badsha, the conference was hosted on the campus of the Durban University of Technology. The venue of the conference, skirting the Durban CBD, was well chosen. As some of the veteran activists remarked, we congregated close to where some significant strike action took place 50 years ago.

The conference brought together the generation of 1973 with academics and activist-academics, as well as activist organisers and trade unionists of different generations. Young Black researchers and activists were a minority among the attendees, which was noted with some regret. However, young Black women certainly made their voices heard clearly. June Rose Nala, described by Badsha as “one of the most militant of our [1973] comrades” could not attend the conference due to ill health but sent her United Kingdom-based daughter instead. Younger Black women researchers, such as Lebogang Mokwena (UWC) and Bianca Tame (UCT), presented some of the most inspiring papers.

The three conference days moved from the past to the present and the future. An opening roundtable brought together memories, nostalgia and numerous controversies about 50 years of South African trade unionism and politics. Speakers included former activists whose political trajectories had taken divergent routes. There was Alec Erwin, an activist in the early trade union movement who served post-1994 as an ANC government minister. There was also David Hemson, an activist with the Student Wages Commission, a lifelong self-defined socialist, who voiced fiery critique of the neoliberal directions of post-apartheid governance. Women trade union activist speakers of the later 1970s and 1980s, Nomonde Mgumane and Nomarashiya Caluza, made poignant critical observations about the current state of trade unionism and politics, and also raised relevant concerns about gender issues in the labour movement.

Panels on the politics and legacy of the Durban strikes, on trade unions, power, popular politics and policy in the 1980s and post-1994 raised intense debates, especially where memory turned into contested nostalgia. In contrast, presentations engaging the everyday, masculinities, and the intersection of workers’, students’ and intellectuals’ struggles convinced with future-oriented vibrancy. The conference was at its most exciting, moving, and forward-looking in moments of personal story telling, and the themes that connected performance, arts and culture.

A highlight was an inspiring musical performance. ‘1973: The Story of a Strike’ gathered storytellers, performers, and musicians. They included Sazi Dlamini, described as ‘Durban’s living musical legend’, and the guitarist Reza Khota, currently artist in residence at the University of the Western Cape, who has played rock, classical music and jazz. Tina Schouw, Malika Ndlovu, Mpume Mthombeni and Lungile Dlamini brought to voice the narrative meticulously researched and written by Ari Sitas and Sazi Dlamini. The play focused on three women who worked in Durban’s once foremost clothing and textile industry. Their stories drew on the oral histories and memories of at least 13 women who decided in January and February 1973 to say “enough is enough”.

Exhibitions of photographs and documents from the 1973 action were on display at the conference venue (curated by David Hemson) and at the Kwa Muhle Museum (curated by Omar Badsha). Also included were items from the Namibian general strike, including a poster featuring the portraits and names of the Namibian strikers who were charged in the Windhoek magistrate’s court as so-called ‘ringleaders’ with ‘intimidating’ the workers to stayaway from work.

The poster offered a robust reminder of the resistant solidarity that connected the resurging struggles across Southern Africa in the early 1970s. While the transnational ties of solidarity later declined, younger activists in both countries have recently raised thought-provoking voices against the perpetuated coloniality and inequality in their post-apartheid homelands, from the South African student-led Fallist movements to the intersectional decolonial activism by young Namibians (Becker 2018, 2020, 2022a; 2022b; Mushaandja 2021; Van Wyk 2023).

The present and future of trade unionism, social movement activism, and related (activist) research loomed large during the conference. Repeatedly, the question was raised by speakers: “who is a worker?” in “the world [that] has changed”. The industrial labour force that played the key role in 1973 has shrunk by three decades of neoliberal politics in South Africa. One participant emphasised that the idea of ‘the working class’ was “last century nostalgia”. Many discussants seemed to concur. What about the new precariat, one incisive panel investigated, from the informal sector and domestic labour through to, the widespread consultancy work in the public sector? What about young people, their “gigs, hustles and hope beyond the wage” (Cooper and Dubbeld 2023)?

The parting question thus was: What now? Provisional propositions included delinking activism from (party) politics, and responding actively to young people’s vibrant interests in arts and culture. In the end conference participants strongly agreed that it was critical to attract young people to join and renew South Africa’s labour movement.

Heike Becker is an activist and writer focusing on the politics of memory, popular culture, digital media and social movements of resistance in southern Africa (South Africa and Namibia). Heike teaches at the University of the Western Cape (UWC) and is a regular contributor to roape.net.

A version of this article with first published as ‘50 years of the Durban strikes‘ by the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation in South Africa

Featured Photograph: Graffiti in Kayamandi, Stellenbosch, South Africa (25 October 2014).

References

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

Becker, Heike. 2020. ‘#ShutItAllDownNamibia: Young Namibians are hitting the streets against gender-based violence and colonial legacies’. Rosa-Luxemburg-Stiftung, Online Dossier Namibia@30, 27 October 2020.

Becker, Heike. 2022a. ‘‘A Curt Farewell’: decolonizing public space in Namibia’. Review of African Political Economy website, 3 November 2022.

Becker, Heike. 2022b. “Youth speaking truth to power”: intersectional decolonial activism in Namibia. Dialectical Anthropology.

Cole, Peter. 2018. Dockworker Power: Race and Activism in Durban and the San Francisco Bay Area. Urbana, Chicago, and Springfield: University of Illinois Press.

Cooper, Adam; Bernard Dubbeld. 2023. ‘Gigs, hustles and hope: work for young South Africans beyond the wage’. Presentation, Durban, 28 January 2023.

Du Pisani, André. 1985. SWA/Namibia: the politics of continuity and change. Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball.

Kenniston, William Hemingway. 2010. ‘Richard Turner’s contribution to a socialist political culture in South Africa 1968-1978’. Bellville: University of the Western Cape (MA History Thesis).

Morphet, Tony. 1990. Rick Turner Memorial lecture. University of Natal.

Moss, Glenn. 2014. The New Radicals: A Generational Memoir of the 1970s. Johannesburg: Jacana Media.

Mushaandja, Nashilongweshipwe. 2021. Critical Visualities & Spatialities: Protest, Performance, Publicness and Praxis. Namibian Journal of Social Justice Vol 1 (July 2021): 192-201.

Ngavirue, Zed. 1997. Political Parties and Interest Groups in South West Africa (Namibia): A Study of a Plural Society. Basel: Schlettwein Publ.

South African History Online. 2014. ‘1973 Durban Strikes’.

Suttner, Raymond. 2008. The ANC Underground in South Africa to 1976: A Social and Historical Study.Johannesburg: Jacana.

Van Wyk, Bayron. 2023. ‘#ACurtFarewell & inclusive Namibian memory landscapes’. 11 January 2023. Rosa Luxemburg Stiftung Southern Africa.

Interview

Omar Badsha, 18 September 2019, Woodstock, Cape Town

Making Tunisia non-African again – Saied’s anti-Black campaign

Since last week, there has been a vicious campaign against sub-Saharan Africans in the streets of Tunisia, following comments by the president. Shreya Parikh writes how anyone who fits the category of ‘African’ – sub-Saharan students and documented or undocumented workers, as well as Black Tunisians are being harassed on the streets by police and civilians, and many attacked, stabbed, and forced into hiding.

By Shreya Parikh

On 21 February 2023, President Kais Saied called a meeting with the National Security Council to take urgent measures “to address the phenomenon of the influx of large numbers of irregular migrants from sub-Saharan Africa to Tunisia.” According to the statement published by the Tunisian Presidency on their Facebook page, Saied “pointed out that there is a criminal arrangement that has been prepared since the beginning of this century to change the demographic composition of Tunisia and that there are parties that received huge sums of money after 2011 in order to settle irregular immigrants from sub-Saharan Africa in Tunisia.” The goal of this migration, according to Saied, is to make Tunisia “a purely African country with no affiliation with the Arab and Islamic nations.” The statement adds that Saied “stressed the need to put an end to this phenomenon [of irregular migration] quickly, especially since hordes of irregular immigrants from sub-Saharan Africa are still continuing with the violence, crimes and unacceptable practices they lead to, in addition to being legally criminalized.”

This statement, which French far-right politician Eric Zemmour has supported and linked to the “Great Replacement” theory,  launched a state- and civilian-supported mass violence to rid Tunisia of ‘Africans’- on the streets, in private spaces, and on the social-media. Many Tunisians on already-proliferating anti-sub-Saharan online groups declared themselves the protector of Tunisia’s so-called Arabo-Muslim identity in the face of the fear of Tunisia becoming ‘too African.’ For them, to be Tunisian is to be Arab and Muslim, all of which are antonymous to being African. In the Tunisian social imagination, to be African is to be Black, economically, and culturally poor, prone to all forms of excess and vice, needing to be controlled and (if need be) annihilated. By extension, to be Tunisian is to not be Black.

“Africans eat too much!” Blaming the other for the escalating socio-economic crisis

Since January 2022, rice has disappeared from the shelves of Tunis’ supermarkets. One of the popular explanations that has emerged for this disappearance is that the ‘Africans’ in Tunisia are ‘eating away all the rice,’ as pointed out to me by Yasmina, a 41-year-old Black Tunisian woman who has been active in denouncing all forms of racism in Tunisia.[1]

Les Africains,’ in the Tunisian vernacular, refers to the sub-Saharan migrant populations, who are estimated to number around 57 thousand.[2] Most of them are undocumented guest-workers, while a small proportion of them are university students. Many are hoping to make their way to the Global North. ‘Les Africains’ as a racializing category also includes the Black Tunisian population who are estimated to be make up between 10 and 15 percent of the population; Black Tunisians are assumed to be sub-Saharan migrants or assumed to trace their ancestry to enslaved families, even though a complex variety of migrations from other African regions brought their ancestors to Tunisia.[3]

The rice-crisis is not the first time that populations racialized as ‘African’ are blamed for a social and economic disaster in Tunisia, which in reality is a direct consequence of the state’s abandonment of marginalized communities and the pressures of global capitalism. Back in June 2021, while I was doing my fieldwork in the city of Sfax, protests were held by a group of unemployed Tunisians, calling for expulsion of ‘African’ migrant workers whom they accused of ‘taking away Tunisians’ jobs.’

The anti-African discourse has now infected President Kais Saied’s regime, finally reaching the words of the president himself. In the past few months, an ex-minister as well as members of Saied-supporting Parti nationaliste tunisien(Tunisian Nationalist Party) have openly made racist and xenophobic comments, calling for expulsion of ‘Africans’ from Tunisia. Saied, who took on authoritarian powers with a coup d’état on 25 July 2021, has increasingly relied on a populist discourse that blames a constructed ‘other’ for the social and economic crisis facing Tunisia; this ‘other’ has included political opponents, NGOs, and civil society figures, and recently, the ‘Africans.’

The state’s official adoption of the most violent form of anti-‘African’ discourse, which places itself in the genealogy of the dangerous Great Replacement ideology, has unleashed a massive anti-Black and anti-migrant hatred that was previously kept to racist remarks or occasional cases of anti-Black violence. What we have in Tunisia, as I write these words, is a vicious pursuit for anyone who fits the social imagination of ‘African.’ sub-Saharan students and undocumented guest workers, as well as Black Tunisians are being harassed on the streets by police and civilians; many are being stabbed and robbed; Tunisian activist Saif Ayadi has called this an “extermination war” against the migrants.[4]The police are arresting those whom they see as ‘African,’ putting most into detention under inhumane conditions, without any clear reason. Adama, a young Ivorian man living in Tunis with a resident permit, told me in a voice that edged towards a cry, that many (like himself) who are arrested are being forced to sign false attestations in Arabic (that most cannot read) that declare that they were trying to make their way ‘illegally’ to Italy – a punishable crime under Tunisian law. A Black Tunisian woman activist was harassed in Tunis city-center because someone thought that she was a migrant.

Men pretending to be police are kidnapping sub-Saharan migrants and raping women, as Joseph, a 23-year-old Congolese student in Tunis mentioned during our conversation. Sub-Saharan migrants are being kicked out of their homes, their valuables burnt or robbed by Tunisian mobs, and many are finding themselves homeless; shelters funded by state money have orders not to house them. Sub-Saharan migrants are being fired from their jobs and are being replaced suddenly by Tunisians from whom they are accused of ‘stealing jobs.’ Many are being refused groceries at stores because ‘Africans eat too much,’ as an Ivorian interlocutor in Sfax recounted her experience. Others are being refused medical support that they are in urgent need of. Everyone who falls under the socially constructed category of ‘African’ – those with or without jobs, those with university classes to attend – are too scared to leave their homes because the racist violence has spread to every street in Tunisia.

On 23 February, the president went on to (partly) backtrack his speech, reassuring sub-Saharan migrants ‘legally’ residing in the country that he never wished to target them, that he is only targeting the ‘illegal’ migrants. Most sub-Saharan migrants (like Western European migrants) enter Tunisia as legal migrants because of 3-month visa-free policies; but the Tunisian state forces all migrants to become illegal by its refusal to deliver legal documentation. This means that Tunisia also has European migrants living ‘illegally.’ But in the social and political construction of the ‘illegal migrant,’ white bodies never fit. It is the Black and dark-skinned bodies that are assumed to be illegal and criminal, as is clear from arrests of sub-Saharan migrants who carry residence permits, as well as absence of arrests of European ‘illegal’ migrants. The hunt for ‘illegal’ migrants has never been about the undocumented status, even before Saied’s speech –  black and dark-skinned migrants (including myself), irrespective of their documentation status, have continuously faced police intimidation and state surveillance.

Externalizing (and internalizing) borders

The externalization of European Union borders onto its southern Mediterranean shores has meant that both Tunisian and sub-Saharan migrants seeking to exercise their right to mobility North find their mobility constrained and controlled by so-called securitization apparatus. Many Tunisians, like sub-Saharan Africans, who attempt to make their way to the North via the sea are murdered by this securitizing apparatus.

Yet, this collective oppression by the Global North and the collective humiliating experience of being immigrants in another land has unfortunately not generated a mass solidarity movement in Tunisian society for their sub-Saharan co-habitants. On the contrary, the fact of Tunisian migration (through both ‘legal’ or ‘illegal’ means) is used to fuel the Great Replacement conspiracy theory, with many Tunisians arguing that their country is being ‘emptied’ of the so-called Arabo-Muslim population and being ‘replaced’ instead by ‘criminal Africans’ with many saying that they fear that the country will be 100 percent Black in a few years.[5]

While the European Union’s violent securitization apparatus is indeed responsible for the oppression and murder of sub-Saharan migrants (and Tunisians) in Tunisia, the Tunisian state also contributes to their oppression and murder. For example, the migration laws in Tunisia date from 1968 and are too outdated to respond to the current local and global migration regimes. In addition, the practice of migration governance is no longer controlled by these laws; rather, a sub-Saharan migrant’s legality or illegality is determined by the individual interpretation of the municipal, traffic, or border police that the migrant finds in front of her.[6]

Many of my sub-Saharan interlocutors living in Tunisia have told me repeatedly that they have “never wished to be sans-papiers, but [were] made so by the state.” Almost every sub-Saharan migrant I spoke with has tried to acquire legal documentation, and most have been refused after years of paperwork and payment of bribes.

With elevated overstay penalties (20 dinars per week, equivalent to around US$6.5) imposed by the Tunisian state on undocumented migrants seeking to legally leave the country, many sub-Saharan migrants tell me that it is financially cheaper to ‘take the boat’ (make the clandestine journey) to Italy. Sub-Saharan migrants are being forced to choose between continuing to live in Tunisia where they have been facing inhumane working and living conditions for the past decade, and where they now face the state supported virulent hatred, versus potentially facing death in the Mediterranean as they make their way to Italy.

Mobilizing solidarity and resistance

On 24 December 2016, three Congolese students were near-fatally attacked with a knife by a Tunisian man in the Tunis city-center. This led to a large-scale mobilization by both sub-Saharan and Black Tunisian civil society organizations who denounced racial discrimination and violence faced by sub-Saharan migrants as well as Black Tunisians. Their mobilization culminated into then-Prime Minister Youssef Chahed’s support for a law criminalizing racial discrimination – a law for which the civil society had been lobbying since 2011 revolution. In 2018, Tunisia became the first country in the so-called Arab region to have a law criminalizing racial discrimination; on the basis of this law, a legal demand to remove a discriminatory family name, which contains the vestiges of the cruel history of enslavement of Black families in Tunisia, was granted in 2020.

There has been a massive mobilization by Tunisian civil society (especially by Black Tunisian organizations) to support sub-Saharan migrants by organizing medical, legal, and housing support. Around a thousand protestors joined a solidarity march in Tunis on 25 February 2023. Journalists and informal groups continue to report the violence on the ground. As with the December 2016 incident, these current moments of immense hatred and violence may become a site to push for reforms, especially in the migration laws in Tunisia. I hope that this moment of economic and social crisis, of rising cost of living, of hunger and debt across the Global South nurtures solidarity on our collective condition as the wretched of the earth, irrespective of the borders, our nationalities and skin-colour.

Shreya Parikh is a Ph.D. candidate, and her dissertation research focuses on the constructions and contestations of race, and racialization in Tunisia through a focus on the study of racialization of Black Tunisians and sub-Saharan migrants. Parikh grew up in Ahmedabad in India, and currently resides in Tunis in Tunisia.

Featured Photograph: Mnemty team at the solidarity march denouncing racial discrimination and violence against sub-Saharan migrants in Tunis on 25 February 2023. Mnemty is a civil society organisation headed by Black Tunisian activist Saadia Mosbah (in photo holding the yellow sign in Arabic) who has been at the forefront of fighting all forms of anti-Black racism in Tunisia (Mahmoud Rassaa).

Notes

[1] All names of those I interviewed have been changed to protect their identity.

[2] I am aware that the use of the term ‘sub-Saharan African’ itself contributes to homogenization and possible marginalization of the group it categorizes. I have chosen to use it here because many of my interlocutors who come from ‘sub-Saharan Africa’ use the term to categorize themselves and those from their region of origin.

[3] Complex migrations processes, including enslavement from the North, also brought to Tunisia the ancestors of many non-Black Tunisians. Migration has always been at the core of population histories in Tunisia, both historically as well as in the present.

[4] The reports on anti-Black violence in this article relies on my telephonic conversations with sub-Saharan migrant interlocutors in Tunisia and social-media posts by activists and researchers reporting incidents of harassment.

[5] This type of discourse can be found on Facebook groups like “تونسيون ضد الوجود الأجصي (افارقة جنوب الصحراء)بتونس” (Tunisians against sub-Saharan African presence in Tunisia). See here (last accessed on 28 February 2023)

[6] Many of my sub-Saharan interlocutors living in Tunisia have told me that they have faced police searches and arrests without reason and declared “illegal” even when they were in possession of temporary residence permits. This has also been my case; in December 2022, while I was exiting Tunisia at Tunis-Carthage airport, I was declared “illegal” by the border police even though I was in possession of valid temporary residence permit.

“Problem Has Changed Name” – infrastructure, citizenship and the state in Nigeria

On February 25, Nigerians go to the polls to elect a new president. Daniel Jordan Smith discusses the politics of the provision (or lack) of public services and infrastructure in Nigeria. Most Nigerians adapt to the reality that they must provide for themselves, cobbling together fundamental service provision in the context of state failure. But as the country goes to the polls, Smith argues questions of infrastructure are central to both citizenship and state power in Nigeria.

By Daniel Jordan Smith

On February 25, 2023, Nigerians go to the polls to elect a new president. It is impossible to predict with certainty who will win or how Nigerians will receive the results. Inevitably, popular sentiments will run the gamut from hopeful optimism to seasoned cynicism. By the time RAOPE viewers read this blog post, perhaps the election’s outcome will be settled; just as likely, it will be contested, either formally and publicly, or behind the scenes.

While I would not venture to forecast the winner of Nigeria’s presidential election, I can say with considerable confidence that the next president, as well as countless other elected officials and the government they control, will be judged by the Nigerian people, perhaps above all, by whether they deliver improvements to the country’s woeful infrastructure and related services.

No doubt people all over the world judge their governments and politicians based, at least in part, on whether they provide adequate infrastructure. But in Nigeria, the transition to democracy in 1999, after three decades of mostly uninterrupted military rule, created especially high expectations that the government would improve its performance. In the minds of most Nigerians, civilian leaders have disappointed them. As a result, withering criticism of politicians—including presidents—for their failure to fulfill their promises is a mainstay of popular discourse, often in the form of biting humor.

For example, when Nigeria’s first civilian president after the return to democracy, former general Olusegun Obasanjo, ran for a second term in 2003, he made improvement in the production and distribution of electricity a major plank in his promised agenda. Obasanjo won reelection. As part of his reform of the electric power sector, he reorganized the parastatal in charge, then known as the National Electric Power Authority (NEPA). NEPA had long been the object of Nigerians’ derision and the brunt of popular jokes—including that NEPA stood for Never Expect Power Anytime, and other variations on the theme. Importantly, in addition to the organization’s reform, Obasanjo also changed its name. At the time, I imagined the president and his advisors huddled in a conference room eager to find a new name for which the acronym could not be so readily transposed into the kind of mockery long associated with NEPA. The new organization was given the name Power Holding Company of Nigeria, with the acronym PHCN. What could critics possibly do with that, I imagined Obasanjo and his cronies asking with self-satisfaction. But, in their inimitable way, Nigerians immediately invented critical appellations for the new entity. The first I heard was “Please Hold Candle Now.” Soon after came perhaps my all-time favorite example of Nigerians’ incisive critical political humor. PHCN was said to stand for “Problem Has Changed Name.”

There is no end to the jokes, popular sayings, satirical anecdotes, rumors, and conspiracy theories that illustrate both Nigerians’ discontents and their political acumen regarding the failure of their government to provide fundamental infrastructure. The condition of Nigeria’s state-supported infrastructure—be it for the provision and distribution of water and electricity, the quality and safety of roads, or the capacity of law enforcement to safeguard citizens’ everyday security—is so poor that nearly every Nigerian knows the popular refrain “every household is its own local government.” As the saying suggests, Nigerians must cobble together fundamental infrastructure where the state fails.

My recently published ethnography, Every Household Its Own Government: Improvised Infrastructure, Entrepreneurial Citizens, and the State in Nigeria, offers an up-close account of how Nigerians cope with the shortcomings of government-provided infrastructure. I was motivated to do the research for the book because over the 30 years I have worked in Nigeria, efforts to cope with inadequate infrastructure constantly preoccupied people, often on a daily basis, without relief. What is more, since I first arrived in Nigeria in 1989 nearly every domain of basic infrastructure and associated services has deteriorated. Frustrations with this situation have resulted in a prevalent and already-mentioned discourse of complaint, pointing to the political salience of infrastructure. It became apparent to me—as it has long been to Nigerians—that not only were the country’s infrastructural woes holding back both individual advancement and national development, the very substance of state-society relations was also at stake.

Nigerians adapt to the state’s failures to provide adequate infrastructure through a combination of entrepreneurship, informal economic enterprise, and sheer hustle. Given the extent of their ingenuity and self-reliance, one might be tempted to conclude that with regard to infrastructure, Nigerians have rendered the state irrelevant. But in reality, all of these ostensibly private efforts to address infrastructural deficiencies involve regular state-society interaction. Further, these dealings are among the most common experiences of everyday citizenship in Africa’s most populous country and, paradoxically, they constitute a primary arena for the consolidation of state power.

As highlighted in the anecdote about PHCN, when it comes to the way that powerful people benefit at the expense of ordinary citizens, Nigerians are not fooled. They commonly blame the country’s infrastructural shortcomings on political elites who steer the state. But in my book I argue and try to show how citizenship and state power are constituted in more mundane interactions between the people and their government, not least, ironically, as they regularly encounter low-level government officials in their private, entrepreneurial efforts to create reliable access to clean water, steady electricity, safe transportation, and protection from crime, not to mention decent health care, effective education, and affordable housing. To fully understand how Nigerians’ responses to infrastructural deficiencies shape the experience of citizenship and contribute to the constitution of state power, it is necessary to illustrate and explain the prevalence and salience of these routine, mundane, seemingly administrative and bureaucratic encounters with government. These dealings are, in fact, highly political interactions, mirroring and reproducing the dominant dynamics of citizen-state relations in Nigeria.

Although Nigerians’ cynical assessments of the country’s political elites are by and large quite accurate, it is through this more routine administration, in which government bureaucrats and ordinary citizens interact, negotiate, cooperate, and even collude, that much of the work of reproducing state power is accomplished. In these encounters, the complex interplay of formal and informal and official and unofficial rules and their associated moral economies are revealed, navigated, and often reinscribed. All of this means that as Nigerians pursue their needs and desires for better infrastructure, they often unwittingly further enable the power of an only-apparently-absent state.

A couple of cases will illustrate how private entrepreneurs managing informal infrastructure-related enterprises constantly run into (and often inadvertently reinforce) state power. My book, based on long-term research in southeastern Nigeria, has chapters about six domains of infrastructure: water, electricity, transportation, communication, education, and security. I could have selected evidence from any of these spheres, but for the sake of brevity I describe examples only from the water and transportation sectors.

Entrepreneurial enterprises to address deficiencies in government-provided water infrastructure include, among others, private boreholes constructed by small-scale entrepreneurs who sell water in the neighborhoods where they reside because there is little or no municipal piped water service; cart pushers who transport multiple 50-liter containers of water to paying customers in urban neighborhoods with few other options; and manufacturers of “pure water,” the ubiquitous half-liter clear plastic sachets of drinking water available for sale on nearly every street corner. While borehole vendors, cart pushers, and pure water manufacturers all launch their businesses in response to the government’s failures to deliver water, ironically, each endeavor leads to extensive engagement with the state as officials draw upon laws and regulations to compel entrepreneurs to pay fees for licenses, registrations, inspections, and numerous other formalities required for government approval. Or conversely, state officials sometimes solicit bribes in order to exempt entrepreneurs from having to obey the rules. Once water-selling businesses are established, similar dynamics unfold regarding the payment of taxes—especially value-added taxes (VAT). At seemingly every turn, the same state apparatus that appears incapable (or unwilling) to organize the provision of water finds it no problem to mobilize itself to collect fees and taxes (or bribes in lieu of them).

The situation regarding transportation is similar. Among the plethora of private entrepreneurs and enterprises that provide “public transportation” in Nigeria, two examples will suffice to convey the ways that these businesses are entangled with the government, like it or not.  Motorcycle taxis (known in southeastern Nigeria as okada) provide a popular form of urban mass transportation that is completely private. But the many thousands of motorcycle taxi drivers, most of whom are in business for themselves, face periodic efforts to regulate and tax them through various short-lived measures related to registration, licensing, uniforms, helmet use, and much more. In addition, the police are a source of constant harassment, looking for any excuse to extract a portion of okada drivers’ meager earnings. The police are also the main source of governmental contact, control, and plain and simple extortion for the minibus drivers and their conductors who ferry commuters to and from town as well as between nearby cities. Known in Nigeria as danfo, these minibuses are a major target at ubiquitous police checkpoints, where drivers are expected to hand off some cash in order to be allowed to pass without major delay.

These are but a few of the countless ways in which Nigerians’ private, entrepreneurial, and informal economic efforts to address the state’s failure to provide basic infrastructure and related services ironically result in deep entanglements with government officials. These experiences are the most tangible interactions that many citizens have with the state, reminding them of the state’s power, even as it fails with regard to providing them what they most need and expect.

Whether all of this makes the Nigerian state weak or strong depends upon whose interests it is designed to serve. Except for elites whose households are better equipped than many local governments, for most Nigerians the fact that every household must be its own local government is not a reality they prefer. The vast majority of people want the state to do better. Whoever the next president is, if he is able to deliver improved state-supported infrastructure, he will be applauded for doing more about the problem than changing its name.

Daniel’s book Every Household Its Own Government: Improvised Infrastructure, Entrepreneurial Citizens, and the State in Nigeria is published by Princeton University Press.

Daniel Jordan Smith is the Charles C. Tillinghast, Jr. Professor of International Studies and professor of anthropology at Brown University. His other books about Nigeria include A Culture of Corruption: Everyday Deception and Popular Discontent in Nigeria and To Be a Man Is Not a One-Day Job: Masculinity, Money, and Intimacy in Nigeria. 

Featured Photograph: Protests in Nigeria against the police force called (SARS) Special Anti-Robbery Squard (31 October 2020).

Thorn in the Flesh – the unreformable Kenyan police

Kenyan activists Faith Asina and Gathanga Ndung’u deliver powerful and sharp criticism of the role of the Kenyan police as the oppressor of the masses. They explain in detail how police terror has manifested itself on issues such as the crackdowns on activists, the aftermath of elections, state-led campaigns against terrorism and informal settlements. They also take the time to commemorate fallen activists and inform us about ongoing grassroots movements against the violence of the police, which they believe needs radical surgery or a total overhaul.

By Faith Kasina & Gathanga Ndung’u

In the 21st century, the police have become the law enforcer, jury, and executioner of the people. For the rich, the police are the protector of their assets and wealth, whereas, for the poor, they are criminals in uniforms sanctioned by the state against them. It appears as though the police were created by the rich to police the poor. Police misconduct and abuse of power have been an ongoing debate for a long time due to the series of cases reported worldwide ranging from arbitrary arrests, harassment, torture, enforced disappearances (EDs) and extrajudicial executions (EJE), among other criminal activities. The police have long been used to oppress the masses rather than maintain peace and order. These traits of police abuse of power have manifested themselves in developed and developing countries, from the US, where the issue is intertwined with racism, to China, Nigeria and Kenya.

A brief history of the Kenyan police state

In Kenya, the first formal police unit was created by the British Government in 1907 as the British Colonial Police Force. This unit was created to protect The Crown’s commercial interests in the vast region covering Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi and some parts of Tanzania. Kenya Railways introduced its police units in 1902 to protect its main infrastructural project – Kenya-Uganda Railway.

This police unit evolved over the years as the British Government continued with their rule in the region. To effectively subdue the population, they used divide and rule whereby they recruited one community to serve under their units as home guards and set them against other communities. The successive independence regimes that followed maintained these units without reforming them. They used the police to protect their newly acquired wealth and also to repress any dissident voices that questioned their authority. Through them, several arrests were made, and some enforced disappearances and deaths.

Kenya’s first post-independence assassination was the killing of General Baimunge who was a general in Kenya Land and Freedom Army (KFLA) and one of Dedan Kimathi’s confidants who led the KFLA battalions on the East side of Mount Kenya Forest covering Meru and Embu. His death was carried out by the police who were under the instructions of the first Kenyan Prime Minister, Jomo Kenyatta. This was the first betrayal committed by the first government on its war heroes. Under Moi’s rule, they were empowered even more with the creation of special units for the torture of political detainees during his authoritarian rule that went for 24 years. Prisoners of consciousness such as Maina Wa Kinyatti, Koigi Wamwere, Karimi Nduthu, GPO Oulu and Oscar Kamau King’ara among many others.

Assassinations of activists during Arab Moi’s era 

Karimi Nduthu was a renowned activist during Moi’s regime. He was the Secretary General of the Release Political Prisoners (RPP) pressure group and also served as the Mwakenya National Coordinator. Karimi was initiated into radical politics by the December 12 Movement (DTM) literature which included Pambana, Cheche and later Mwakenya materials. Karimi was from Molo and he investigated the Molo massacre and ethnic clashes during the Moi regime. Moi was a ruthless dictator who never hesitated to silence any dissident voices that seemed to oppose his iron fist rule. He made organizing a challenge for political activists and university students. This forced many of them to organize in hiding. Karimi was expelled from the University of Nairobi for his activism as a student leader in February 1985 before he could complete his degree in engineering. He was arrested in 1986 for being a member of Mwakenya and was jailed for six years at the dreaded Naivasha Maximum Prison.

He was later released in 1992 after Mothers of Political Prisoners piled pressure on the Moi regime to release political prisoners. Immediately after his release from prison, he went straight to All Saints Cathedral where mothers of political prisoners and members of Release Political Prisoners had camped. They continued to pile pressure by camping at the cathedral until all the prisoners were released. On the night of March 23 1996, Karimi was brutally murdered at his Riruta home by the infamous Jeshi la Mzee murder squad – a vicious youth militia run by the Moi government and the then ruling party, KANU. Neighbours recounted how the police, who appeared immediately at the murder scene seemed to have been there to confirm the activist’s death. To make it look like a burglary and or a theft scene, they took his possessions including books and cassettes and manuscripts. His murder is among many questionable murders and assassinations carried out by Moi’s regime through the help of his secret police squads.

The subsequent murders of human rights activists, George Paul Oulu and Oscar Kingara, in 2019 show how Extra Judicial Executions are deep-rooted and systemic in Kenya. The denial of justice to the victims to date shows how the justice system has been rigged against a section of Kenyans.

The police force has been maintained to this date to serve the ruling class and their interests in the country without any regard for the poor majority in Kenya. The fundamental structures of the police force haven’t changed since the colonial era despite the many calls for reforms in training, service delivery, maintenance of law and order, impartiality in carrying out their duties, professionalism, attitude and relationship with the public. The Kenyan set-up shows a force that has been trained to protect the elite in a country with glaring economic disparity between the ultra-rich that have controlled the country since independence and the malnourished poor populations who survive on meagre daily wages. To control these hungry and angry masses, the police force has been concentrated in the poor urban informal settlements and slums such as Mathare, Kibera, Kayole, Dandora, Kayole, Mukuru and Kariobangi. These areas that harbour the majority of the poor in Nairobi are highly policed not to offer protection but to pacify and repress them into submission. It is from these areas that many cases of extrajudicial executions, enforced disappearances, arbitrary arrests and extortions are reported every week.

Police violations and abuses disguised as special operations and crackdowns

File:GSU - Uhuru Park.jpg

Special operations and crackdowns in Kenya have provided ample justification for use of force, coercion, mass arbitrary arrests with subsequent disregard for the rights of arrested persons, extrajudicial executions and enforced disappearances. From the crackdown on multi-party democracy crusaders, Marxist-Leninist ideologues, Mungiki, the 2007/08 Post-Election Violence, Mombasa Republican Council, the anti-terrorism fight, crime in informal settlements to the Covid-19 lockdown, the state has always flexed its muscles on unarmed civilians and created fear in communities through the police force.

In 2006 and 2007, the state launched an operation to crack down on the outlawed Mungiki Sect which had taken hold of Nairobi, Central and some parts of the Rift Valley region. This group incorporated aspects of religious, cultural and political issues. They kept dreadlocks just as the Mau Mau rebels did to show their ties to the country’s freedom fighters. Their oath-takings which were rumoured to involve the use of human blood and subsequent killings that were linked to the group invited the government to start a crackdown. Mathare and other slums in Nairobi and other regions in Central Kenya suffered a huge blow as hundreds of youths were killed by police and many others disappeared during the same time. According to a report released by a group of lawyers, more than 8040 young Kenyans were executed or tortured to death since 2002, during the five-year police crackdown on the outlawed Mungiki Sect under President Mwai Kibaki’s reign.

During the 2007-2008 post-election violence, around 1,200 Kenyans lost their lives and the police were used to kill people from the zones termed as opposition. The majority of these killings happened in informal urban settlements in Mombasa, Nairobi and Kisumu with most of the deaths being as a result of police brutality. To date, the National Police Service has never been held accountable for the atrocities committed against its own people. In Kenya, the police force has also been bashed for being impartial in their work more so during election periods.

Mombasa Republican Council was an organization formed in 1990 by separatists who wanted secession of the coastal part of Kenya. They claimed that it was time to form their own republic. The movement subsided over the years only to be revitalized in 2008 with their vocal leaders pointing to the thorny issue of land in Kenya, marginalization and skewed development. Under the Pwani Si Kenya (Coast region is not part of Kenya) slogan, they rallied residents to join them with instances of oath-taking in coastal forests being reported. The government responded by deploying contingents of police officers who used excessive force on citizens including women and children. Most of the leaders were detained and some were forced to denounce their stand. With the creation of a decentralized government in 2013 after the first election under the 2010 Constitution of Kenya, the movement waned as the creation of county governments gave the coastal people a sense of control of their issues through local governments.

When the Kenyan army entered Somalia to help the Somali Government fight the Al-Shabaab terrorist outfit, there were increased cases of terrorist activities in the country as a retaliatory response from the outfit. This led to a crackdown on citizens of Somali origin and the Muslim populations at large in Kenya. Mombasa and Nairobi became hotbeds of police crackdown by the dreaded Anti-Terrorist Police Unit (ATPU) which rounded up and arrested hundreds of suspects, some of whom were innocent, and held them in different stations for more than 24 hours. Many Muslim male residents of Eastleigh and Majengo in Nairobi fled as searches were being carried out in mosques and homes. In Mombasa and other coastal areas, young Muslims and clerics were reported murdered during this operation with some being abducted by plain-clothed police officers, never to be seen again. Some of these abductions and arrests have been carried out in front of families and friends.

The fight against crime in the informal settlements seems to be a war against the poor young black males in the Kenyan ghettos. Their poverty has criminalized them with their dreadlocks and sense of fashion used to profile them while labelling them as criminals. This has led to the execution and disappearance of many at the hands of the police. Each informal settlement has a renowned killer police officer who seems to be backed by the state to help with its covert operations of cleansing alleged crime suspects. Kayole, Mathare and Dandora all have these serial killers in police uniforms who have taken the role of the judiciary to issue instant ‘justice’ to alleged lawbreakers. Despite the overwhelming evidence against these officers, the state seems unwilling to act on them and the only action taken is the transfer and re-shuffling of officers from one area to another.

The realization that what the government was doing was cleansing young people in the informal settlements led to the mushrooming of community-based organizations to fight this injustice and bring to light and call out the massacre of the ghetto people by their government.

Social movements and the fight against extrajudicial executions (EJE)  

The Social Justice Centres Working Group (SJCWG) is the decision-making body of the Social Justice Centres Movement which is the umbrella body that brings together all the social justice Centres in Kenya. These social justice centres act as human rights defenders’ centres based in the communities. They are formed by the members of the community to find solutions to the pertinent challenges in the communities. SJCWG has over 60 centres spread across the country organizing on different political, socio-economic and cultural issues.

The social justice centres movement continues to organize against extrajudicial killings and enforced disappearances. To document these cases, different partners came up with The Missing Voices website and so far, 1226 Extra Judicial Execution cases and 275 Enforced Disappearance cases have been documented since 2007. The Missing Voices website is supported by Amnesty International-Kenya, Peace Brigades International-Kenya, International Justice Mission, HAKI Africa, MUHURI, Defenders Coalition, ICTJ, International Commission of Jurists, Kituo Cha Sheria, Kenya Human Rights Commission, Human Rights Watch, CODE for AFRICA, Heinrich Bӧll Stiftung, ODIPODEEV, Protection International-Kenya and SJCWG. These partners help to document, provide legal aid to victims and their kin, and offer psycho-social support among other services. Documenting helps to fill the gaps in evidence by layering victims’ testimony with quantitative data. It also creates a platform where one can report, sign petitions and follow trials of such cases as well as offer support.

The social justice centres working group operates under committees and the Mothers of Victims and Survivors Network (MVSN) is one of the pillar committees. The MVSN brings together mothers of victims and survivors of police brutality to provide a platform where they can share their experiences. This also acts as a social circle to enable the survivors to start the healing process as they offer each other a shoulder to lean on. They actively engage in the documentation and follow-up of EJE’s and ED’s cases in the community and then offer referrals to the right organizations. They have also been involved in publicizing their work and creating awareness about the government’s role in the protection of the dignity of human life as enshrined in Article 26 of our constitution.

Licensed to Kill

The Kenya Police seems to have been licenced by the state to do a mass cleansing of youths in the slums. In Nairobi Eastlands, “innocent till proven guilty” seems to be a preserve for the rich as the police kill without any regard for the law. More than fifty years after independence, our police force still borrows heavily from the colonial police service in its mode of operation.

During our struggle for independence, the colonial police used the media as a propaganda tool to create fear and panic among the natives. Whenever a fighter was captured or killed, the images of their mutilated bodies would be published on the front pages of the local papers to demoralize fighters. One of the images that were highly circulated was that of Dedan Kimathi lying on a stretcher handcuffed. This was to bring the Mau Mau to its knees as they believed that he was the main leader of Mau Mau. Today, social media has taken the role of the local papers. The killer police use Facebook pages to spread their propaganda leading to the self-exiling of youths due to fear. The police have become bold in their nefarious activities as they issue warnings on their targets on Facebook with the photos of the target which they then go ahead to actualize without any fear of repercussion. Just like the colonial police, they post the badly mutilated bodies with warnings to other youths involved in crime.

The government has invested heavily in arming the police force while still spending very little on social security programs, job creation and provision of social services which would drastically reduce the crime rate. The state has also neglected the well-being of its police officers as mental health issues and low wages demoralize the force from within amongst other challenges such as poor working conditions. These problems compounded have in a way contributed to the many suicide cases in the force, the increased cases of homicides among police officers, misuse of firearms and involvement in illegal activities such as robbery with violence and collaboration with criminal networks.

The threat the police pose to the public is immense and Kenyans seem to be sitting on a time bomb ready to explode when you imagine a fully armed police officer, underpaid by the government, working in poor and harsh conditions, traumatised by work, being oppressed by the seniors with no psycho-social support systems in the force and trying to survive the harsh economic conditions. These conditions create an environment for mental instability among the junior officers.

The role of women in the fight against extrajudicial killings 

Social Justice Movement HRDs protesting in Mathare

Movements have always arisen up to deal with human rights abuse by the state. Women have been part and parcel of organizing and confronting the ills in the community as well as upsetting the status quo. Women in Kenya have participated in all aspects of the struggle, and they continue to do so to this day.

During the Moi regime when the government arrested young people and put them in prisons, mothers of those political prisoners and other women camped at Uhuru Park and piled pressure on the government to release the political prisoners. The government was adamant and this led to the women stripping and going on silent strike until Moi’s government started releasing the prisoners. The women fought for their sons until they were all released.

From the defiance of Mekatili wa Menza and Muthoni Nyanjiru against the colonial police during the invasion of our territories to Field Marshal Muthoni Kirima who fought alongside men during the Mau Mau years, to second liberation heroes such as Wangari Maathai, women led by showing bravery and defiance against the skewed system being enforced through the police. This baton has been passed to MVSN which continues to organize against atrocities being committed by the police in poor neighbourhoods. Being victims, survivors and witnesses of police injustices, these women chose to rise above their pain and setbacks and channel their energy and efforts by creating awareness in the community and supporting others who have been or who would have been victims. Instead of giving up, these women have transformed themselves from being victims to community human rights defenders in the different settlements they come from. They now stand as the vanguard of the communities against rogue police officers and the system that creates and supports them.

The Social Justice Movement has organized the communities against these injustices to try and force the state into accountability. Instead of initiating the investigations, the state has in recent times responded by intimidation, surveillance and a crackdown on human rights defenders. This use of excessive force was witnessed during the annual Saba Saba (July 7 2020) March For Our Lives by the Social Justice Movement when more than sixty activists, human rights defenders and members of the community were arrested for participating in this peaceful protest commemorating the activities of the second liberation struggle in Kenya.

The Kenyan police and stalled reforms

The National Police Service is not a service but a violent squad. The change in name from ‘force’ to ‘service’ did not solve its underlying issues. The police force that was inherited at independence in 1963 has largely remained the same in function, operation, and culture among other aspects. The police service was supposed to be citizen-centric in the way it handles complaints from the public. This is far from what Kenyans are used to in our local police stations. The reforms on uniforms and change of names haven’t brought about any transformation to the police culture in Kenya.

The Kenya Police Force needs radical surgery or a total overhaul and the system that created it. The many years of reform seem to have hit a brick-wall and the changes are no longer effective. The curriculum used by the Kenya Police College needs to focus more on instilling patriotism, dignity for human life and professionalism while the recruiters should focus on passion to serve rather than the physical prowess that are long outdated.

As Human Rights Defenders from Kenya, it is our prerogative to join hands with the rest of the international movements and apply pressure on our governments to defund our police forces and redirect the resources to the reduction of unemployment, provision of social services and creation of a social safety-net for vulnerable families. These efforts would go a long way in solving crime and insecurity since reforms is not a viable solution anymore.

Until we uproot the system that created this police force, it shall continue to be a ‘force’ rather than a ‘service’, the issue of mental health among the police shall continue to be a thorn in the side and cases of suicide among the force shall continue to rise. Until a radical surgery is applied, professionalism will be an alien vocabulary to our police officers; until we cut the stem that supports the moribund system that is the Kenyan Police, Kenyans and the citizens of the world shall continue to suffer in the hands of these police forces.

This article is an edited version of the post that has appeared under the title Unreformable Police Force

Gathanga Ndung’u is a community organiser with Ruaraka Social Justice Centre which is under the Social Justice Centres’s Working Group. He is also part of the Revolutionary Socialist League brigade that organizes political education in different political cells in the respective centres in Nairobi. Away from this, he is a biotechnologist with great enthusiasm for ecological justice, food sovereignty and security. Above all, Gathanga is a Pan-Africanist and a socialist.

Faith Kasina is the coordinator of Kayole Community Justice Centre. Through this organisation, she aims to promote social justice in informal settlements through community engagement and the use of social movement platforms.

Photographs: Social Justice Centre Working group

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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