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Being excess bodies: Shame in the age of climate coloniality

For many in the Global South, instead of recognizing that their suffering is a result of local and global socio-economic and racial structures, they feel shame. As COP27 takes place in Egypt, Shreya Parikh writes about climate change, overpopulation, and shame in Tunisia and India, and how suffering is often interpreted as being a result of individual deficiencies. It is a false narrative that blames those suffering most gravely from climate change for their own suffering.

By Shreya Parikh

My friend and I return to her home – the Hamrouni household – after the sun has set, with sand all over our feet from walking around the beach in Gabès.[1] It is May 2022, and the sun burns above 40 degrees in the day. I head directly to the bathroom on tiptoes, hoping the sand wouldn’t crumble all over the tiled floors and carpets. My friend’s mother rushes to see if there is a towel in the bathroom for me, and realizes that there is no running water in the taps. She looks at Mabrouka, my friend, and sighs; they take turns in telling me that the water has run out before midnight – the usual time for the water cuts in the Mtorrech neighbourhood.[2] As I wash my feet with plastic bottles filled with stored water, guilty of my beach pleasures and the resulting need to clean myself again with water, I am told that Mtorrech has been lucky in Gabès, that other neighbourhoods in Gabès have it worse than 12am-5am water cuts every day.

Gabès city, around 400 kilometres south of the capital of Tunisia, reminds me too often of home in Ahmedabad, a city in India with the population size totalling all of Tunisia. Both Gabès and Ahmedabad see long arid summers when the air thickens with pollution and humidity. In both Gabès and Ahmedabad, pleasure lies in food that burns the tongue and the throat – couscous grains coated with spicy hrous in the former, pickled chili mangoes back in Ahmedabad. In both Gabès and Ahmedabad, water cuts often. And it is in Gabès that the raw memories built over my childhood in Ahmedabad emerge like undiscovered water springs.

I wash my feet and my arms sticky with sand and sweat, and there is just enough water in the bottle to splash on my face before heading to the dinner table and then to bed. My mind, subconsciously, had made the calculation of how to divide the two litres of stored water that Mabrouka had given to me. The mental ritual of the calculation, the bodily ritual of washing with so little water, brings back to me a heaviness, a deep shame.

As we eat dinner in front of the television, I can’t but sink into this shame. I look at Mabrouka’s mother playing with their newly adopted kitten, smile at them, and then proceed to blankly stare at the reality show on the television. But I can’t get the shame out of my mind and body.

Where does shame come from?

In the middle-class neighbourhood I grew up in back in Ahmedabad in north-west India, our days were organised around the daily water cuts. Washing, bucket baths, and cooking happened mostly early in the day when running water was guaranteed – between 7am and 2pm. If the water ran until 4pm, we called it our lucky day! There were also days when there was no water at all, when we would pack our laundry and head to my grandmother’s home.

In the middle of the summer sometime in the early 2000s, the large electric setup that pumped groundwater for our apartment complex broke down, or at least that is the story I was told as a kid. There was no running water at all. A plumbing company was brought in to dig a deeper hole and put in a new pump. In my memory, the men from the company spent the whole summer digging and digging, and we never really knew when we would have running-water again.

Trucks fitted with water tanks were brought in from time to time but they were small attempts to fill in the daily need of water. Rumours would circulate every day that a water tank would be brought in, and we would prepare by heaping all empty containers and buckets together so that we could rush to the tank once it materialised.

Running to the mobile water tank was a woman’s job – I remember women in their house clothes rushing out with all types of empty plastic containers; women in loose cotton dresses in all shades of pastel, with turmeric stains from cooking, and a scarf thrown around the shoulders to perform some form of modesty and presentability. They would crowd around the water tank and elbow each other for what was scarce. I am sure my mother was there as well, running to the tank, but for some reason, my memory has wiped her presence out of these snippets of images that remain in my head.

Was it shame that had erased her presence?

Managing the house logistics without water was, in my mind, also my mother’s job. She made sure that all the buckets were full and that the house had been cleaned and mopped while the water was running. It was with her that we would rush to a friends’ apartment in the neighbouring apartment complex every morning during the dreadfully long summer of the broken water pump, and it was with her that we would brush our teeth and bathe while she cleaned laundry.

Seeing structural problems as our fault

I never spoke with anyone about our daily water cuts during my childhood. I had internalised that the silent performance of water storing was an act of shame. I never spoke about it with my friends at school, nor did I have any conversation about the recurrent water-cuts with my parents. It existed, every day, and we had to silently accept it.

Men fishing for anchovies along the polluted coast of Gabès (Shreya Parikh, June 2021).

The water cuts, in my mind, were our fault – we didn’t have enough money to pay to live in more privileged housing complex where, I assumed with certainty, the water flowed with ease and the bathrooms came with built-in marble bathtubs and I could bathe myself every day like the characters in the English textbooks we read at school. I reasoned that to talk about water cuts in school would mean that I would reveal an uncool fact about my (comparatively lower) socioeconomic class.

As I think about these memories, I find thick layers of shame wrapped around them. This shame came from the collective meaning we had given to the recurrent water cuts – that our inability to pay for more water was to be blamed for the situation we were in and that, if we could move into a more upper-class neighbourhood, there would be running water all day.

The only time we talked about water-cuts as a social problem beyond our individual agencies was when so-called intellectual op-eds blamed shortage of water in India to overpopulation. We were too many, we were told again and again, and we were the excess bodies creating this overpopulation. Every time I would read about ‘overpopulation’ in our geography textbooks in India, I would have an intense desire to dissolve and disappear.[3] Maybe then we could have running-water?

We witnessed intense urbanization, falling ground water levels, and decreasing average rainfall all around us, and could see that frequent cutting of water in many households across Ahmedabad was (and is) linked to these visible outcomes of global climate change and environment destruction.[4] Yet, we continued to suffer not only from the water cuts but also from the narrative of ‘overpopulation’ that constructed our lives as excess – the ‘too many’ drinking away ‘too much’ of the water.[5]

The ‘too many’ in Tunisia

‘Overpopulation’ may not be the word used in Tunisia in the textbooks or in journalistic media to talk about a social problem. But political and social discourses that construct families (like the Hamrouni family in Gabès) outside the Tunis-Sousse-Sfax region as excess are omnipresent.

Since early 1970s, Gabès hosts a series of chemical industries that lines its coasts, drinking away its fresh ground water and emptying the dirtied water into the sea. These industries have disrupted and destroyed the oasis ecosystems and the livelihoods that depend on it; they have polluted and killed the fish, and put fishermen out of jobs. And their polluting gas emissions have brought a long list of fatal maladies like asthma and cancer to its people.[6]

A common dominant discourse presents Gabèsians as having ‘chosen’ to have chemical industries along its coast as a development policy in the 1960s. According to this discourse, all coastal spaces in Tunisia were to be automatically developed as touristic beaches; because folks in Gabès are ‘too conservative’ to tolerate women in bikinis (so the discourse says), they ‘chose’ heavily polluting and water-consuming industries instead. Today, tourist forums continue to repeat this discourse by reminding (non-Tunisian) tourists to not ‘expose [themselves] too much during [beach] tanning’ because of the ‘conservative’ nature of locals in Gabès.

This dominant discourse constructs Gabès and its population as conservative and hence inferior from liberal and more-educated populations along the Tunis-Sousse-Sfax coast. Gabès is portrayed as deserving of its polluting industries because, for many, there can be no other model of development except for building giant industries in areas with low literacy levels. The so-called conservativeness of Gabès is used to justify continuous lack of public infrastructure in the region.

Bodies under the heaviness of climate coloniality

The shame induced by being recurrently described as ‘overpopulation’ or excess bodies weighs down on families that live on the margins of the world – the Global South. The intensity of this weight experienced by those in the Global South is determined by other factors as well – gender, class, race, and caste among others. Both, the Hamrouni family in Gabès and my family in Ahmedabad, carry many privileges, among them the privileges that come with our middle-class status. Their experience of being called ‘excess’ are not equivalent to the experiences of those who are poor in the Global South.

Those at the margins of the margins are the worst affected by climate change as well as the intensity of shame linked to their marginalised condition. According to scholars Elaine Chase and Robert Walker (2012), shame, in the context of poverty, combines ‘an internal judgement of one’s own inabilities; an anticipated assessment of how one will be judged by others; and the actual verbal or symbolic gestures of others who consider, or are deemed to consider, themselves to be socially and/or morally superior to the person sensing shame.’[7] For them, shame induces a sense of disempowerment – a lack of control. At the same time, they point out the presence of guilt in the life narratives of many who experience poverty.

For many at the margins, shame is experienced as guilt; instead of recognizing that their suffering is a result of local and global socio-economic and racial structures that create and perpetuate inequalities, the suffering is interpreted as being a result of their own individual lacking (lack of effort or lack of enough money, for example). It is this false narrative that blames those suffering most gravely from climate change for their suffering that weighs heavily onto bodies, a result of what scholar Farhana Sultana (2022) calls ‘climate coloniality.’[8]

Sultana argues that climate change and colonialism should be viewed together in order to understand the uneven effects of climate change globally, what she terms as ‘climate coloniality.’ This climate coloniality not only takes material and political forms, but also discursive forms. Dominant discourses on studying and addressing climate change render, according to Sultana, ‘some lives and ecosystems…disposable and sacrificial, whereby [inequality-producing] structural forces, both historical and contemporary, fuel it’ (2022:4). For example, in discussions on addressing climate change, ‘burdens on the poor across the Global South to reduce greenhouse gas emissions continue to exist’ while, at the same time, luxury and survival emissions are treated as equivalent (2022: 5).

A similar argument exists in conversations on addressing water shortages. For example, in 2018, total water withdrawal per capital in India was at 563 cubic meter per year (per inhabitant) while that for Tunisia was 332 cubic meter per year (per inhabitant).[9] For France, the value stood at 416 cubic meter per year (per inhabitant). The value takes into account water withdrawals from agricultural, industrial, and municipal purposes. While France’s total water withdrawal per capital is lower than that of India, the number doesn’t take into account France’s dependence on agricultural produce imported from elsewhere (for example, dependence on cotton fabrics produced in India).

For the case of Tunisia, scholar Habib Ayeb pointed out during the screening of his documentary Om Layoun (in May 2022) that agricultural water in Tunisia is diverted into producing fruits and vegetables for export to Europe (including France) rather than producing grains (or other produce) for local consumption and agricultural sovereignty.[10] Hence, the 416 cubic meter per year (per inhabitant) of water withdrawal in France doesn’t take into account the water that goes into the making of watermelons or olives imported from Tunisia.

As a scholar who grew up in and experienced the material and phychological marginalization resulting from climate coloniality in Bangladesh, Sultana notes that ‘feeling, embodying, and experiencing the heaviness of climate coloniality is a steep price to pay’ (2022, 10). The cost of shame-inducing marginalization is high.

Shame calls for certain practices to be replaced by capitalist ideas and actions that are defined as superior. I am thinking here of the embracing of fast fashion in the middle- and upper-class families in India, which is replacing a more sustainable use of cloth.[11] I think of agricultural plots in the oasis in Gabès being sold away to build residential structures to accommodate increasing urbanization (which is seen as a path to ‘development’) and the decreasing dependability on local agricultural produce for livelihood.[12]

At the same time, our material understanding of climate change through cutting water, the increasing pollution, and recurrent cases of fatal maladies is continuously rejected by dominant discourses that tell us (instead) that we are the problem – that we are the ‘too much’ in the so-called problem of ‘overpopulation’ on this earth.

A world of shame

The discourse of ‘overpopulation’ explains climate change by portraying bodies at the margins as consuming ‘too much,’ yet, at the same time, it blames the bodies at the margins for the heightened effects of climate change that they suffer by explaining it as the margin’s inability to pay for necessary goods of sustenance (hence, not consuming enough).

The learning of shame, under the weight of climate coloniality, is gradual and continuous. It pushes us to be ashamed of our helplessness in the face of the consequences of global climate change which are passed onto us through a series of micro-level interactions as well as macro-level institutions. Examples of these include textbooks in India or Tunisia that portray a consumerist way of living as a lifestyle to strive towards; they include advertisements about ‘modern’ intensively water-consuming bath tubs, showers, or toilet systems that construct more water-frugal options as linked to lower socio-economic class. Class differences are seen as a moral issue, and the ability to consume resource-intensive goods (goods that make intensive use of financial as well as environmental resources) are constructed as a morally-correct aspiration to have.

It is through consumption, we are told, that we can become individuals instead of a lump that is defined as excess or ‘overpopulated.’ To not have financial resources to pay for these resource-intensive goods is socially constructed as a marker of personal failure; shame comes from the internalisation of this idea where not being able to consume goods of morally-correct aspiration is considered a personal failure.

Cement and phosphate factories that line the coast of Gabès (Shreya Parikh, June 2021).

The effects of these internally-contradictory discourses of ‘overpopulation’ are visible all around the Global South. For example, large cities around Global South continue to choke their inhabitants with increasing road traffic and resulting pollution. In many cases, use of private vehicles over public transportation is motivated by the shame that is linked to sharing transportation spaces with those from relatively lower classes. In addition, images of crowded public transportation are used as proofs to explain the so-called problem of over-population in the Global South leading to climate change.

Public transportation has hence come to be associated with ‘overpopulation.’ We have come to think that those who take public transportation are excess bodies that should be ashamed of not being able to afford a car or other private forms of transportation. So, while international organizations are pushing cities in the Global South to build public transport infrastructure to decrease dependence on private transportation (and linked pollution), shame continues to act as a mental and emotional restriction in the development and democratization of public transportation.

It is time to take this shame seriously and work towards deconstructing the discourse of ‘overpopulation’ – the source of the shame –  that portrays so many of us as excess and expendable.

Shreya Parikh is a Dual Ph.D. candidate in sociology at CERI-Sciences Po Paris and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and a Beyond Borders Fellow (2022-24) at Zeit-Stiftung. She is also an affiliated researcher at Institut de Recherche sur le Maghreb Contemporain (IRMC) in Tunis. 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: Old city in Ahmedabad, India (Shreya Parikh, 2019).

Notes

[1] In this text, I use pseudonyms to protect the identity of my interlocutors.

[2] Both Mabrouka and her mother Ahlem are Black Tunisians. Mabrouka is 34 years old, and teaches English language at a private institute in Gabès. Her mother is 66 years old, and a retired nurse. They both live in Mtorrech neighborhood in a comfortable house; the neighborhood is middle class and racially mixed, and located outside the city center of Gabès.

[3] Social science textbooks (as well as other social science study material) in India continue to portray ‘overpopulation’ as a societal problem in India. See, for example, Rumani Saikia Phukan, “Overpopulation in India – causes, effects and how to control it”, 22 April 2022.

[4] In 2019, for example, the average rainfall recorded in Gujarat state (where Ahmedabad is located) was less than that over three previous decades; many parts of the region were declared as facing drought. See Sharik Laliwala, “The Undercurrents Of The Water Crisis In Gujarat.” The Wire. 5 May 2019.

[5] The discourses of overpopulation have been traced back to the book The Population Bomb (1968) published under the name of Stanford-based entomologist Paul Ehrlich who co-wrote it with his wife Anne Ehrlich. The book argued that the problem with the increasing population in the world would lead to immense global disasters (like mass starvation). The popularity of his book would lead international organizations to promote fertility reduction programs in the Global South, including in Egypt, India, Pakistan, and Tunisia. See Charles C. Mann, 2018, “The Book That Incited a Worldwide Fear of Overpopulation.” Smithsonian Magazine..

[6] Hortense Lac. “Autour du Groupe chimique de Gabès, une population sacrifiée.” Inkyfada. 12 November, 2019.

[7] Elaine Chase and Robert Walker. 2012. “The Co-construction of Shame in the Context of Poverty: Beyond a Threat to the Social Bond.” Sociology. 47(4):739-754.

[8] Farhana Sultana, 2022. “The unbearable heaviness of climate coloniality.” Political Geography.

[9] All data comes from UNFAO’s (Food and Agriculture Organization) AQUASTAT database.

[10] The documentary reflects on the unequal access to water in Tunisia, where absence of state infrastructures for water provision in marginalized rural areas forces families to either lose water supply or pay the high cost of privatization.

[11] See Flavia Lopes and IndiaSpend.com 2021 (23 December). “By creating a false demand for fresh looks, fast fashion is hurting the environment.” Scroll.in, 23 December 2021.

[12] For a detailed understanding of urbanization of Gabès and decline in agricultural activities in the region, see Maha Abdelhamid, Les transformations socio-spatiales des oasis de Gabès (Tunisie): déclin des activités agricoles, urbanisation informelle et dégradation de l’environnement à Zrig, des années 1970 à nos jours. Thesis defended at University Paris Nanterre, France.

Don’t greenwash your climate crimes by greenwashing Egypt’s military dictatorship

Protesters listen to Samaya Halawa explain about the detention of her brother Ibrahim when he was just 17 exercising his right to protest peacefully against the military coup in August 2013. Alisdare Hickson. November 2015.

As Egypt plays host to COP27, Y.Y.H. Al-Askar – writing under a pseudonym – draws attention to the plight of the tens of thousands of political prisoners in Egypt. Al-Askar points to the hypocrisy of Sisi, presenting himself on the international stage as a fighter for the oppressed while brutally repressing any Egyptian who dares to speak out against his military regime. Al-Askar argues that through its uncritical engagement with Sisi’s Egypt, COP27 threatens to derail the struggle for climate reparations while greenwashing Egypt’s military dictatorship.

I remember the last protest I went to in Cairo. It was November 2013. Egypt’s current president Abdelfattah Al-Sisi had just taken power, and quickly changed the political landscape. One of these changes was imposing a new law by which one could only demonstrate with a permit, which was never granted if the protest was in any way critical of the regime.

So that day we gathered without a permit. There were around a hundred and fifty of us. We chanted, we stood our ground, until the soldiers charged us, grabbing who they could, including the innocent passers-by. I was scared that day. I had been in their prisons before. I had experienced the psychological torture, heard the screams of others from my cell, and smelled seared flesh upon entering my interrogation room. I didn’t want to return there. I was scared even more by what continued to become clear since the coup of July that year: the military was back to stay.

Later that night police forces violently arrested activist Alaa Abdel-Fattah from his home, accusing him of organizing that day’s protest, without evidence. Proof is rarely needed before a court in Egypt. Alaa had become one of the most prominent activists of the revolution that had ousted former dictator Hosni Mubarak in 2011, and as the military regime returned even more brutally than before, it wanted to make an example of what would happen to others if they didn’t remain silent.

Alaa’s sisters, Mona and Sanaa Seif, protesting outside the British Foreign Office in the run up to COP27. Alisdare Hickson. October 2022.

The re-emerged military regime wanted all those out of the way who dissented. Today there are over 65,000 political prisoners in Egypt. Alaa is still among them. In April he started an open hunger strike demanding his right to meet with a British government representative – as he’s a dual citizen – then later calling for the release of all political prisoners. On Sunday, the first day of COP27 he drank his last glass of water and enters a zero calorie strike, because so far there has been no response from the echelons of power.

Meanwhile, the regime is rebranding itself.

This week, as you read this post, the whole world is looking to Egypt as it hosts this year’s United Nations Climate Change Conference (or COP) in the desert resort town of Sharm el-Sheikh.

Egypt’s dictator has created a new position for himself within the global climate debate by championing the cause of states hardest hit by the climate crisis. In a speech at COP26, al-Sisi reminded his listeners of developed countries’ unfulfilled promise of raising $100 billion annually for developing nations by 2020. He is certainly going to be reminding his listeners of that again this week.

Meanwhile, Egypt is becoming an ever-larger exporter of fossil fuels. Export of oil has increased by 120% this year compared to 2021, while its natural gas exports have increased 13-fold in the past eight years. These are statistics neither al-Sisi nor Hill & Knowlton – the American PR agency that his regime has hired for the COP – will ever mention.

Sisi, the oppressor, presents himself as the fighter for the oppressed. Seeing him from the perspective of the climate debtors of the global North, is he not? But as an activist from Egypt, the hypocrisy is sickening. I believe engagement with the Sisi regime has the potential to derail the struggle for climate reparations, while greenwashing a military dictatorship. Egypt needs a greener economy. But for that to happen we need a complete change of regime, not just replacing one dictator with another.

You might ask yourself why there isn’t any form of meaningful protest to the injustice in Egypt? The story of Alaa Abdel-Fattah depicts the consequences, and the prisons are full of those who tried. That is also why I won’t use my own name to write this article. To make the cleansing of any opposition possible, the Sisi regime has built 27 new prisons. This includes one of the largest correctional facilities in the world, which in the dictator’s own words follows the “American model“, the country with the highest incarceration rate in the world.

The smallest form of demonstration, or even planned protest, the state surveys using technology provided by the likes of German company Fin Fisher, and then harshly crushes them. This also applies to protests over environmental concerns, where the regime acts no differently than its treatment of political activists.

Idku is a small fishing town on the Mediterranean coast, about 35 kilometres west of Alexandria. It is also where Egypt’s Liquefied Natural Gas (LNG) terminal lies which is now shipping liquified gas to Germany as an alternative source of energy to the country’s long-term dependence on Russia. During the Egyptian revolution in 2012, the community carried out a powerful struggle against the fossil fuel industry and prevented BP from setting up yet another gas refinery after the LNG terminal was found to be dumping waste into the sea and ruining the area’s marine life.

So, the community occupied the construction site, blocked roads, and raided the company’s offices after their verbal complaints went unheeded. Their creative strategies included using a community radio station to spread information that countered the state propaganda on the news. Police regularly arrested people and attacked their demonstrations, but in the end the activist struggle bore fruit. BP’s project ceded to the pressure of the social mobilization, though sadly by simply moving to a town nearby to implement the same project. Such struggles were made possible by the opening of political space during the revolution. Today, few dare take the risk in the face of the regime’s use of excessive force to shut down all forms of protest.

On October 1 of this year, just over one month ago, an Egyptian human rights group reported that state security had disappeared a 55-year old man for joining a Facebook group and proposing to organize a demonstration during the COP. This is a common occurrence in Egypt, where the police and military arrest, torture, and kidnap countless people every day. Most of them enter the labyrinth of Egypt’s detention system and facade of a judicial system. Some of these people disappear, in some cases only to have their murdered bodies appear in unexpected places with marks of torture all over them, like the Italian student Giulio Regeni in 2016. No words can describe the horror of conditions that exist in Egyptian prisons.

A silent vigil in memory of Giulio Regeni and the hundreds of Egyptians forcibly disappeared and tortured every year. Alisdare Hickson. February 2017.

Yet, a rare struggle has recently been led by the farming community of a Nile island called Warraq, that lies in the heart of Cairo. In 2017 the regime announced a ‘development’ project, which would transform it into Egypt’s ‘Manhattan Island’, with luxury high-rises and a 7-star hotel. The project uses all the right buzzwords: green, tech, future. In fact, it makes life impossible for common people, while lining the pockets of the generals. To make this possible, Sisi overturned a law marking Warraq and 36 other islands in Egypt as nature preserves, and ceded these to the military.

August was the most recent time the police violently crushed the islanders‘ resistance against displacement. That day, police forces arrested dozens, while others are still in prison from earlier clashes when the police also shot dead one resident. It is just one more example of the regime’s land grabbing for its own profit at the expense of Egyptians and the environment. That same month, the police demolished the second of three schools on the island and shut down the only ferry that reaches it. The outcome of that struggle is clear, and it identifies this military regime’s priorities. Profit, at the expense of an entire population and the natural environment.

Yet another case of regime land grabbing lies a few hundred kilometres west of the fishing village, in the town of Dabaa. Here too, the regime has over the years silenced a resistant community into submission for a different kind of project, a nuclear powerplant. This is being built by Russian engineers with a loan of $25 billion from Russia. No mention of that will be made at the upcoming COP, nor of the repression that made it possible.

I have left Egypt.

I no longer found it possible to speak out against this injustice there and fight on behalf of those at the mercy of a brutal military regime. The price was simply too high.

In order to make his regime accepted Egypt’s dictator makes promises of ‘stability’ and ‘development’ by ‘getting things done’. The possibility of the Egyptian Revolution has turned these generals into madmen scared of the smallest signs of popular outcry. It has turned the entire country into an open-air prison in order to make possible the ‘stability’ which they need for the ongoing theft of natural and human resources.

In order to make their ‘development’ projects possible, including the building of 41 new cities across Egypt, Sisi’s regime has begun a borrowing binge. Since taking power the dictator has more than tripled the country’s foreign debt without the population’s consent, bringing Egypt today to the brink of bankruptcy. COP27 is a convenient opportunity to attract foreign finances. If it needs to be ‘green’, the regime will make sure it is because it is desperate to finance its debt-ridden machine of terror.

This puts the global North in a dilemma, because by condition-less participation in the climate summit it greenwashes the brutal Egyptian regime.

The world’s greatest climate debtors must take a strong moral stance. This means pressuring their partners. The global North must raise the Sisi regime’s political crimes and not acquiesce to a few – most likely temporary – prisoner releases. Furthermore, with the Egyptian military dictatorship in an economically vulnerable position, the global North should disinvest from Egypt, unless very clear conditions are met.

At the recent Belgian-German climate cooperation meeting, Analena Baerbock said: “to make it clear to other countries and regions where the climate crisis is already the greatest security risk that we stand in solidarity with the people there and are by their side”. Here the critical point is indeed that climate debtors owe nature and people most hit by the climate crisis, including Egyptians; not governments, and certainly not fascist ones.

But there is a further dilemma. The reason the global North is engaging in the possibility of dialogue with a dictatorship is because it too seeks to utilize COP27 to greenwash its own crimes. If the greatest climate criminals are going to make clean energy financing available, they should do so for that energy to stay in a country that is 94% fossil fuel dependent. Then make that financing conditional on political reforms in Egypt and create real mechanisms to monitor their implementation – that would make the investment reach people, and not governments. Global North countries’ plans to reach net zero emissions must exclude new extraction and import of clean energy from elsewhere, or else this is merely a new form of colonialism. By importing clean energy from Egypt’s dictator, they make the people of Egypt more fossil fuel dependent.

Simply put, creating green partnerships with oppressive regimes addresses climate criminals’ own climate debts, while strengthening these fascist regimes, making a green turn meaningless. For the global North’s energy needs, we need to listen to activists, they have a clear plan. The COP summit must not be about northern economic advancement.

On 22 October the Belgian environment minister Zuhal Demir announced she will not attend Egypt’s COP. “Climate summits are not Eurovision song festivals. They, unfortunately, seem to have become grand shows for the outside world”, she said in explanation of her boycott, “nowhere is this more painfully evident than in Egypt where climate scientists are gagged while politicians and corporations are given the red carpet”.

A boycott by politicians must be a dual act that is accompanied by developing strategies for the global North to repay their climate debts that reach people, rather than prop up governments. This goes beyond attending a COP or not. Already in previous summits promises were made and not kept, so the question is not about attendance, it is about paying up. There is still an opportunity to turn the tide on climate reparations. Meanwhile, Egypt’s dictator might be uttering the right words of ‘climate justice’, yet he is certainly not a man of justice, and should not be a partner for anyone seeking either.

A version of this article was first published in German in DIE ZEIT (November 2022).

‘A Curt Farewell’: decolonizing public space in Namibia

At the end of October this year a decision was made in Namibia’s capital, Windhoek, to remove the statue of a colonial officer – the purported founder of the city. Heike Becker describes the extraordinary activist campaign to decolonialise public spaces in the country.  

By Heike Becker

On 27 October 2022 the Windhoek City Council finally voted to remove the statue of German colonial officer Curt von François, which has been standing on a pedestal outside the Namibian capital’s municipality offices since 1965. With this significant decision the City Council followed up on an earlier resolution in June 2021 to develop an encompassing policy on heritage matters.

Historically, the von François statue symbolises the continuities between the eras of Namibia under its first and second colonial rulers, Germany and (apartheid) South Africa. During the hey-day of apartheid colonialism in Namibia, the all-white City Council decided in 1965 to honour the purported “founder” of Windhoek by erecting a statue in front of the Municipality offices in downtown Windhoek. A South African sculptor was commissioned to model and cast the 2.4 metres high bronze statue.

Bidding ‘A Curt Farewell’

For the first time ever in Namibia there’ll soon be a move aimed at decolonising the public space, which has been brought about by an activist campaign and supported by the current municipal leadership.

Inspired by the global movement against racism following the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, Windhoek activist and artist, Hildegard Titus, started an online petition entitled “A Curt Farewell”, which garnered over 1,600 signatures within three weeks. Considering that Windhoek’s population is less than half a million, and that in 2020 online activism was an entirely new endeavour in Namibian civil society politics, this was quite remarkable.

The petition demanded the removal of the statue celebrating the purported founder of the city; it pointed out that the German officer had only built Windhoek’s Old Fort as a military operation in 1890. The petition insisted further that the statue should be replaced with one to honour Jonker Afrikaner, the Nama leader who first established a settlement in the area of today’s Windhoek around 1840. The petition read:

Continuing to keep Curt von François on his pedestal at the intersection of Sam Nujoma Drive and Independence Avenue is a painful erasure of the city’s history and that of its rightful founder, Jonker Afrikaner. This colonial monument continues to feed the incorrect narrative that “this land was empty” until he “discovered” it.

It is now time that [the city] … ceases honouring colonial faces.

Curt von François was responsible for the building of the Alte Feste, a military fort meant to protect the interests of the German colonial regime, and that is where his statue belongs. He should be confined within the walls that he built, next to the other statue of a bygone and violent era – the Reiterdenkmal – to contemplate their violent colonial legacies until the end of time.

Three weeks later, on 16 June 2020, about a hundred mostly young Windhoekers called for the removal of the statue during a protest against racism, gender-based violence and police brutality in the midst of the harsh Covid lockdown. The protesters gathered around the monument; some climbing on top of it. When they left, after their unsuccessful quest for a reception by city officials to deliver their demands to have the statue removed, they left behind their posters. Placards read, among others, “Rape culture must fall”, “Legalize Abortion”, “Police Brutality must end”, and “Black Lives Matter”.

Other placards recalled the 1893 German colonial attack by 200 German soldiers on the Witbooi Nama settlement at Hornkranz, southwest of Windhoek. By remembering this brutal act of colonial violence, the demonstrators denounced “white supremacy – an insult to those who water our freedom”, as one eloquent poster alluded to the lyrics of the Namibian national anthem. By recalling the event a direct connection was being made: the Hornkranz onslaught had been led by von François, whose statue was the key target the protest action.

While this demonstration was not the first-ever intervention against remnants of colonialism in Windhoek, previous subversive actions had taken place in the dark of the night, and only surprised passers-by the next morning.

Counter-memorialisation had, in fleeting moments, especially targeted the city’s (then) most notorious colonial memorial, the Reiterdenkmal (literally: ‘rider monument’ and usually referred to in English as the ‘Windhoek Rider’ or the ‘Equestrian Statue’) before its eventual removal in 2009. The horse and rider was a war monument erected in 1912 by the colonial authorities to celebrate the victory against the OvaHerero and Nama people who fought against German rule.

In July 2008, white wooden crosses were planted around the Rider statue, bearing place names and expressions in Otjiherero, the main language spoken by the victims of the genocide that was committed during German colonial rule.

The Reiterdenkmal brought out an aggressive claim to perpetual colonial domination. Since 1912, sitting on a 5m high sandstone plinth, the double life size (4.5 m) bronze statue of a mounted German colonial soldier with rifle had been used in many formats as the city’s iconic image. Its plaque commemorated the German military and civilian casualties during the 1904-7 colonial war. Despite the fact that its location was until 1908 the site of a concentration camp, where prisoners of the genocidal war died, no mention was made of the estimated one hundred thousand OvaHerero and Nama who had been murdered in the genocide committed by the German colonial army.

Interventions that subverted the monument’s colonial claims were credited to activists connected to Ovaherero and Nama victim-descendant pressure groups who have demanded justice for the communities that suffered most during the colonial war and genocide.

Overall, however, until 2020 the decolonisation of the public space remained a project of the postcolonial Namibian state. Windhoek’s German and South African colonial memorials remained largely untouched;instead, government policy was geared at erecting new memorial sites, statues and monuments, which added another layer of commemorative aesthetics and narrative in the public space.

The new structures were constructed as sites for hegemonic state-centred commemorative practices, which celebrate the master narrative of the Namibian postcolonial state, “SWAPO brought us liberation through the barrel of a gun”. Postcolonial structures such as the Namibian Heroes Acre and the Independence Memorial Museum, designed and built by the North Korean company Mansudae Overseas Projects, are distinct from the colonial monuments in terms of aesthetics and historical narrative. Yet the new memorials can just as easily be comprehended as a glorifying history written by the victors.

When protesters climbed right on top of the von François memorial in June 2020, this was the first time that young Namibians of varied ethnic backgrounds came out in a public demonstration for the eradication of colonial symbols in the public space.

More than a bronze sculpture

“It’s never been about the statue” was a frequently heard comment during the 2015 protests against the bronze sculpture of Cecil John Rhodes at the University of Cape Town in South Africa. Of course, in Cape Town as much as in Windhoek, memory and heritage as contested processes of past-based meaning production in the present have played an immense role in activism to decolonize the public space. In this sense, the struggles certainly were about the removal of icons of colonial conquest from public view. There is more to those battles than meets the eye though.

The occupation of the von François memorial on 16 June 2020 pointed out the monument as a painful site of remembrance and memorialisation. It was also the culmination of a remarkable movement of intersectional activism in urban Namibia. Campaigns to decolonize the public space through removing colonial monuments and renaming streets still honouring colonial tyrants have been linked to a range of social and political issues, which have been framed as perpetuated by coloniality.

The text on the plaque translates: Curt von Francois – Founder of Windhoek in the year 1890 – unveiled by His Excellency The Administrator Mr Wentzel Du Plessis on 18 October 1965. Mayor: The Honourable Councillor S. Davis. Sculptor: Hennie Potgieter (Heike Becker, 2022).

Leading Namibian activists have expressly pointed out the intersectional nature of the protests (see Hildegard Titus 2021 and Nashilongweshipwe Mushaandja 2021).The movements do not regard the contemporary Namibian struggles as separate from each other. Instead, their struggle for the “full decolonisation of Namibia”, as they have often phrased this, integrates a number of concerns, ranging from the decolonisation of the public space through to matters of economic redistribution, especially regarding land, and state violence. Of special concern, however, have been queer and anti-sexist politics.

Despite the restrictions of the recurrent Covid lockdowns, one month after the protest around von François, protesters took to the streets of Windhoek again. In mid-July 2020 they marched and demanded the legalization of abortion. The pro-choice action was organised by a newly-formed alliance known as Voices for Choices and Rights Coalition (VCRC), which had by then already collected 60,000 signatures (quite a large amount given that Namibia’s population is only 2.5 million) calling for the right to safe abortion and  abolition of the country’s Abortion and Sterilisation Act of 1975, a legal legacy of South African colonization.

In October 2020 another movement galvanized an unprecedented number of young people to reclaim the streets, marching and dancing and unleashing incredible creative energy with their performances. Hundreds of Namibian activists, students, working youth, and artists took to the streets of Windhoek and other towns for protests against gender based violence and femicide. The protests, which became known as #ShutItAllDownNamibia, began after the body of a young woman was found murdered in the port city of Walvis Bay.

During this protest, demonstrators blocked busy intersections in downtown Windhoek. They demanded the resignation of the Minister of Gender Equality, Poverty Eradication and Social Welfare, Doreen Sioka. Some carried posters that read, ‘Jou Poes Doreen’ (literally ‘your cunt, Doreen’). This transgressive directive confronted the Minister for her conservative, insensitive and ignorant views around sexual and reproductive health rights. As a leading activist of the protests pointed out in a reflection on protest, performance, publicness and praxis, radical practice was central to the movement’s strategy, “embodied through disruptive politics of public life” (Nashilongweshipwe Mushaandja 2021 and see Heike Becker 2020).

A new generation of young Namibians were challenging the vestiges of coloniality, and raising pertinent questions regarding the politically and socially incomplete liberation of Namibia in 1990.

In 2021 the newly-formed Namibia Equal Rights Movement (known as “Equal Namibia”) campaigned for the abolition of the sodomy law, introduced under apartheid South African colonial occupation and still in force in Namibia. They mobilised public protests around court challenges regarding the recognition of same-sex marriages and queer families with the slogan: “There is no freedom if there is no equality”. In a vibrant social media campaign and through participation in Namibian television and radio shows, queer activists made clear that they regarded homophobia as a segment of coloniality in Namibia.

Unlike during earlier waves of state-induced homophobic campaigns, queer Namibians and their allies were no longer silent; hundreds came out for public protest against openly displayed homophobia by members of the country’s political class. On 17 November 2021 a vibrant queer protest march swept down Windhoek’s Independence Avenue, proudly waving rainbow flags and colourful banners standing up against homophobic utterances by veteran SWAPO politician Jerry Ekandjo during a parliamentary debate.

When in March 2022 young protestors, known as ‘Ama2000’-  ‘the people of the 21st century’ – took to the streets again, one activist tweeted that the march targeted the “APARTHEID abortion act of 1975”. The protestor added that, “As Namibia celebrates Independence, we march for freedom from archaic laws!”

The tweet powerfully exemplified how pro-choice and anti-homophobic protestors regarded such persistent concerns as enduring legacies of apartheid and colonialism, rather than simply as issues caused by sexism or patriarchy. In turn, the imminent removal of a South African-created statue of a German colonial officer is significant far beyond just a bronze sculpture.

Heike Becker focuses on the politics of memory, popular culture, digital media and social movements of resistance in southern Africa (specifically South Africa and Namibia). She also teaches in the Anthropology Department of University of the Western Cape. 

Featured Photograph: Statue of German colonial officer Curt von François (Heike Becker, 2022).

Demolition colonialism in Nairobi

Nairobi remains a monument to the colonial project of discriminatory citizenship, inequality and structural violence. For decades under British colonialism demolitions of ‘illegal’ housing became the norm. Mwangi Mwaura explains that current demolitions in the city are justified under the banner of cleaning-up and building the city to attract investments.

By Mwangi Mwaura

Constant demolitions of homes, structures and other infrastructures have become a norm in most African urban areas. These demolitions are classed. This can be observed by studying the ongoing (re)construction of a Shell petrol station in Kileleshwa, on the affluent side of Nairobi, Kenya’s capital. The petrol station is under reconstruction at the exact location it was deemed illegal four years ago. This prompts us to reflect on race and class in Nairobi’s demolition history. A reflection that shows how the landscape of Nairobi is not only an archive of British colonialism but is a continual perpetuation of the colonial project of discriminatory citizenship, inequality and structural violence.

During British colonial rule the now affluent areas of Nairobi such as Kileleshwa, Westlands and Karen were reserved for white colonialists. Africans were only allowed to enter them to offer their labour under strict scrutiny imposed through the Kipande identification system which tied them to an employer. The African population was to be a transitory workforce in Nairobi, not a permanent one. But as time went by and more Africans came to the city, they started building houses in the east side of the city because neither the authorities nor their employers provided housing. Demolitions soon became a norm in these areas, where “African villages” were constantly set on fire to, in the words of Wangui Kimari, to make the city legible to empire—racially, spatially, ecologically, and economically”.

Contemporary urban demolitions

Current demolitions are justified under the banner of cleaning up and building the city to attract investments. Projects set under this banner often include roads, for example the recent building of the elevated, 17-km-long expressway connecting affluent sides of Nairobi with the airport. Demolitions for construction of a link road connecting an industrial area to the expressway in 2021 caused a humanitarian crisis as about 40,000 people were left homeless, and forced to fight back on the street, in one of the popular neighbourhoods, Mukuru Kwa Njenga. The other set of projects that involve demolitions are heralded as restoring the “green city under the sun” and often include efforts to clean the Nairobi river.

In 2018, there was a marked increase in demolitions on ‘riparian land’ – this is land which is adjacent to rivers and streams and is subject to periodic or occasional flooding. The demolition spree was led by a multi-agency task-force consisting of the then newly formed Nairobi Regeneration Committee, along with the National Environment Management Authority (NEMA) and the county government. Here, they argued, they were recovering riparian land from illegal land grabs. In August 2018 buildings in different parts of Nairobi were bulldozed. What was new and unexpected to most Kenyans was that some of these demolitions were in the affluent suburbs. For example, news of demolition of a Shell petrol station and adjacent Java House cafe at Kileleshwa, and the Ukay mall sparked shock amongst the investors and on social media. These buildings and others caught up in that phase of demolitions were claimed to be on riparian land.

However, it is important to note the fragmented governance of riparian land in Kenyan laws. Confusion exist on how to measure riparian land. There are overlapping mandates for their protection in at least eight pieces of legislation passed by parliament over the last decades. These are sometimes contradictory. For instance, the 1999 Environmental Management and Coordination Act defines it as ranging from a minimum of 6m and a maximum of 30m from the highest watermark while the 1989 Survey Act recommends 30m from tidal rivers. These fragmented and incoherent laws and policies continue to cause confusion. They have also created a legal loophole which the authorities and Kenyan elites have exploited to order demolitions and land grabs over the years.

During such demolitions, heavy security is used. This demonstrates the normalised structural violence. The 2018 riparian demolitions were also executed in the early hours of the morning or at night, causing great insecurity and vulnerability. Court orders and legal title deeds by residents are often ignored, leaving residents to fend for themselves and with no compensation.

Classed rebuilding

However, after exactly four years, the Shell petrol station demolished in August 2018, is currently under reconstruction in exactly the same location with permission and licence from the necessary agencies, including NEMA as seen from the construction site board (see image below). During its demolition the official statement by the environmental management body was that it was encroaching on riparian land and was also on a road reserve. Its reconstruction demonstrates the recolonizing nature of demolitions in Nairobi: when they are enacted against the working class they are permanent but when carried out in affluent areas they are only temporary with loopholes that the elites can exploit to rebuild or receive compensation.

Towards urban justice

In her book, The Struggle for Land and Justice in Kenya, Kenyan legal scholar Ambreena Manji explores the law relating to land and its administration. She studies the country’s rich but scattered ‘land archive’ through which she shows how land law has been the most emotional part of Kenyan laws. She further shows that the struggle towards land justice is ongoing in a variety of different ways, including through case laws. In regards to urban demolitions, some optimism about the possibility of ending demolition or moving towards the creation of a proper compensation structure can be seen in recent court judgments.

In the case, Mitu-Bell Welfare Society v The Kenya Airports Authority, the court noted the discriminatory aspect of demolition by pointing out that while the informal settlement, Mitumba village near Wilson Airport, had been demolished, adjacent multi-story buildings were left untouched.The judgement demanded that demolitions are accompanied by reasonable alternative accommodation.

Building on this precedent is the judgement in William Musembi vs The Moi Educational Centre Co. Ltd lodged by residents of two informal settlements who had faced the bulldozers in 2013 after occupying the pieces of land in 1968. The Supreme Court noted that even when the residents did not have the legal titles to land they acquired a protective right to housing through occupation.

Together, these judgments if respected, may lead us to urban land justice. But this will require an end to the recolonizing aspects of demolitions that has normalised the near-constant demolitions of homes and structures in working class neighbourhoods of Nairobi.

The author would like to acknowledge and appreciate the support of Ambreena Manji in reading earlier drafts of this text.

Mwangi Mwaura (@MwangiMwauraL) is a researcher affiliated to the Centre for Human Rights and Policy Studies (CHRIPS), Nairobi, Kenya.

Featured Photograph: Wangui Kimari and Constant Cap, ‘Under Fire: Forced Evictions and Arson Displace Nairobi’s PoorThe Elephant (12 March 2022).

Why NATO’s wars should worry Africa

NATO’s encroachment on Russia is not only a threat to world peace but a clear and present danger to resource-rich regions like Africa. Farid Abdulhamid argues victory in Ukraine will embolden the western military bloc to escalate its agenda in Africa. Abdulhamid calls on activists to lead a vigorous campaign to de-militarise the continent.

 By Farid Abdulhamid

The raging international conflict in Ukraine is framed in mainstream western media as the “Russian invasion of Ukraine” and referred to in other circles as a “Russo-Ukrainian War.” The problem with this skewed misrepresentation is that it obscures the deeper layer of the unfolding war theatre, namely the NATO-driven geopolitical underpinning of the conflict. The  spark that ignited the current hostilities can be traced to the longstanding NATO-Russia tension over the former’s expansion in Eastern Europe that has been building overtime, and which in the context of Ukraine, is viewed by Russia as an encirclement strategy that poses existential threat to its sovereignty and territorial integrity. Simply put, the conflict in Ukraine is primarily a NATO-orchestrated geopolitical war targeting Russia but using Ukraine as a springboard to drive its expansion in the region.

After suffering a string of defeats in the Middle East and Central Asia, NATO turned its attention to Europe, where it aggressively pushed for Ukraine’s membership to the Alliance. NATO’s failure to oust the Bashar Assad regime where Syrian forces that relied heavily on Russian airpower defeated the West’s proxies on the ground and prevented the Alliance’s attempt to bring the Middle Eastern country under its sphere of influence, was followed by its humiliating withdrawal from Afghanistan. The debacle in Syria and Afghanistan precipitated the Alliance’s drive to bolster its Eastern flank in a bid to regain the strategic edge over Russia and China that are spreading their interests around the world.

It was NATO’s encirclement of Russia that gave Vladimir Putin the pretext to “secure” Russia’s southern flank in 2014 by annexing Crimea while further provocations by NATO pushed Putin to shore up his western frontier through the annexation of the Russian-speaking Donbas region in eastern Ukraine. With Putin insisting he is at war with NATO, the Alliance continues to funnel billions of dollars into the Ukraine war campaign in the form of military hardware, communications, and munitions supplies that has chiefly become a boon for the US Military-Industrial-Complex.

In the wake of the ongoing escalation, there is no doubting the fact that the world should do everything to end the current conflict. Ideally, a negotiated settlement can only succeed if terms of a potential comprehensive peace call for the withdrawal of Russian troops, the halting of NATO’s eastward expansion in Europe and for Ukraine to embrace neutrality over the NATO-Russia stand-off.

The seven-month war has cost thousands of lives on both sides, leading to mass displacement and destruction of Ukraine’s public infrastructure. It has also created the largest refugee crisis in Europe since World War II with an estimated 7.4 million refugees fleeing Ukraine and crossing into neighbouring countries. Further, the conflict has caused skyrocketing food prices and an acute energy crisis around the world that has hit Africa the hardest.

Africa’s neutral stance

In spite of incessant pressure from the West, African countries have largely rejected the condemnation of Russia over the Ukraine war and instead many took a neutral stance owing to the long history between the continent and Russia, dating back to the era of Soviet Union when Moscow supported anti-colonial, liberation movements in Africa.

South African President, Cyril Ramaphosa, whose country is a BRICS member, a grouping of five emerging economies that includes Russia, China, India and Brazil, openly blamed NATO for the war in Ukraine stating the conflict could have been avoided had NATO heeded the warnings from amongst its own leaders and officials over the years that its eastward expansion would lead to greater instability in the region. Ramaphosa’s African National Congress (ANC) party had strong ties to the former Soviet Union, which trained and supported anti-apartheid activists during the struggle against apartheid rule in South Africa.

Even within the upper echelons of the African Union (AU), the conflict in Ukraine is seen as a geopolitical contest pitting NATO against Russia. At the recently concluded 77th session of the UN General Assembly, African Union Chairperson, President Macky Sall of Senegal said that Africa “does not want to be the breeding ground of a new Cold War,” alluding to the pressure mounting on the continent’s leaders to choose sides over the war in Ukraine. “We call for a de-escalation and a cessation of hostilities in Ukraine as well as for a negotiated solution to avoid the catastrophic risk of a potentially global conflict,” he said, reiterating Africa’s position on the conflict.

A new scramble for Africa

Progressive analysts hold that NATO’s encroachment on Russia is not only a threat to world peace but also represents a clear and present danger to resource-rich regions like Africa. A victory in Ukraine will embolden the western military bloc to escalate its hegemonic agenda in Africa. Even if NATO’s advance in Eastern Europe is eventually halted by Russia, a setback in Ukraine could make it position Africa as an area where it can project its power on a global scale.

Camouflaged under the dubious arrangement “NATO-AU Cooperation” the western military bloc’s involvement in Africa is no longer a closely guarded secret. In fact, NATO has an official liaison office in the African Union Headquarters in Addis Ababa, while high level AU and NATO officials have held closed door meetings in Addis and Brussels (NATO’s headquarters). With a new scramble for Africa unfolding fast, NATO is making its intentions clear as it seeks to occupy and militarise large swathes of the African continent.

Caught between the NATO-Russia and US-China superpower rivalry, the emergent geopolitical conflict has far-reaching security implications for Africa, which is already reeling under the effects of an undeclared cold war. “NATO-AU Cooperation” is fast transitioning from technical cooperation to strategic partnership, which could pave the way to fully fledged military intervention.

US Africa Command (AFRICOM)

Set-up in 2007, the US Africa Command, AFRICOM, is a direct product of NATO expansion in the region via EUCOM, the US European Command, a central part of NATO that originally also took responsibility for 42 African states. While the Pentagon boasts of AFRICOM’s operational roles in reconnaissance, training, and logistics, it is the hidden combat operations in the form of surgical strikes (drones, cruise missiles etc) directed at perceived enemy targets that is causing mounting civilian casualties, especially in Somalia. The US is seeking to build an expanded role for NATO in Africa as it refocuses its attention to the Asia-Pacific theatre, where it is looking to outflank China.

Located at Kelley Barracks in Stuttgart, Germany, AFRICOM’s stated objectives “are to counter transnational threats and malign actors, strengthen security forces (African) and respond to crises in order to advance US national interests and promote regional security, stability and prosperity”. While anti-militarisation mobilisation on the ground has prevented AFRICOM from relocating its headquarters to Africa, the US Camp Lemonier base in Djibouti technically serves as AFRICOM’s de facto headquarters on the continent and has become the centrepiece of an expanding constellation of US drone and surveillance bases stretching from Libya to Mali to the Central African Republic.

According to its official website, the NATO-backed Command is active in 38 African countries, and is manned by security personnel, civilian officials as well as liaison officers at key African posts, including the African Union, the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS), and the Kofi Annan International Peacekeeping and Training Centre in Ghana. Strategically, AFRICOM’s aim is to entrench US hegemony in Africa by securing unfettered access to the continent’s vital resources, including oil and gas reserves, and mineral deposits through militarisation and occupation. It also serves as a coup incubator with a spate of recent coups in West Africa linked to US-trained military officers.

NATO’s growing footprint in Africa

NATO’s expansion in Africa can be seen in the high-level military cooperation agreements it imposed on the AU, intended to consolidate the bloc’s expansionist agenda in the continent. In a series of events starting in 2005 NATO provided “logistical” support to the AU Mission in Darfur followed by a “strategic” airlift to support AU’s Mission in Somalia (AMISOM) and a subsequent “sealift support” in 2009. In 2011 NATO’s involvement on the continent took another turn when former AU Commission Chairperson, Jean Ping, visited NATO. Ping’s trip was made in the context of Operation Unified Protector – the UN-mandated operation to “protect” civilians and civilian-populated areas in Libya, which ironically, was then under sustained NATO bombardment.

In 2014, the AU Commissioner for Peace and Security Ambassador, Smail Chergui, visited NATO and signed the technical agreement on NATO-AU cooperation. This was followed by a flurry of activities that further cemented NATO’s expansion on the continent with the opening of the NATO liaison office at the AU headquarters in Ethiopia in 2015, and the start of the annual NATO-AU military-to-military staff talks, and programme of mobile training solutions offered to AU officers which started in the same year.

With the NATO imposed agenda on Africa moving fast, AU leaders were pushed to agree to a further strengthening and expansion of the Alliance’s political and practical cooperation at the Warsaw Summit in 2016, which paved the way for a cooperation agreement that was signed in 2019, to bring NATO and the AU closer together. In 2021, the NATO-AU Cooperation Plan was signed to enhance the military cooperation offered to the AU. The so-called “cooperation plan” stipulated in the NATO-AU agreement is a cover to intensify NATO’s military operations in the region, which could mean putting boots on the ground.

According to Vijay Prashad, the 2011 war in Libya, NATO’s first major military operation on the continent, was part of a strategy to coalesce Western power and expansion into Africa. French President Emmanuel Macron has long called for a greater NATO involvement in Africa. As the conflict in Ukraine rages on, NATO leaders are making connections between Russia’s action in Ukraine and its advances in Africa. In the run up the NATO Summit in Madrid on 22 June this year, the Alliance leaders warned of Russia’s inroads into the continent calling for the bloc to closely watch its southern flank (Africa). At the summit, NATO declared Russia as “it’s most significant and direct threat.”

From NATO’s point of view, security threats emanating from Africa arise from Putin’s increasing traction on the continent owing to his growing political and diplomatic influence and the unmistakable military footprint of the Russia-linked Wagner Group, a private military contractor the West claims is staging Putin’s covert war in Africa. Russia denies links to the Wagner Group but reiterates its right to forge closer ties with African countries through mutual trade and partnership as well security arrangements.

Is Russia an imperialist power?

Even though Russia is seeking to expand its influence in Africa and the Middle East, it would be a mistake to characterise it as an imperialist power. Despite attempts by the western media to portray Russia as a neo-colonial force, its recent forays into Africa does not fit the classic definition of imperialism.

Lenin defined capitalist imperialism as:

The stage of development at which the dominance of monopolies and finance capital is established; in which the export of capital has acquired pronounced importance; in which the division of the world among the international trusts has begun, in which the division of all territories of the globe among the biggest capitalist powers has been completed.

Given that Russia is a country with limited export capital, with no stranglehold on global finance and capital or its own economic spheres and monopolies around the world, it can be correctly described as a non-imperial, capitalist state.

To put the above into perspective, Stansfield Smith, a prominent ant-war activist and writer, notes that Russia’s strength among international capitalist monopolies is negligible, its labour productivity is far below that of the US and the European Union, while its manufacturing output ranked 15th in the world, behind India, Taiwan, Mexico and Brazil adding that Russian exports (and imports) do not fit in the pattern of an imperialist state, but rather of a semi-developed peripheral  state, exporting raw materials, and relying on foreign import of advanced goods.

Further, Smith observes that Russia sees a substantial export of capital, but this comes in the form of capital flight to tax havens such as Cyprus and the British Virgin Islands, which in 2018 stood at US$66 billion. When it comes to foreign assets, not a single Russian corporation is listed in the world’s top 100 non-financial multinational corporations with assets abroad. Furthermore, Russia remains a marginal actor in international banking and finance capital with only one of its financial institutions making the list of top 100 banks.

Smith also notes that although Russia has intervened in other countries (Serbia, Georgia, Ukraine, Syria), it not in a manner of imperialist countries, which are motivated to seize natural resources and wealth. According to Smith, Russian intervention is nowhere near the scale of even secondary imperial powers such as France or Britain, nor has Russia engineered coup d’etats in other countries as imperialist countries constantly do.

Russia has 15 military bases in nine foreign countries but only two of these are outside the borders of the former Soviet Union, in Vietnam and Syria. China has one base outside of its borders, in Djbouti. The US has over 800 foreign bases. Russia’s heft on the global stage is measured by its military might (not its global economic dominance), and it plays no role in policing and enforcing world order through illegal sanctions, force and military occupation. Technically speaking, Russia is looking to curtail NATO’s expansion in Africa, not to recolonize it.

NATO’s threat in Africa

If left unchecked, heightened NATO expansion may turn Africa into the largest concentration of western-led militarisation in the world using the resource-rich continent as a base to relaunch its global agenda.

In terms of foreign military installations, Djibouti in East Africa is already a hive of activity as it host eight bases, key among them belonging to the US, France, the United Kingdom and China. The concentration of western military bases in Djibouti may become a trend elsewhere across Africa as NATO sets up militarised zones in an increasingly besieged continent.

With NATO militarisation taking root in Africa, progressive forces must act fast and lead a vigorous campaign to de-militarise the continent. To confront NATO’s threat, the anti-war and anti-militarisation movements in Africa and around the world must step up efforts to demand an immediate end to the NATO-AU Cooperation, shut down AFRICOM, call for the closure of all foreign military bases on the continent and push for the complete withdrawal of western forces from Africa. We may be seeing the future of NATO’s involvement in Africa being played out in Ukraine.

Farid Abdulhamid is a member of the Toronto Chapter of the Group for Research and Initiative for the Liberation of Africa (GRILA) and a former Research Fellow at the York Centre for International and Security Studies (YCISS).

Featured Photograph: Senegalese soldiers training during Africa Lion – US Africa Command’s annual exercise – at Cap Draa, Morocco, 11 June, 2021. In 2021 the training exercise was hosted by Morocco, Tunisia, and Senegal between 7-18 June. More than 7500 personnel from nine nations and NATO trained together for ‘enhanced readiness’ (US Army photo by Sgt. Nathan Baker, 11 June 2021).

Student Power and Decolonization in the Congo

Drawing on material from his new book, Pedro Monaville discusses the radical politics and activism of Congolese students in the 1960s. He argues that despite their small numbers, their political influence was significant. While memories from this period might be fading, they can still help us to better understand what was lost, and remain a key component in the history of the present.

By Pedro Monaville

At the center of Students of the World: Global 1968 and Decolonization in the Congo is an historical engagement with Congolese who studied at universities in Kinshasa, Lubumbashi, Kisangani, and various foreign institutions in Europe and North America from the late 1950s to the early 1970s. This was a relatively small group of people (a few hundred by the time of independence in 1960; around 15,000 a decade later), in great part because Belgian colonialism had built a Malthusian educational system that made it very difficult for young Congolese boys to continue their education beyond a few years of primary schooling, while it was virtually impossible for girls. Despite these relatively small numbers, the students’ political influence was determinant. Students represented the nation’s future and the promises of sovereignty and accelerated development that came with independence.

As they moved increasingly towards the left through the 1960s – a trajectory that my book follows carefully – they were able to use the prestige and dispositions connected to their elite status at the service of radical political projects. The organization they created in 1961, the General Union of Congolese Students (UGEC), emerged as one of the strongest constituents of the Congolese nationalist camp and it played a prominent role in national politics. UGEC activists claimed Lumumba’s mantle and pressured politicians to restore national unity and continue the struggle for real independence, including economically and culturally. UGEC regularly organized street protests and published manifestos, but it also collaborated with the state when it perceived productive openings.

By contrast, other students radically rejected the legitimacy of the post-Lumumba administrations and they joined the Mulele and Simba insurgencies of the mid-1960s, which captured a third of the national territory in an attempt to bring along a second independence to the Congo and fulfill Lumumba’s dreams of total emancipation. These students served as cadres on the front in the Kwilu and Eastern Congo, as well as ideologues and special envoys of the movement in exile. Doing so, they created multiple connections between the Congolese revolution and other anti-imperialist struggles throughout the world.  The contrast with the current situation is staggering. Today, Congolese universities officially enroll more than 400,000 students according to governmental sources, but the collective political capacity of the students is much diminished.

Laurent-Désiré Kabila, the third President of the DR Congo from 1997 until his assassination in January 2001, was a true veteran of the anticolonial and anti-imperialist struggles of the early 1960s, as a major operative of the Simba rebellion of 1964 and 1965 in which some students of the time had played a critical role. Unlike other rebel leaders, Kabila always refused Mobutu’s offers of amnesty and he maintained a small rebel base for years in the region of Lake Tanganyika.

When he finally chased Mobutu from power in 1996, as the leader of a rebel group sponsored by Rwanda and Uganda, and with his son Joseph as a general in the rebel army, Kabila called many former revolutionaries of the 1960s to his side. Several ministers in his governments and a great number of advisors had started their political lives as members of the student movement during the first decade of independence – including many who had been forced into exile by Mobutu’s repression of student politics and who had lived abroad for several decades.

‘Students from the National School of Law and Administration, Leopolville, the Congo, debate some points between classes’ (the original legend) / Photograph by Jacques Surbez, ca. 1963 (source: Rockefeller Archive Center, Ford Foundation Papers).

A number of the old Kabila’s fellow revolutionaries lost their access to power after his assassination. Joseph was the youngest head of the state in the world when he succeeded his father. Later in Joseph’s presidency, when the United States and other western countries were eager to see him go, he made abundant use of an anti-imperialist rhetoric. But in his own struggle for survival, he did not seem invested in projecting any kind of ideological coherence. In 2004, he addressed the Belgian senate with a speech that praised Leopold II and the Belgian “pioneers” who had collaborated with the monarch to establish the Congo Free State.

As I mention in the preface to my book, when I began my research, several of my interlocutors, who had been part of the old Kabila’s circles of power as longtime participants in the Congolese left, hoped that Joseph would pull himself together and more strictly espouse his father’s political line. They were particularly invested in my research on the history of the student movement and of the 1960s left because it was the foundation of their political imagination as well as the main source of their legitimacy as political actors.

Memories of the 1960s haunted the present in yet other ways during my several years of research on the history of Congolese student politics, particularly from 2006 to 2013, when I was writing the doctoral dissertation on which my book is based. As a militant opposition to Joseph Kabila’s rule developed after his disputed victory against Jean-Pierre Bemba at the 2006 presidential elections, rumors and conspiracies about his origins and supposedly dubious claims to Congolese nationality spread with much vigor in the Congo and among the Congolese diaspora. The rumors claimed that his real name was Hyppolite Kanambe, that he was not Laurent-Désiré Kabila’s son, and that his real father was one of the several Rwandese Tutsi rebels who fought together with the old Kabila in the maquis of Eastern Congo in the 1960s. Accordingly, both attempts to prove and disprove the rumors involved the circulation of photographs, short video clips and oral testimonies from this period of Congolese history.

By the late 2000s, many positions of power were still occupied by people who had first accessed responsibilities in the 1960s as they freshly graduated from universities. In more recent years, there has been a visible renewal of the ruling class. Transformations have also taken place at the center of power. In January 2015, popular protests thwarted plans to pass a constitutional amendment that would have allowed President Joseph Kabila to run for a third mandate – and students this time played a leading role. When the elections were held on December 18, 2018, Kabila’s candidate Emmanuel Shadary was defeated. Yet many irregularities were reported, and the presidency went, after what appeared as a secret power-sharing agreement, to Félix Tshisekedi, a former opponent of Kabila.

While civil liberties somewhat increased in the aftermath of Tshisekedi’s access to power, and while his first government abolished the payment of fees in public primary schools, not much has improved for the Congolese population in terms of livelihoods, food security, and access to health care, water and electricity. As is well known, the new administration has also been unable to bring back peace and stability in eastern Congo, where the Rwandese government’s recent renewed support to the M23 rebel group further aggravated a conflict that had never fully receded.

‘Mobutu, Tshombe, Assassins de Lumumba’ Union des Jeunesses Révolutionnaires Congolaises poster, ca. 1967 (source: Monaville’s collection). French and Lingala slogans celebrate Marxism-Leninism, Mao’s thought, Albania, and the union between Congolese and Vietnamese revolutionaries, while denouncing US imperialism and ‘fake communists’ in Moscow, Prague and Belgrade.

Despite the many continuities in the hardships that the Congolese people face, Tshisekedi’s access to the presidency marked a turning point in Congolese postcolonial politics. For all of the frauds that may have tainted the electoral process in 2018, his election was the first peaceful transfer of power since independence. Kabila might well make a come-back in the near future, but his retreat in January 2019 symbolically turned the page of a long sequence in Congolese politics that had started in the 1960s.

Félix Tshisekedi is also the son of a figure that played a major role in the tragedy of the Congo’s independence, Etienne Tshisekedi. One of the first student leaders at the University of Lovanium in the late 1950s, the elder Tshisekedi was an early supporter and close advisor of Mobutu – and he co-authored the Nsele Manifesto, which served as the foundation of Mobutu’s state-party, the Mouvement Populaire de la République. Later, Tshisekedi broke away from Mobutu and created the first major opposition party to the general, the Union pour la Démocratie et le Progrès Social, a political machine that also opposed the rule of the two Kabilas and that allowed Félix to access power.

During the electoral campaign of 2018, an archival document from 1961 resurfaced. Possibly a forgery, it directly implicated Etienne Tshisekedi in the machinations that led to Patrice Lumumba’s assassination. Yet, this specific haunting of the 1960s did not incriminate Félix as intimately as the rumors about his alleged Rwandese origins did for Joseph Kabila. The fact that Tshisekedi’s government demanded and organized the repatriation of Lumumba’s last physical remain from Belgium – a tooth that had been kept for decades by one of the Belgian policemen who had dissolved his body in acid in the days that followed his assassination – may also be paradoxically a sign of the less cumbersome presence of the 1960s.

That the decade I study in my book appears less as a directly usable past now than when I started the research does not mean its exploration is any less relevant. The passing of a generation, the greater distance of time, and fading memories can help us to better understand what was lost and what constituted the specificities of a period that is now past, but that remains nonetheless a key component in the history of the present. Ultimately, that is what the book is after: the unique landscape of constraints and possibilities that shaped student politics in the 1960s, when Congolese both experienced the exhilarating abolition of the barriers to mobility and advanced education that were so central in the Belgian colonial system, and the violent collusion of their country’s decolonization with the cold war.

Students suddenly enjoyed multiple possibilities to explore the world and create connections with people, organizations, and political projects in various distant locations; at the same time, the so-called Congo crisis that placed the country at the center of the world’s attention led to an absolutely brutal internationalization of Congolese affairs. The challenge for students activists was to learn how to navigate this complex landscape. Doing so, during a decade that witnessed a powerful re-emergence of the ideas of revolution and international solidarity, they critically engaged with the place of the Congo in the world in a way that continues to resonate and that can still inspire, despite the now long-gone sociological and political infrastructures that sustained their political imagination.

Pedro Monaville is a historian. He has written about student politics, popular culture, and memory in the Congo. He is currently teaching at New York University Abu Dhabi. His new book, Students of the World: Global 1968 and Decolonization in the Congo, is available here.

Featured photograph: ‘Four leaders from the eastern front (Congo-Leopoldville)’ (original legend) including Julien François Matutu (third from the right), a Congolese graduate from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania who collaborated with Malcolm X around his advocacy for the Congolese rebellion. Photographer unknown, ca. 1967 (source: Monaville’s collection).

Fiscal responsibility or neo-imperialism – Crises, debt, and currency boards in Africa

The days of easy money and low interest are now officially behind us. Punishing monetary policies will have domestic consequences in America and Europe, but its most lethal consequences will be felt in Africa. Wyatt Constantine argues that we have seen the results of fiscal austerity, deflationary pressures, and monetarism before – those with investments and assets profit, while wages fall, and benefits are slashed. We need to engage with the far more complicated and nuanced questions of building a new economic order.

By Wyatt Constantine

Inflation will likely be remembered as the buzzword of the year for 2022. It has consumed both popular media attention and is the principal issue vexing central banks the world over. The causes have been more or less well established. Lingering supply chain disruptions from the pandemic, a massive increase in the cost of energy inputs resulting from the Ukraine war, and, according to conservatives and deficit hawks, expansionary monetary policy and fiscal stimulus as a response to the pandemic.

The days of easy money and low interest are now, however, officially behind us. The American Federal reserve rate has recently increased the federal funds rates to over 3.25% with more rises likely to come, and the European Central Bank, after nearly a decade of 0% and even negative rates, has set rates rising. This punishing monetary policy will have domestic consequences in America and Europe to be sure, but its most lethal consequences will likely be felt in Africa.

What connection might interest rate hikes by the American federal reserve have for Africa? With the exception of the CFA zone most African countries now have independent central banks with at least some degree of flexibility in the implantation of monetary policy, and utilize currencies not indexed or pegged to either the USD or the euro.

We need not look back too far into recent history to understand the incredible destruction that the Federal Reserve rates hikes can deliver globally. No student of Africa needs reminding of the austerity and deprivation imposed upon Africa by the debt crises of the 1980s. Spiraling cost of servicing debt hit many nations with dollar denominated loans as commodity prices crashed. Country after country were forced into IMF structural adjustment programs that saw massive cuts to social services and the public sector workforces.

The debt crisis was instigated in large part by the “Volcker shock”, when the Federal reserve hiked the federal funds rate to a historically unprecedented 20%. This had the effect of bringing down the double-digit inflation that had plagued America for most of the 1970s, but the effect on developing nations with dollar denominated debt was disastrous. At the same time that the cost of paying down debt exploded, the monetary squeeze instigated by the Fed helped to send commodity prices crashing. Nations that had enjoyed fiscal expansion in the 1970´s due to high commodity prices saw the prices of those commodities rapidly decline. It effectively ended the power of the Third World and the spirit of the New International Economic Order that had been borne out of the 1970s.


Figure 1:  Federal funds effective rate (Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis).

Today we seem to be experiencing a similar scenario. The European Central Bank has raised all three of its key interest rates, and the Federal Reserve has followed cue as well. For countries that have dollar denominated debt and are primarily dependent on volatile commodities, such as oil or cacao, to acquire the hard currency they need to service their debt, the recipe is one tailor made for disaster, austerity, and misery. The conditions for this vulnerability and indebtedness of African states has sadly not diminished since the introduction of HIPC initiative, as the debt and inflationary issues Africa experiences have a deeper structural issue. Namely, that of inequity in terms of trade.

No country illustrates this better than Ghana. Ghana´s exports are made up almost entirely of commodities with little to no value added. Gold, which makes up nearly half of Ghana´s export revenue, has tanked in 2022, trading at over $2,000 per ounce at the beginning of 2022 and falling to little over $1,600 as of this writing. The imports bill, however, is composed largely of refined oil and petroleum, despite Ghana being an oil producer, the prices of which have exploded. The Ghana Statistical Service bulletin for July 2022 reported a 31.7% increase in the combined Consumer Price Index, and the cedi has more or less collapsed. The debt burden that Ghana faces is enormous, and the total cost of its debt servicing is staggering. Over the past several years the state has spent anywhere between 70-80% of its total revenue on servicing debt alone. Its recent move to seek relief from the IMF has meant that its sovereign credit rating has been downgraded to near junk status. At the same time that it can barely service its debt, the country has been effectively shut out of international capital markets.

At this precarious juncture, wherein inflation and currency depreciation are wreaking havoc on the Ghanaian economy, a peculiar form of monetary order is being proffered as a solution. Namely, the introduction of a currency board. The principal voice advocating for this is Steve Hanke of Johns Hopkins University. A former official in the Reagan administration and a fellow at the right-wing CATO institute, Hanke’s advocacy for the currency board system spans decades. He has written extensively on the currency board system and dollarization and has advised numerous nations on the implementation of economic reform, including numerous post-Soviet states in the 1990s who all experienced rapid currency depreciation, as well as Argentina. His support of the system has been unrelenting, and it seems there is no country he can identify that will not be served by a currency board regime, whether it is Turkey, Bulgaria, Argentina, or Indonesia. His advocacy even spurred Paul Krugman to refer to him as a “snake oil salesman”. His most recent target has been Ghana. In a series of tweets illustrating the outrageous inflation the country has experienced over the past year, (his own metrics show a rate more than double that of the Ghanaian statistical service – roughly 81% as opposed to 31%), he has reiterated his claim multiple times that the only option left for Ghana is to eliminate its Central Bank and install a currency board. While Hanke claims that no currency board has ever failed, and the state of the Cedi is indeed most deplorable, the implementation of a currency board should be critically questioned.

The currency board system operates on a relatively simple principle. Instead of a central bank which can work to expand or contract the money supply, a currency board is essentially an automatic exchange mechanism with no discretionary or fiduciary power. Namely, it issues a domestic currency which is tied in value to an anchor currency. It must hold reserves of the anchor currency in such amounts that each unit of currency it issues is backed by an equal unit of reserves. Today the currency board system is something of a curiosity, but it experienced a renaissance in the 1990s in the former Soviet republics and in the former Yugoslavia. Another was more famously instituted in Argentina in the 1990´s as well.

The principal argument for the implementation of currency boards is to both eliminate high inflation and to reign in the power of unaccountable central banks. On these counts, the currency board system, which Hankes has claimed “has never failed”, seems to have a historical basis for success. With their currencies tied to the dollar or the Deutsche Mark, inflation was drastically reduced and no longer could central banks run the printing press and drive inflation upwards. The drop in inflation upon adoption can be seen in the cases of Argentina and Bulgaria, for example, so the argument of Hanke that the currency boards can provide a measure of stability is true, to a certain extent.

The currency board system was a common characteristic of British imperialism in the early 20th century until independence. While it existed in the 19th century to a limited extent, the major push came with the creation of the West African Currency Board in 1912 and the East African Currency Board in 1919. The prelude to the implantation of these currency board systems had been a series of currency crises and also a massive outpouring of silver coinage into the colonies. The currency boards issued a token currency in exchange for sterling, and held reserves equal to 100-110% of the coins in circulation in the form of sterling or of British national securities.

As work by Tal Boger, Kurt Schuler, and Steve Hankes has pointed out, this system of stringent reserve requirements and holding of short-term securities largely benefitted the imperial treasury in Britain far more than it did the colonies and deprived them of revenues they might have otherwise earned.

After the post 1960 waves of independence across Africa, the currency boards largely vanished as central banks were established in the former colonies. The currency board saw a resurgence during the debt crises of the 1980s as well as in Eastern Europe after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Today, they are mainly used by some small Caribbean countries such as Bermuda and the Caymans, as well as in Hong Kong.

If we are to imagine then the introduction of the board in the case of Ghana, having scrapped the central bank, perhaps inflation is reduced, but what then? Ghana would be beholden to stringent reserve requirements, and therefore required to build a substantial foreign currency reserve of US dollars or other hard currencies or assets. Currently the nation has seen its reserves decline from USD11 billion in September 2021 to under USD8 million in July, 2022. The currency board might remove one element of instability for the nation, the central bank, but in this case is it treating the source or the symptom of its larger problem?

Ghana would still be dependent on the export of volatile commodities, cacao, gold, and petroleum, in order to earn its foreign currency to maintain its reserves. Will the currency board encourage further foreign direct investment or greenfield investment in such a way as to remove Ghana from the precarious position of being a commodity exporter? If we look to recent examples of currency boards, that becomes a somewhat hard case to prove.

If we look at Bulgaria, with a GDP roughly similar to Ghana´s (though a much smaller population), the country has maintained a currency board since 1997, first with the Deutsche Mark and now at a roughly 2:1 exchange with the Euro, shows if anything a high degree of volatility. Despite an enormous increase in FDI through the early 21st century, it has collapsed since the beginning of the Euro-zone crisis, and its decline has not abated since. While it is unwise to draw definitive cases from a single comparison, it should nonetheless make us question whether the supposed stability of the currency board regime can likely encourage investment or growth.

Figure 2: Serkan Sahin and Ilhan Ege ‘Financial Development and FDI in Greece and Neighbouring Countries: A Panel Data Analysis’  (Procedia Economics and Finance2015).

Clearly an unstable exchange regime is a major turn-off for investment, but have the currencies boards been able to provide stability? While they may serve to lower inflation, any claim beyond that seems far more opaque. Ghana also has a population of over 30 million people, roughly 25% of whom, by the most generous measures, continue to live in extreme poverty. A currency board would leave the level of currency in circulation entirely in the hands of market forces, with deflationary threats a large risk. Granted, central banks can do serious damage by creating inflationary pressure or through unwise monetary expansion, but restrictive monetary policy and deflation can be just as devastating, increasing unemployment and depressing wages. A highly deflationary move could prove disastrous.

The case that large economies cannot use currency boards is countered often by Hanke;s  reference to the case of Hong Kong, whose LERS (Linked Exchange Rate System) maintains full reserves of USD and is committed to a fixed exchange rate system. Hong Kong, however, is not only a global logistics hub and one of the largest ports on earth, but the composition of its exports is also highly varied.

Ghana’s export basket, however, is almost entirely gold and agricultural commodities. Of the USD$13.1 billion that Ghana exported in 2020, USD$5.93 billion alone was gold, a further USD$2.71 billion was crude oil, and further USD$1.7 billion was cacao and cacao paste. Almost the entirety of the export basket is commodities, commodities that are likely to see abrupt swings in demand and price due to shocks in global energy prices and shipping. While a currency board may signal “stability” to investors, it certainly does not offer any assurance in regard to terms of trade, foreign direct investment, predictability in export markets, or wages. Of the two mandates often given to central banks, inflation and unemployment, the currency board seems to offer assurance for only the supply side interests.

While a currency board regime might have success in the fight against inflation, the claim that it can be a panacea for all economic woes remains unproven, and its supporters may have more ideological motivations then they let on. In the case of a highly indebted country like Ghana, dependent on volatile commodities for export, the currency board cannot serve to change the fundamentally inequitable position of the nation´s trade position.

However ill-advised the Central Banks actions may have been, will stripping Ghana of its monetary sovereignty remove Ghana or other large African exporters from their precarious and costly positions in the global economy, which repeatedly brings them to these crisis situations? Will the “stability” engendered by a currency board support the preconditions for such a move? It seems unlikely.

It is no real mystery what the appeal of the currency board to conservative and reactionary thinkers is. If we take lessons from the Republicans in the US, or the budget slashing politics of the Tories in the UK, high inflation is the perfect excuse for slashing social spending and shrinking the welfare state, all under the guise of “fiscal responsibility”. High inflation has also been the reason trotted out for the introduction of the currency boards. Whether by accident or design, the IFIs, the Federal Reserve, and the global bond market have given countries like Ghana precious little room to maneuver. The yield on Ghana´s sovereign bond topped 34% in August, as global investors punish Ghana for seeking debt relief and rising interest rates from the US and Europe make borrowing prohibitively expensive. As prices for Ghana´s commodities seesaw up and down in 2022 and the cost of capital goods explodes, the currency board does nothing to alter the concrete inequities of the global economy.

As nations in the global north run up massive debts to fund unemployment benefits, the Global South is being asked to essentially cut off its own legs voluntarily and to submit to austerity. We have seen the results of punishing fiscal austerity, deflationary pressures, and monetarism before, and the result is always the same. Those with investments and assets profit, while wages fall, and benefits are slashed. It is long past time we throw the snake oil of fiscal conservatism and its accompanying institutions into the rubbish bin of history and begin to engage with the far more complicated and nuanced questions of building an economic order not dependent on the misery and austerity of the many to allow for the wealth and comfort of the few.

Wyatt Constantine is a PhD candidate at the University of Leipzig in the Department of African Studies working on the political economy of labour in the horn of Africa.

Featured Photograph: A shopkeeper serves a customer in the Somali capital Mogadishu (Stuart Price, 23 October 2013).

Revival of the Workers’ Movement in North Africa

We share a second extract from ‘Revolution is the choice of the people: crisis and revolt in the Middle East and North Africa’ by Anne Alexander. The extract provides an astute historic and comparative analysis of the revival of the workers’ movement, which played a vital role in the mass protests and revolutions of 2011 and 2019.

In both 2011 and 2019 strikes and protests in the workplaces played a vital role in the development and trajectory of the revolutionary crisis, although not in every country. This chapter explores how the revival of organised workers’ self-organisation and confidence to take independent collective action over the decades before the uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt, Sudan and Algeria played a critical role in creating the conditions for the eruption of revolution. It argues that the intervention of organised workers also made a significant difference to the evolution of the revolutionary crisis itself with high points of workers’ struggle often coinciding with the opening of fractures in the state apparatus, such as the wave of strikes which erupted just before the fall of Ben Ali and Mubarak in 2011. Finally, we’ll explore the limits of the revival of the workers’ movement and the role of reformism both in the form of the trade union bureaucracy and the legacy of Stalinism and Arab nationalism.

Workers’ resistance, I will argue here, was firmly rooted in the multi-dimensional social, economic and political crisis which had emerged out of the previous decades of uneven and combined development. It was one of the possible outcomes of the combined crisis of both the neoliberal model of economic development, and the state capitalist model which preceded it, and whose material and ideological legacy continued to shape large parts of the economy. The waves of strikes and protests organised by workers constituted a social movement involving millions of people. Moreover, before the explosion of the uprisings, workers’ protests and strikes were by far the most well organised and often the biggest forms of collective action by the poor. Workers also in many cases pioneered mass public forms of collective action, including street protests and sit-ins which generalised during the uprisings of 2011-2013 and 2018-2020.

An upturn in workers’ collective action

Despite the lack of reliable statistics and all the challenges mentioned above, there is overwhelming evidence of huge upsurge in strike activity across the region from the mid-2000s onward. For Tunisia, where the official data probably bears some relationship to actual patterns of strike activity, the graph below shows three major peaks of legal strike activity since 1970—in 1977, 1985 and 2011, with the 2011 peak being significantly higher than the 1977 peak. Bearing in mind that the graph only shows legal strikes, and thus illegal strikes are not represented in the data at all, in terms of numbers of strike days ‘lost’, 2011 represented a huge leap compared to previous years. Unusually for the region, Tunisian workers have been able to exercise the right to strike legally. Since the 1970s the Tunisian state has also recognised the UGTT trade union federation’s right to negotiate collective bargaining agreements with employers. These two mechanisms have allowed the union bureaucracy to use strikes and threats of strikes as a tactic to pressurise employers into making concessions, while also often acting as a kind of “safety valve” for the frustrations of rank-and-file workers.

In Egypt, there was no mechanism for workers’ resistance to find an outlet in legal strike action, and before the growth of independent media in the 2000s, there was precious little reporting of strikes to serve as an alternative source of data. However, both Egyptian activists and academics with long experience of research on the Egyptian workers’ movement broadly agree that there was a dramatic qualitative shift in the numbers of strikes from the mid-2000s onward. This accelerated after December 2006, when textile workers at Misr Spinning in al-Mahalla al-Kubra won a historic victory in a major strike which mobilised thousands of workers against their bosses and the state. The timing of Algeria’s uprising and the workers’ revolt which preceded it differed from those in Tunisia and Egypt, although the overall pattern was very similar. The economic crisis of the late 1970s, which propelled the Algerian ruling class towards neoliberal restructuring triggered major waves of strikes. Despite a crackdown on the left in the UGTA trade union federation, the strike wave continued to build in strength during 1983-6, with 3528 strikes in the public sector and 2298 in the private sector across the country during this period. The strike wave paved the way for the explosion of riots and protests across Algeria in October 1988, ushering in an intense period of crisis in the state, which was only resolved by the intervention of the army in 1992. The catastrophe of the ‘Black Decade’ of military repression and the civil war which followed it was a major factor inhibiting Algerians’ willingness to risk collective action for the ten years afterwards, helping to explain why Algeria joined the ‘second wave’ of uprisings in 2019-20 and not the ‘first wave’ in 2011. However, the ten years before the mass popular mobilisation of 2019 saw major strikes in education, health, transport and industry, many of which involved thousands of workers at a time, and some of which mobilised tens of thousands (such as the teachers’ strikes). Sudan’s experience of strike action in the decades before the uprising began in late 2018 had something in common with Algeria, in that the crisis of the 1970s had come to a head in a popular uprising in 1985 resulting in a political revolution which removed Jaafar Nimeiri from power and installed a democratic government under Sadiq al-Mahdi, which was itself overthrown in a coup led by Umar al-Bashir working in alliance with Hassan al-Turabi’s Islamist movement in 1989. Strikes by doctors and lawyers and judges in 1983 and 1984 had paved the way for the 1985 uprising, while during the revolution they joined railway workers, textile workers, bank workers together with engineers, academics and nurses in a general strike. A combination of worsening economic crisis and an intensification of struggle over South Sudan created conditions for Al Bashir’s coup in 1989, which was accompanied by fierce repression of independent trade unions and professional associations. The revival of strike activity pre-figured the uprising of 2019. There were doctors’ strikes in 2010 and 2011, following strikes by teachers, railway workers and water carriers in 2009. Despite difficult conditions, some of the strikes became much more than localised battles. For example, a strike by doctors in 2016 demanding protection for healthworkers from assault in the workplace spread to 65 hospitals nationwide. Strikes were not restricted to public services: strikes against privatisation by stevedores in the cargo port in Port Sudan mobilised 20,000 workers in May 2018.

The public services in revolt

The character of the strike waves demonstrates their roots in the twin crises of industry and public services under neoliberalism. In public services, strikes were a response from below to the neoliberal assault on education, health and public administration, which encompassed the relative degradation of pay and working conditions, increasing use of sub-contracting and various models of precarious labour, and the intensification of managerialism and factory-like discipline. Striking workers in the public services, especially those in education and health also sometimes explicitly positioned themselves as fighting for broader social goals, defending the rights of the poor to healthcare and education and challenging the logic of the market and competition. Almost every country discussed here shared a common experience of mass strikes in public services in the years preceding the popular uprisings. One exception is Syria, which we will discuss in more detail below. Teachers, health workers and low paid clerical workers in public administration (muwazzafin in Arabic) were the main groups whose collective action powered repeated strikes which were not only often some of the largest in terms of numbers of participants but also among the most significant in terms of mobilisation on a national scale and engaging the state in direct confrontation. These public service strikes were often highly participatory, mobilising thousands of people in creative and democratic forms of organising and left a rich organisational legacy both inside existing trade unions and professional associations, and outside them in the form of new independent union networks and trade unions. The other significant feature of public services was that the institutions of the state could act as a kind of scaffolding for collective action, providing a platform for workers to aggregate their grievances and frustrations and gather in sufficient numbers to begin to have an impact on national politics and state policies in relation to both their own terms and conditions of employment, but also crucially by positioning strikers as fighting on behalf of wider layers of the population to demand greater investment in health, education and local government services.

Mass strikes by teachers in primary and secondary schools were a ubiquitous feature of the public services revolt in almost every country discussed here. Tunisian primary and secondary school teachers staged several national strikes in the years before the popular uprising began in 2010, including a national strike over working conditions and pay in late October that year. The teachers’ strike movement grew further in size and scope during and after the 2011 uprising. There were national primary and secondary school strikes almost every year between 2012 and 2019. Demands over pay and conditions continued to be important but the movement also set its sights on curriculum reform, calling for the revision of materials from the Ben Ali era. Teachers in secondary and primary schools have also been central to the public service strikes in Algeria during the last two decades. Some of the most militant struggles have been led by casualised teachers, who organised a “March of Dignity” in March-April 2016. Following the government’s refusal to provide permanent jobs for nearly 30,000 teachers on temporary contracts, activists organised a march from Béjaïa to Algiers which captured the imagination of local people in the towns en route who came out to offer solidarity and support. The March of Dignity followed a seven-week long strike by teachers in the southern regions in 2013, and a month-long stay-away in March 2014.

In Egypt the initial spur for collective action among teachers was the implementation of a new pay and grading structure by the Ministry of Education in 2017 which imposed new professional standards and performance-related pay. The new ‘Cadre’ sparked a ferment of grassroots organising and protests, which laid the basis for the emergence of a new independent union for teachers in July 2010. Just over a year later, in September 2011, the new union was leading hundreds of thousands of teachers in national strike action with far-reaching demands encompassing pay, conditions, and the resignation of the Minister of Education. Teachers’ strikes have also been major vectors of resistance in Lebanon, Sudan and in other countries such as Morocco and Jordan. Strikes by health workers, particularly junior doctors, are also an extremely common feature of the public service strike waves of the past decade across most of the region. There were mass strikes in the health sector in Algeria 2010, 2011 and 2013 leading to a major open-ended strike in November 2014. Junior doctors were an active component of the healthworkers’ strike movement: from late 2017 until the summer of 2018, they were on strike against poor pay, job insecurity and appalling working conditions. Other health workers joined them for a three-day national general strike in hospitals in January 2018. Strikes by doctors and health professionals has played a key role in developing combative forms of union and strike organisation in the health service in Sudan. A major strike by doctors in 2016 demanding protection from assault for frontline health staff spread to 65 hospitals across the country by 9 October. The road from ‘economic’ to ‘political’ demands was short. In the same month as the Doctors’ strike, one of the key coordinating bodies, the Sudan Doctors’ Central Committee (SDCC) joined with the Sudanese Journalists’ Network and the Alliance of Democratic Lawyers to form the Sudanese Professionals’ Association.

We are standing firm:’ Algerian school teachers on strikes in spring 2021 (Pic: taken Middle East Solidarity)

Teachers and healthworkers were not the only public service workers whose frustrations boiled over into strikes and protests. In Egypt, low-paid civil servants in the Property Tax Agency organised a historic national strike in 2007, which laid the foundations for the first independent union for more than fifty year. The strike was notable not only for its scale— mobilising tens of thousands of property tax collectors across the country—but also for the strikers’ creative tactics. The journey towards the strike started in September 2007, at a rally called by activists in the Property Tax Agency’s Giza office to demand parity between their pay, and that of colleagues doing similar work for the Ministry of Finance. Sit-ins and protests spread to other offices around the country, and local mobilising committees began to come together on a regional basis. Mahmud ‘Uwayda and activists from al-Mansoura travelled in a 22-bus convoy with activists from other offices in Daqahiliyya province, reaching the centre of Cairo after a 25-km march from the Ministry of Finance. They found thousands of their colleagues already waiting for them:

We were greeted with open arms and cheers, by smiling, laughing, cheerful faces as if we had known them for years. The place itself was no stranger to us either, as we had walked there the 25km from the Ministry of Finance… The drums, tambourines and megaphones, the joy and the shouting: some people cannot believe that the numbers on that day were more than ten thousand. And everywhere you heard the beautiful chant: ‘a decision, a decision … we’re not going home without a decision’.

Holding their nerve for nine days of constant protest, which ended with marathon negotiations between the Higher Strike Committee and the Minister of Finance, Boutros Ghali, the tax collectors won a significant victory, equivalent to a 300 percent pay rise. As we will discuss later, this victorious strike was also the first step towards the founding of the first independent union in Egypt for fifty years. Workers in public utilities, such as water and electricity have also played an important role in the strike waves. Workers employed by the Lebanese state electricity company, EDL fought major battles in an effort to reverse the trend towards casualisation.

Patterns of industrial resistance

The crisis in industry was of a dual nature, comprising the unresolved problems of the ‘old’ industries of the state capitalist era, combined with the cyclical crises of ‘new’ industries which had either transitioned to private ownership or were built up during the neoliberal era and oriented on the export market. Despite the best efforts of the state, employers and compliant national trade union leaderships to prevent it, neither privatised industries nor the new manufacturers proved able to completely stop the re-emergence of strikes and the rebuilding of workers’ self-organisation in the workplaces.

Meanwhile, sectors of the economy which retained their importance from the state capitalist era, including some sections of heavy industry such as steel and cement; transport, communications and logistics, also saw major strikes in most countries discussed here. Regional UGTT offices in Tunisia built up their industrial muscle and resources through coordinated strike action in the major industrial zones in Ksar Hellal, Monastir, Sfax and Bizerte, winning wage rises but also rights to hold union meetings on company premises and paid facility time for union activists.Throughout the 1990s, strikes in manufacturing made up a large percentage of all official strikes, peaking in 1994. By 2005-2007, however, the overall number of strike days was rising sharply, as other sectors took the lead. In Algeria, the 2016 strike at the SNVI (SNVI – Entreprise National des Véhicules Industriels), a major vehicle manufacturing plant in Rouïba played a role in preparing the way for the popular uprising in 2019. Although the industrial area where SNVI is located employed much smaller numbers than in the late 1970s, it still represented a significant concentration of around 32,000 workers in 100 productive units, the largest and most important of which was SNVI itself, with a workforce of 7000. Following two violent clashes between workers and riot police in January 2010 and December 2015 an 8-day strike erupted in November 2016 over the impact of the government’s national pension reform and the mismanagement of the factory. The strike was organised through the local UGTA branch, which called the action under pressure from rank-and-file and mid-ranking activists, despite the closeness of the UGTA national leadership to the regime. Pressure from the UGTA centre did bring the strike to a close in return for a management promise to consider workers’ demands, but without closing down all avenues for further resistance. Rouïba would emerge as one of the centres of the revolt against the UGTA leadership during the uprising in 2019. Relatively profitable industries, such as steel and the crucial hydrocarbon sector were not immune from strikes either. At the El Hadjar steel complex there were several major confrontations between management and the workforce between 2010 and 2013, leading to a rupture with the UGTA and the foundation of an independent union by 5,000 of El Hadjar’s workers. Falling hydrocarbon prices on the international market and the decline in proven energy reserves led to the government implementing austerity measures targeting workers’ pay and living conditions, leading to a long series of protests in the state oil and gas company SONATRACH including hunger strikes by workers in 2013, 2016 and 2018. The state-owned gas and electricity company SONELGAZ also saw the growth of an independent union and workers’ protests which triggered a wave of arrests of union leaders and the jailing of Raouf Mellal, the union president in 2017.

Workers at the Misr Insurance Company on strike in Cairo during the revolution. ‘We want change’ was their slogan (Pic: Socialist Worker)

In Egypt, large scale strikes in industry preceded the public services revolt. A major breakthrough came in December 2006 with the strike at Misr Spinning in al-Mahalla al-Kubra. The giant Misr Spinning plant, employing tens of thousands of workers and dominating the neighbouring town, was one of the iconic centres of the public sector textile industry (although its foundation by industrialist Talaat Harb in the 1930s actually long preceded the state capitalist turn in national economic policy). The factory had also a long tradition of militancy, having been the site of major strikes going back to the 1940s. The strike was triggered by a dispute over the payment of bonuses, and resulted in a complete victory for the workers, not only over their own management but also symbolically over the state, as the Minister of Labour Ai’sha Abd-al-Hadi was forced concede that the strikers’ demands would all be met and even that the strike days would count as paid holiday. The stunning success of the Misr Spinning strike soon triggered a wave of strikes over similar demands in other major textile factories across Egypt, with walkouts in Shibin al-Kom, Kafr al-Dawwar, Zifta, 10th Ramadan City, Al-Salihiyya and Burg al-Arab. By April the strike wave had spread from public sector textile plants (or those which had recently been privatised) to private sector textile firms including Makarem Group in Sadat City and Arab Polvara in Alexandria. The Egyptian strike wave was notable for the way in which workers’ collective action rapidly generalised across the divide between the public and private sector industries. One of the first signs of the recovery of workers’ confidence and willingness to fight back was not in the ‘old’ public sector industries, but in new industrial centres which had often been deliberately located in entirely new areas far away from the traditional centres of working class organisation.

Transport, communications and logistics workers also flexed their muscles during the strike waves. Major transport strikes in Algeria included action by staff at the state airline, Air Algerie in 2013, 2015 and 2018; railway workers who staged protests in 2014 and organised a 9-day strike in May 2016 demanding a 100 percent salary increase, and 3,000 public transport workers in Algiers who walked out on open-ended strike in December 2015. Transport workers in UGTA-affiliated unions generally organised strikes in defiance of the national union leadership’s efforts to maintain “social peace” with the government, in particular after the signing of a formal economic and social pact committing the unions to a four-year truce in 2006. The cargo workers and stevedores in Port Sudan have been one of the major groups of workers involved in strikes and protests to defend their jobs against plans to privatise the port. Attempts by the state-run port company to bring in new private investors on long-term concessionary contracts has met with determined resistance, including mass strikes involving 20,000 workers in May 2018.

‘Revolution is the choice of the people’ can be bought on bookmarks publications website

Anne Alexander is a revolutionary socialist and a trade unionist. She’s the co-author of Bread, Freedom, Social Justice: Workers and the Egyptian Revolution and an editor of Middle East Solidarity magazine.

Anne’s first extract can be read here.

Check out Anne’s blogpost where she gives herself space to add data, case studies and theory that did not make it into the book, which is over 400 pages. Her posts Some thoughts on the class structure and Counting workers part 1: looking for the polar classes are relevant to the above extract.

As we die in plain sight: the autopsy of African Civilisations

Christiane Ndedi Essombe and Benjamin Maiangwa write that the aggressive erasure of African civilisations is obvious to anyone capable of shifting away from a colonised world view where history is written by the coloniser and their African proxies. This erasure of humanity and civilisations was once again visible with the death of Queen Elizabeth II. Essombe and Maiangwa explain that even in death, symbols of historical oppression remain venerated and absolved of their crimes while their survivors continue to endure centuries-long violence and trauma.

By Christiane Ndedi Essombe and Benjamin Maiangwa

It is a sentimental error, therefore, to believe that the past is dead; it means nothing to say that it is all forgotten…. The man does not remember the hand that struck him, the darkness that frightened him, as a child; nevertheless, the hand and the darkness remain with him, indivisible from himself forever, part of the passion that drives him wherever he thinks to take flight. 

James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son (1955)

Disorientation, argues Ian Williams, is a moment of racial awakening, it “marks an emerging awareness of white dominance, and a place for the Black person in the hierarchy of whiteness”. It has been a bedfellow to many a people of colour. I (the second author) was taking a walk with a friend around a populated waterfront area when we came across a woman with her little poodle seated peacefully on her lap. The dog went wild as soon as he cast his gaze on us, barking non-stop. The lady felt the need to issue a quick apology: “sorry, my dog only barks at people who look a little different”. I wished she hadn’t bothered. I wondered how different we really were in a place that was brimming with all shades of difference.

Certainly, this incident wasn’t my first moment of “disorientation”, but it was telling. It came when I was not prepared to think of myself in racial terms, or should I always be prepared? This disorienting moment, this criminal racial encounter, this violence of being born, is a call to introspection about what I may have lost through the banality of racial violence; about my resolve, our resolve, to occupy our own space in the world.

W.E.B. Du Bois concluded that Black people develop a double consciousness in which they learn to see themselves through the White gaze. Even as one strives to centre their subjectivity to see themselves according to their own terms, one remains crudely aware of the Othering they can and will be subjected to, for the maintenance of a racial hierarchy. These dynamics of Othering are so pervasive that many racialized people end up adopting the White gaze uncritically. So, for example, conversations about Africa, its history, and people, its premodern or pre-European configurations are often ignored or forgotten.

Africans, aware that they had civilisations that pre-existed the inroads of the Europeans and Arabs on the continent, are almost oblivious of what these systems were. As a result, our deep history and culture, if acknowledged at all, are often explained away as inconsequential to world affairs. Western thinkers and politicians have argued ad nauseam that African societies have lived outside of history with nothing to offer. The aggressive and, at times, self-imposed erasure of the African civilisation is obvious to anyone capable of shifting away from a colonized world view where history is only written by colonists and their African proxies.

The reminder of the erasure of the humanity and civilisations of the African and colonized people was once again seen in the death of Queen Elizabeth II on 8 September, 2022. Her passing saw massive mediatic coverage during which seemingly every minute of the multi-stage funeral was discussed. To those with keen eyes, a critical viewpoint or simply a less Eurocentric vantage point, the blatant omission in most of the media coverage was the connection between the Queen as the incarnation of the British monarchy and global systems of oppression.

By mourning her departure her supporters and subjects are only according her the due that they felt she deserved. Yet, the Queen’s seeming benevolence, grace, and poise in the discharge of her royal duties, cannot discount that she represented a callous, imperial system which she kept intact. This should not be surprising as European monarchy is based on the belief that some people are allegedly descendants of a (white) God, which gives them the authority to reign over those who do not have a royal lineage. Indeed, the British rapport with French and Spanish monarchies on one hand and the eradication and overthrowing of royal dynasties in Asia, Africa, and America to make way for colonialism and imperialism on the other, indicate that the authority of non-White monarchs has never been quite recognized by their would-be European homologues.

Instead, a belief in the social construct of race and the hierarchisation of regions of the world, socio-economic status, gender, and religion was used to justify the hegemony of White royals and their agents over racialized, non-European Others. The dehumanisation of colonial subjects, while conveniently vague to those mourning the Queen, remains fresh in the memory and flesh of those who experienced it firsthand. Hence, the aversion of those who remember this history—mostly Africans, Indigenous groups, including Irish Catholics—towards the convivial sentiments expressed by those who do not is quite understandable. Even in death, symbols of historical oppression remain venerated and absolved of any fault while their survivors have yet to hear an apology or receive reparations for the century-long violence and generational trauma they experienced. Furthermore, exhorting survivors of the oppressive world that the Monarchy symbolizes to “move on” when that very institution remains intact, is just another way of reinforcing a Eurocentric colonial rationale that dismisses those it sees as inferior.

For indigenous and Black people whose civilisations and cultures were destroyed by the British empire, whose lands were considered terra nullius, whose bodies were enslaved, commodified and instrumentalised to set both the foundation of a global racial capitalism and (settler) colonial, white supremacist societies, the silence around the relentless violence unleashed by the British monarchy is many things but surprising. Perhaps, now is the time to consider whether a separation from the Crown by countries like Canada, Australia and the entire Commonwealth would be a mere symbolic decoupling with a violent past or an actual act of emancipation.

Surely the death of a monarch is exactly the right time to bring up the racist, sexist, and capitalist agenda of the British monarchy. These realities have commonly been ignored in the western world disguised under the (il)liberal world system in which the monarchy’s real meaning is fundamentally at odds with the acknowledgement of global history.

Death, as taboo as this topic is in ‘rational’ Western culture, must be an invitation to examine the meaning we ascribe to life and the legacy we wish to leave. It must be an initiation for formerly colonized peoples, particularly African peoples, to reflect on how they were hurried, as James Baldwin says, into “the pallid” arms of God, and taught to see themselves as inherently defective and sinful. As Baldwin wrote:

The African, exile, pagan, hurried off the auction block and into the fields, fell on his knees before that God…who had made him but not in His image…. Wash me, cried the slave to his Maker, and I shall be whiter, whiter than snow!

With such a violent history of identity denial, racial oppression and the cult of whiteness, racialized people of this world ought to ask themselves whether they have ever defined themselves as anything but a sad copy of their oppressors. Or better yet, they ought to ask themselves how they would want to be remembered in a postcolonial, post-transatlantic slave trade world where history is deeply Eurocentric and racist.

Although conversations about death and legacy can seem odd, we argue that they provide a framework to think about what and who matters on the global stage. After all, death as a physiological phenomenon is the only certainty of any living being and is associated to characteristics identifiable by all. Death of a people and its civilisation on the other end, does not seem to have such obvious characteristics. It is often only in hindsight that one can appreciate the civilisations that were and that no longer are.

We also proclaim that there is a specter haunting Africa and the Black community, it is a specter of her civilisation. But instead of exorcising it, this specter is crying out to be embodied in the realities of her “disembodied” peoples through deep revolutionary reflection and action.

To be sure, liberation does not end with the attainment of independence. Rather it begins as a people take their own destiny into their hands and begin to understand that the seeds of change are contained in their own agency for survival and propagation.

So, even as Africans and other former British colonies demand an apology and restitution and the return of stolen wealth, we reckon that the real fight lies within. The autonomy and liberation of the oppressed is tied to the revival of their civilisations.

We define civilisation as a complex systems that emerged as populations established settled dwellings secured food surplus and engaged in non-food related specialised activities. Large populations settling into a given space leads to the establishment of a political structure to rule over the area and control production. Thus, it is theoretically unavoidable that several civilisations have existed throughout history. Such systems have delivered social norms and social stratification specific to them. Yet simultaneous feelings of emptiness, stolen legacy and denied identity can abound when one reflects on the implications of this definition for any civilisation in a (formerly) colonized space.

If we take Africa as an example, often, Africans themselves, only know about the history of their civilisations as told by former colonial powers or by the Africans who ended up assimilating into a supposedly colourless, objective, approach to their own people.

But as Frantz Fanon warned us, “for the colonized subject, objectivity is always directed against him”. There is no such thing as objectivity when the colonial gaze wanders on what it considers its own properties and justified actions, even when they normalise the use of astoundingly barbaric means to defend  and carry out the so-called mission civilisatricefor the purported welfare of the “uncivilized African”.

Centuries pass by and yet the contempt and compulsive need to invalidate, belittle and instrumentalise the non-western Other remains. The colonial impulse to abide by a hierarchy of humanity to justify white supremacy has been unforgiving whenever the European colonial gaze has come into contact with pre-colonised accomplishments in non-European spaces. Such documented realisations leave bare the indisputable fact that non-western civilisations were alive well before foreign invasion and never needed western civilisations to thrive.

Ancient cities like Djenné, Gao, and Timbuktu long modernized before their contact with Arabs and Europeans. On this count, the idea that ‘Black Africa’ was dragged out of its “tribalism” and “darkness” by Arabs and Europeans and into the “big currents of change” is a lie that has rendered a people worthless and erased their contributions to global society. And yet, Africans themselves seldom make reference to their deep history that sustained them for millennia – as Michael Freeden, Lyman Tower Sargent, and Marc Stears write, “the ideas of ancient Egyptians, the epics of traditional societies and the religious and [their] philosophical utterances of Africans since the beginnings of human society.” To this day, the kingdom of Axum, the splendour of the Dahomey kingdom and the African origin of astronomy and astrology, are still on death row, trapped in the jail of historical amnesia, internalized colonialism and anti-Blackness.

Several decades ago, Cheikh Anta Diop demonstrated how easy it is to whiten and Europeanise African civilisations, breaking them apart so as to never connect them with any trace of greatness. Walter Rodney  noted how Africa’s stolen artefacts have been used to define European metropoles, hideously informing their civilised identity. African artefacts and peoples have been destroyed, overwritten as European and looted to justify the colonial project.

At a time when even African institutions do not protect their own civilisations nor tell their own history, it is unclear whether these facts will be forever erased from historical records and from the memory of the very Africans whose ancestors birthed them. Within such a conjuncture, one wonders whether the history of African civilisations will be over-written by (western or westernised) “objective experts” and “change agents” or whether African people will awaken from colonial slumber, and return to revive and protect their rich history and cultures.

Only time will tell.

For now, we argue that in a paradigm of Eurocentrism and White supremacy, African societies have been set for failure ever since they were marked as mere resources to exploit and instrumentalise for the benefit of western hegemony. African societies would be best served in conducting a thorough reflection on their civilisations because as James Baldwin warns, “we cannot escape our origins…those origins which contain the key—could we but find it—to all that we later become”. And how do we find this key? Femi Aborisade argues, through “the collective action of the common people that can emancipate and transform society.”

Africa as a colonial construct is hanging onto some violently pieced-together parody of western ideals, further erasing its own identity and agency and devaluating its reputation and innovative capacity. Being Black or African is a responsibility unto oneself, not an excuse from understanding the past. As Ian Williams says, “when you position yourself in history, you enter into a community of people with similar experiences and you observe how the racial climate changes over time”. When you so position yourself, you create a sufficient level of discomfort that could engender change despite the hostility you face.

As the erasure of African civilisations continues, the only remaining questions are as follows: are we as Africans aware that we are nearing extinction and, if so, why do we remain passive as we are dying? Is our passivity in death further evidence that we’ve never known what living feels like? Or are we hindered by a double consciousness that slots us neatly into the image that White men have of Black people’s fortunate ability to laugh all their troubles away?

We ought to come to terms with the fact that it is only us who can prevent our history from being reduced to an asterisk at the end of a British monarch’s eulogy. It is for us to imagine who will speak our eulogy and whether what would be said will challenge the status quo of a post-transatlantic slave trade world, or feed into the story written by European colonial powers for the last 400 years.

Christiane Ndedi Essombe holds a Master of Public Health from the University of Montreal School of Public Health. She has worked with various marginalized populations such as people with albinism in Tanzania, migrating people at the US/Mexico border, survivors of the Colombian armed conflict and refugee claimants in Montreal. Her current projects focus on interrogating racial violence in African contexts and its link with internalized colonialism in people of African descent.

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, action research, and critical ethnography to explore notions of contested belonging, mobility, and how people experience conflict and peace in everyday life.

Featured Photograph: James Baldwin presenting his new book at a press conference in the American Hotel in Amsterdam (14 November 1974).

‘Everybody to the Rice Harvest!’ – a speech by Samora Machel in June 1978

On 13 June 1978, President Samora Machel visited the ‘First of May’ Communal Village in the Limpopo Valley and spoke at a large popular rally. Mozambique had been independent for less than three years, after a brutal ten-year war against the Portuguese colonial power, led by Frelimo, which was now attempting to transform itself from a broad front into a Marxist-Leninist party and was in the middle of a fierce struggle over agricultural policy. Colin Darch and David Hedges introduce the speech which is included in their forthcoming collection of Machel’s interviews and speeches.

By Colin Darch and David Hedges

In 1978 there was a sharp division within the Frelimo Party and the government between those advocating a technology-driven rural development policy supported by Soviet and East German mechanised equipment, and those who favoured a greater reliance on popular initiatives.

After the flight of Portuguese colonists at independence, most of the rice fields of the Limpopo valley were subject to an agrarian policy which put large state farms using hundreds of tractors and harvesters at the centre of operations. Lack of experience in such mechanisation led to a mismatch of grain, soils, and machinery. Moreover, there was resistance owing to the absence of land restitution by Frelimo after independence, and against compulsory relocation to communal villages after the extensive floods of 1977. In the rice harvest of mid-1978, the results of state investment were disappointing, and hundreds of hectares of rice were left unharvested.

The president’s speech at the ‘First of May’ Communal Village was dramatic, emotional, and apparently largely improvised. He concluded by insisting that everybody in Gaza Province – peasants, workers, students, government officials, and others – must all take part in the now manual rice harvest. This meant, quite literally, cutting the rice with curved scythes (see pictures). Machel himself set an example by leading a procession of government ministers and high-ranking officials into the fields, and in the end, he managed to mobilise over 30,000 people to participate in the effort.

Machel’s speech is astonishing for its frankness, and for its energy, impatience, and anger, apparent to the reader even in transcribed and translated form. Machel raises multiple issues, including the new government’s efforts to mobilise the broad masses around what development might look like after a victorious war of national liberation, and about how to sustain the people’s energy and work ethic over a continuing and prolonged economic and social struggle. At times he calls his listeners ‘blockheads’ and berates them for laziness; he asks them directly if they would expect a baby to walk and digest solid foods immediately after birth.

The speech is extraordinary not only for the bluntness of the language – in which he uses local Ronga expressions for forced labour, mine recruitment, and local alcoholic drinks – but also for the openness with which it addresses the difficulties Frelimo was facing in getting large sectors of the rural population in Gaza province to participate in the mobilisation to save the 1978 rice crop. Machel’s discourse hammers home the need for sacrifice in the process of national reconstruction in the post-colonial period, with constant reference to the experience of the armed struggle for national independence.

The spectacular rice harvest of July 1978 was an important moment in the evolution of agrarian policy: as the Frelimo Party and Machel began to recognise, what Marc Wuyts wrote in 1981 ‘… the question of choice of technique in agriculture is not merely a technical issue, but principally a political choice which affects the whole social structure of the rural economy.’ Indeed, it was not just a question of a ‘choice of technique under socialist transition,’ but of the need for careful investigation of the ‘structure of the inherited colonial rural economy as well as the nature of the crisis of the colonial capitalist economy after independence…’.

In August, barely a month after Samora’s speech, Frelimo’s Central Committee reprimanded the ‘technologists’, and Joaquim de Carvalho was sacked as Minister of Agriculture for systematically giving priority to technology. He was accused of scorning popular initiatives and contributions and criticised for seeking to block the creation of communal villages. In this context, Machel’s speech can best perhaps be read as a demonstrative political response to near-disastrous failures at the technical and organisational levels.

Machel begins in a minor key by saying he has been assigned the task of coming to Gaza to talk to the people. He eulogises Gaza Province as the ‘breadbasket of the nation’, with the potential to produce a vast range of food crops, as well as to support cattle, pigs, sheep, and other animals. Then he changes tone:

So why doesn’t the Province produce [all these things]? Can you work when you’re hungry? Can you ask hunger to lend you strength, on condition that you come to pay it back tomorrow or the day after? We talked about the struggle to provide clothing, but first there’s hunger. Everyone – men, women, children, and old people – their main task at this moment in any part of the People’s Republic of Mozambique is to fight to eliminate hunger.

Yesterday, from the Rovuma to the Maputo, our struggle was against the foreign occupier. Gaza, Inhambane, Manica, Sofala, Tete, Zambézia, Cabo Delgado and Nampula were all involved in the struggle to expel the foreigner, the occupier, the exploiter, the oppressor. The concern of each one of us was how to liquidate the enemy […] It wasn’t about expelling the colonialist so as to be lazy.

Do you hear? Do you hear? [The crowd responds: We hear].

Yesterday, before we won independence, when you were running away from xibalo [forced labour] you all slept in the bush, you slept in trees – crossing the rivers you were eaten by crocodiles and alligators [applause]. Am I right? Hah! All of you said it’s better to be eaten by a lion running away to South Africa on foot – not having money for a train ticket – than to stay and be ruled by a colonialist! Am I right? [You are right].

You’re blockheads! You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you? Yesterday, we proclaimed independence and you’ve forgotten about it. Yesterday, you were being eaten by mosquitoes… you, particularly the ones in Gaza, Inhambane and Maputo. Your children grew up not knowing their own parents, because the parents stayed in Jo’burg all the time […] You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you? It was only yesterday that you spent your time living in the bush, scared of forced labour, scared of being shackled. Do you remember that?

You women, you remember it. Many women here today lost their husbands because they died on the Nwandzeguele [mine labour]. Didn’t they die? Many woman hgere haven’t got husbands because they died in Guevane … in the mines of South Africa, in Nwandzeguele, in Xinavane […]  am I right or not?

Blockheads! Blockheads! You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Look, the ones who were victorious, the ones who liberated you, they are here. Are you listening? The ones who led the struggle to expel the Portuguese are here. They worked for many years, without receiving any money [applause]. So many years, not knowing what a salary was, so many years never knowing what money was, so many years never knowing a boss. Their boss was the povo [the people], it was independence, their boss was liberation.

To fight against poverty, everyone must feel responsible, must feel the need just like when colonialism was still here, when colonialism weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders. Then everyone will be conscious and will struggle against deprivation. There are no miracles in the fight against deprivation – if everyone begins by asking ‘I’m going to work! What will I get? Who am I going to work for?’ That way we wouldn’t have independence even now! Do you understand? If everyone had had that spirit, had thought like that – ‘If I’m going to fight and I’m going to die, who will be around to see independence?’ – then up to today we wouldn’t even have started the war against the colonialists.

‘I’m going to die without seeing independence!’ It was that – ‘I’ll die before I see independence, so it’s not worth fighting’. Who would have taken up arms to fight colonialism, who would have fought, if everyone had had that kind of thinking: ‘Ah, I’ll fight, and then after independence what will I become, what will FRELIMO give me?’ Up to now, we wouldn’t have fought. The ones who beat colonialism weren’t as many as you all right here, right here in this meeting. The ones who beat colonialism, the ones who picked up guns to fight the enemy, they were so few that right here there are more of you than there were of them. Do you hear me?

[Now Machel comes to the main point of the meeting].

But you can’t complete the rice harvest here in Gaza. You won’t cut rice! Because you want money! Rice only grows in the Limpopo Valley […] It’s only in the Limpopo Valley – and the entire population of Gaza can’t harvest the rice in ten days, because you want money, money, money. Am I right?

The book your child uses at school comes from rice. The teacher, your son at school it’s rice that pays for it. The shoes your son needs – rice brings them – the scarves, the wraps [capulanas] and the blankets that your wife needs, it’s the rice that brings them – and you ask, ‘Who’s this rice for?

The medicine you need in the hospital, the injection, the bed you need in hospital and in the maternity ward, the nurse in the hospital, the midwife in the maternity ward, the doctor in the hospital – they are all paid for with money brought in by rice. And you’re still asking who owns the rice! You’re still asking who owns the rice. It seems that when you go to the hospital you won’t need a doctor or a midwife. Who pays them? You’ll pay, you have money, you have money! And why do you let the rice rot? Huh? Huh? You come here to ask how much you should be paid and when they tell you it’s fifty escudos, you go home and say you’d rather sit back in your house. You prefer to rest your heads on your arms, don’t you? You’re blockheads! […]

[…] Last year there were floods in Gaza Province, and the government wanted to save lives, the little money that the government had was given to a commission formed to save the population in Gaza, which was under water. They brought planes, they brought boats, they brought some food, they brought clothes to help the population of Gaza Province […]

Did the colonialists ever do that? Why didn’t they? Were you considered to be people? What were you? The colonialists needed you for forced labour, for xibalo. There were régulos [chiefs] – where are they? Were you the ones who got rid of them, or was it the government? What job did the régulos have? It was recruiting people for xibalo, to pay tax and for the palmatória [wooden paddle for beating people], wasn’t it? And to prepare girls to give to the administrators […] If you want, we’ll bring back the régulos [laughter]. Everyone is laughing. You weren’t the ones who ordered the régulos to be wiped out, do you hear? Here are the government ministers who studied and saw the need to do away with the régulos and the sepoys [African police]. Some of the sepoys are here – and now they’re looking down at the ground! […]

[…] If you want, we’ll get the régulos to make you do the work faster. We can do this because it doesn’t cost anything. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Those who are silent deep inside need it, don’t they? Those who want to, raise your hands [laughter].

[Machel spends some moments asking people from different districts who are participating in the harvest to raise their hands, one group after another].

Now, let’s go to those who don’t harvest rice – stand up. If you don’t want to, I’ll tell all the ones who have been cutting rice to stand up, and then you’ll see how you’ll be exposed, and then you’ll be alone. Those who do not harvest rice, raise your hands. You are ashamed. And so? I will ask those from Macia, Xai-Xai and Guijá to participate in the harvest. Get up then. Get up all of you. All the ones who cut rice! Okay, that will do!

Let’s move on to another point. Who’s going to sensitise the population, who will explain to the povo the value of rice being cut in twenty days? It’s FRELIMO, political commissars at district, locality, communal village levels, administrators who belong to FRELIMO, district administrators, administrators of the locality, the Grupos Dinamizadores. In December we elected the People’s Assemblies – these are jobs for the deputies of the People’s Assemblies, and they didn’t carry them out […] Do you hear me? Do you think money grows on trees? Have you all paid taxes? Not yet! And where do we get money to pay you if you haven’t paid taxes yet? […]

[Changes line of argument] Let’s go back a little bit […] the provincial government of Gaza should have held a bigger meeting than this one to explain to you the amount of work. Do you hear? Do you hear? As we are doing today. After this meeting, we’re all going to cut rice.

When we started to talk to the povo, at the time of the war, we already knew that we were going to defeat colonialism. The population that was going to carry the materials – the materials that allowed the enemy to be liquidated – didn’t get food, or clothing, and nobody received money. They carried loads of materials to fight the enemy. They carried materials for the schools, for the education of the children. They carried medical supplies. They carried medicine to treat our sick and wounded. We didn’t have cars. Our ‘cars’ were two legs that we nicknamed «car no.11». Two legs to transport material from Tanzania to Beira and Chimoio.

From Tanzania all the way to Beira and Chimoio, we marched for three months without resting, planes overhead, enemy mines underfoot. That is to say, we marched as if we were going from here, even farther than Maputo, about two hundred or three hundred kilometres, we were marching – men, women, children, and old people.

Now we’re here, and we don’t want to cut rice because we want money! […] how will we get tractors, ploughs, hoes, if you can’t produce rice for export or to buy these things? We want to provide clothing for everyone, but Gaza Province doesn’t have clothing factories. What allows you to buy blankets and clothes, to bring sugar to your province? What allows you to bring medicine, notebooks, pencils, and pens – it’s the sale of rice. Because it allows us to bring foreign exchange for the purchase of materials and goods to supply Gaza Province and the other provinces as well. It isn’t only Gaza province that benefits from rice, but the entire population from Rovuma to Maputo – the entire country.

The tomatoes you produce in Gaza are sold in Maputo, where the workers in the factories produce ploughs, sweaters, handkerchiefs, sneakers, and footballs, and then they’re sold in Gaza province – an exchange between peasants and workers. That’s why we talk about the ‘worker-peasant alliance.’ Our mistake was not bringing our ideas to you. Do you hear? Our mistake was not making you all participate in the discussion. And your mistake is that you put money first.

Those who incited you, those who stirred you up are the old ones. You know, you know the ones who say, ‘If they don’t give us money, we’ll leave and go home.’ You know the ones who said that. Those who cleaned and swept the yards of the régulos. And some of them are here. They’d wake up in the morning and collect a hundred escudos from people who came from South Africa. Do you know about those situations? Do you know that when a complaint was made to a régulo, the individual who complained brought a goat with him for the régulo? Do you know this? The ones who’d wake up in the morning and do those things are the ones who tell you today that money should come first […] Our government doesn’t have any ximole [a local alcoholic drink; laughter], and the ones who are here, where are they going to find ximole? Do you also want ximole? You don’t accept our system of government? You prefer the régulos and the sepoys! Is that right?

[Some slogans].

I was speaking a little bit about what the war was like, and about the participation of the population, because I had a clear objective. Now we have the rice harvest in Gaza province. We bought a hundred lorries, and we want to pay for them with that rice. We bought 500 tractors, of which 220 came to Gaza Province to support the campaign, to prepare the Limpopo Valley, the ‘breadbasket of the nation’, following the guidelines and decisions of the Third Congress. It’s rice that will pay for the vehicles, for the tractors, it’s potatoes that will pay for the tractors. We have no other source.

[…]

It will be necessary for you to participate, to work, to become agricultural workers – that is, we will have to build factories in Gaza province, which is not enough. Your province is rich, you’ll need to grow a lot of cashew trees to manufacture… to build cashew processing factories. It will be necessary to build factories for the production of clothing in Gaza province. Not needing Maputo but producing clothes here. And to produce clothes, it will be necessary for you to produce enough cotton to supply your factories. It will be necessary to build factories for the production of oil – cooking oil. It will be necessary to build soap factories for you to be self-sufficient.

Now, if you are lazy, where will we get people to run the factories, where will we get people to drive the tractors, where will we get people for the economic development of your province?

Your province has the capacity to produce oranges, grapefruit, tangerines, lemons – all the citrus fruits, and you need juice for your consumption, that’s not a dream. When we started to fight against the colonialists it was not a dream, it was a reality and today we have won. You never thought that the colonialists would be defeated in Mozambique. Nobody thought, they said that the colonialists have warships, they have planes, and they have a lot of money – and therefore we would not be in a position to fight colonialism. But the truth is this, when we planned, when we thought that our ideas could be realised, we launched the struggle.

What do you want? I know what it is, you want a child to be born today and to start walking tomorrow. How many months does it take in the mother’s womb, and then how long does it take to get up and stand up? It’s a year, it’s twelve months, isn’t it? And then to be weaned? Huh? It’s a year and a half, isn’t it? Eh? If you don’t have a cow to give you milk, can you wean a child in a year and a half? Can the child eat cassava, sweet potato at one and a half years old? Can the child eat roasted corn, cassava? If you weaned the child at a year and a half, what do you expect to give it? Answer me, you mothers! Do you give the child mealie pap, is that it? No? If she is weaned at a year and a half, what do you expect to give her, eh? You, the mothers, answer me, what do you give the child? And now to start going to school and start talking, how many months is it? Eh?

You proclaimed independence in 1975 and you want everything right away, today. Sometimes you want shoes, sometimes you want blankets, or motorbikes, how is that possible? Where do all these things come from, where does all this come from?

[Slogans].

Now, all the administrators, from now on – listen carefully – will have to bring to the rice harvest – each administration, 5,000 people. Each administration – Chicualacuala, Massingir, Guijá, Macia, Limpopo, Manjacaze, Chibuto and Xai-Xai – must bring 5,000 people here to cut rice and finish the job in ten days. Do you hear me? Do you hear? I’m speaking here on behalf of FRELIMO, in the name of the People’s Republic of Mozambique, and on behalf of all the people from the Rovuma to the Maputo. Do you all understand? In ten days, finish the harvest, starting on Saturday, the day of greatest concentration. In ten days, all the rice should be cut in the Limpopo Valley. And those who participate who are already there, tomorrow we will all be there together and the day after tomorrow the whole government will be with you. But from Saturday, the concentration should be 5,000 from each district, to participate in rice cutting. Today the governor of Gaza province will get in touch with all the structures of the party, of the government, and of the People’s Assemblies. In this republic watered with blood, a republic weighed down with sacrifices, the lazy have no place. In this country. Do you understand me?

Khanimambo to everybody [applause and singing].

This translation by Colin Darch and David Hedges is an abridged version of a speech included in the forthcoming collection of Machel’s interviews and speeches, Voices of Liberation: Samora Machel (Cape Town: HSRC Press, in preparation). The collection focuses on lesser-known texts that reveal different aspects of Machel’s thought and personality. The Portuguese text from Notícias (16 June 1978), is available here.

Colin Darch worked in Mozambique from 1979 to 1987, and is the founder of the website Mozambique History Net. With Amélia Neves de Souto he’s the author of A Dictionary of Mozambican History and Society (HSRC Press, 2022).

David Hedges has worked as a professor of history at Eduardo Mondlane University in Maputo since 1978, and has published extensively in both English and Portuguese on the period immediately before and after Mozambican independence.

Featured Photographs: images of Samora are by Kok Nam and Macedo Matavela, from Tempo no.403, 25 June 1978. Woman in field is by Naita Ussene, from Tempo, no.400, 11 June 1978.

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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