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From summit to counter-summit: imperialism, Françafrique and decolonisation

Aymar N. Bisoka, David Mwambari and Sabelo J. Ndlovu-Gatsheni write about the recent Africa-France summit. The scholar Achille Mbembe was recruited to prepare a report for the summit by speaking to African youth. This blogpost asks what was the real meaning of the summit behind the official pronouncements.

By Aymar N. Bisoka, David Mwambari and Sabelo J. Ndlovu-Gatsheni

At the beginning of 2021, French President Emmanuel Macron approached the Cameroonian historian and political scientist Achille Mbembe to prepare the New Africa-France Summit, which was to take place in Montpellier, France, on 9 and 10 October 2021. The most immediate context of a forthcoming election in France itself in which the French president might be using this occasion to win the Afro-descendant votes should not escape our minds. Unlike previous summits, this one was to welcome a new generation of young Africans from Africa and its diasporas to an open and direct dialogue with Macron. For the first time in history, the summit between France and African countries was held with no African head of state.

As part of the preparation for the summit, Mbembe had to lead a series of discussions in twelve African countries and the diaspora, ahead of the actual event, around themes of common interest. According to him, the aim of these discussions with African and diaspora youth was to “directly and openly question the fundamentals of this relationship [and] to redefine it together.”

Four days before the summit started, Mbembe submitted a 140-page report containing thirteen proposals for a ‘refoundation’ of relations between France and Africa. These proposals focus on an Innovation Fund for Democracy, a House of African and Diasporas Views, migration, employment, intercontinental economic transparency, the transformation of development aid, the voice of Africa on climate change, the narrative on Africa, the rethinking of the relations between Africa and Europe, the restitution of stolen works of art, among others. During the summit itself, twelve young people were selected to discuss with Macron and mount a critique on the issues arising from the proposals contained in the Mbembe Report. 

What is the real meaning of this summit beyond the organisers’ pronouncements? How can we understand the controversies and discourses that came out of it? Was this summit simply a way for France to improve its image that has deteriorated sharply over the past four years?

Placing the summit in its historical context

The historical context of this summit is firstly, colonial and neo-colonial (Françafrique) and secondly, a context of increased global connections in which the Afro-descendent population has increased with France and cannot be ignored. Thirdly, it is also a context of insurgent and resurgent decolonization of the 21st century, which has also seen the escalation of activism – by African youth – targeting colonial symbols of domination in general, and those of French interests in particular. Therefore, a key question arises: Was the summit organised to respond to recent events on the African continent or in France, and to push France to open-up to debates that are uncomfortable but essential?

On the African continent, Senegalese youth protests that vandalised French interests in March 2021 are still fresh in the minds of French policymakers. The youth on the streets spoke loud and clear when they attacked French shops, petrol stations, supermarkets and you can guess that their names did not feature on the French list of the desired invitees to dine with Marcon at the summit. The invited youth were mostly the educated, youth with a pre-existing and official platform and means. There were few, if any, of the young protestors like those who revolted against French interests.

Other recent events in Africa include protests in Mali against the French military presence and the move to hire Russian militias to combat terrorism where the French have failed. On the day the summit was to start in October, Mali’s Premier accused France of training ‘terrorist groups’ and summoned the French ambassador. Youth also attacked French interests in Northern Mozambique, resulting in the deployment of forces from the SADC region and Rwanda.

These are a few examples to show that popular pressure on France informed Macron’s choice of inviting young participants instead of the heads of state to the summit. Throughout his presidency, Marcon has also defended the establishment of the ECO to replace the controversial CFA currency that is part of the French colonial heritage that West African protestors have rejected. French monetary imperialism has been subjected to heightened opposition from African youth.

In addition, recent global events like the #BlackLivesMatter movement instigated debates amongst French intellectuals who aligned with their politicians to dismiss the claims by Afro-descendants in France to have racism directly confronted. These elites dismissed demands to challenge racism in France as irrelevant to France’s past or present, claiming that the French state is based on anti-racist ideals of republicanism. Macron himself declared these are ‘certain social science theories entirely imported from the United States’.

Other prominent intellectuals joined in to argue that contemporary theories on race, gender, and post-colonialism were a threat to the French identity of liberté, égalité, and fratenité.  These assertations were made ignoring a long tradition of French-speaking scholars like Aimé Cesaire, Léopold Sédar Senghor, Frantz Fanon, Cheikh Anta Diop, Valentin-Yves Mudimbe, Fabien Eboussi Boulaga, Souleymane Bachir Diagne, Françoise Verges or more recently Norman Ajari, Pape Ndiaye, Nadia Kisukidi, even the academic director of the summit itself, Achille Mbembe, and many others whose works on post-colonialism have critiqued French society.

In fact, debates on the question of identity in France have shown that non-white communities’ lived experiences show that liberté, égalité, and fraternité are empty slogans and merely a façade to the reality of French society. For instance, issues of police brutality against non-white communities, especially the Afro-diaspora, did not feature prominently in the summit, although they concern the community whom Macron might want to lure in next year’s elections.

The summit claimed to break ties with the colonial past, but it was hardly the case as the major problems that continue to strain the relationship between France and its African colonies were not even addressed. Yet, the voices of young people were present on stage and they asked questions, made arguments that have long existed in post-colonial literature. Articulating these views in front of the sitting president and in France was a significant moment. For example, there was a speaker from Burkina Faso civil society who asked Macron to stop patronising Africans, and that a change of vocabulary was needed to move from aid to partnership. Nevertheless, even partnership is not radical enough; the correct demand must be for reparations and restitution. Such a demand would constitute a total turn in what mainly were political and diplomatic debates.

The other unique feature of this summit was the fact that they asked Achille Mbembe to take on the task as intellectual scholar for the forum. Was this a radical gesture by the president to engage an African intellectual – a one-time outspoken critic of France’s policy in Africa, rather than another politician? Mbembe traveled around the continent to listen and record divergent voices about Africa’s relationship with France. Mbembe’s involvement in the 2021 summit leads us to ask three questions we explore below.

Firstly, the gesture to endorse an African intellectual with ties to France was intriguing. Was this a sign that the French establishment are taking African intellectuals seriously? It was indeed curious for Mbembe to accept this task with its high risks of being accused of doing the clean-up work for an imperial power which has never left Africa and is increasingly being exposed for its continued neo-colonial, exploitative relations with the continent.

Secondly, Mbembe’s involvement and young civil society activists who voiced criticism can also be viewed cynically as part of the French strategy to divert attention to real issues, namely CFA monetary coloniality, the presence of its troops in Mali and France interference with the monetary reforms spearheaded by ECOWAS. Or was it to collect data on the changing pattern of West African consciousness and capture the new vocabulary of African youth as part of an effort to monitor debates, listen to frustrations, then re-align French interests across the continent accordingly? Or can this be a case of a ‘cognitive empire’ needing data to sharpen its tools and recruit new allies? Doubtless, though, is a popular demand for Europe in general, and France in particular, to embark on de-imperialisation as part of an essential pre-requisite to redefine relations.

Thirdly, the much-publicised summit was held in France. The selection of these young participants was preceded by a preliminary consultation with France. Even if it is argued that these debates had started during previous meetings on Macron’s visits to the African continent, the summit in Montpellier was a platform to send a message to Macron’s electorate that he cares about minority issues, and to African youth that France cares where their governments have failed, and to other world powers competing for Africa’s resources, that France is in a leadership position and in touch with ‘authentic’ issues.

The counter-summit

The counter-summit was an eye-opener. A collective of associations, unions, and political parties organised a counter-summit to denounce the Françafrique (the term used to describe the continued and unabated influence of France, its government, and businesses, over its former colonies). Their objective was to unmask ‘the hidden face’ of the ‘New Africa-France summit’ and to challenge France’s policy in Africa. For most of the detractors, the summit was simply a publicity stunt to restore the image of France, which has deteriorated sharply in recent years, particularly in the eyes of African youth.

It is indeed true that several events of the last three years were behind the demonstrations against France in Africa and, therefore, Emmanuel Macron had an interest in a charm offensive to try and restore the image of his country in many regions of the continent.

The counter-summit registered the participation of significant political figures such as Mireille Fanon-Mendès-France, daughter of Frantz Fanon, and Miriam Sankara, the wife of the African hero, Thomas Sankara from Burkina Faso. For those attending the counter-summit, Macron’s announcements for a change in France-Africa relations over the past four years were being challenged as nothing but the usual operations of colonial seduction to give neo-colonial relations a new lease of life.

For example, the reform of the CFA franc, in favour of the future West African currency ECO, still guarantees a central role for France in the monetary policy of West African countries. Also, the announced end of Opération Barkhane is, like other previous military operations in Africa, part of a strategic redeployment towards maintaining French influence through military cooperation and the action of Special Forces.

Macron’s France has therefore never introduced a break in its African policy but, on the contrary, continues to increase its neo-colonial influence in Africa strategically to fight against growing criticism, particularly from young protestors. These are the reasons why this summit was considered as a symbolic renewal of old Franco-African summits, by using topics such as ‘Youth and actors from the diaspora, entrepreneurship, culture and sports’ to continue to revive the same colonial practices of France in Africa.

The counter-summit of a hundred organisations and supported by several political parties and unions  succeeded in organising itself around a message which clearly showed what the meaning of “putting an end to the coloniality of France-Africa” had to involve. The meetings, debates and events they organised on the side-lines of the official summit showed a great mistrust towards Macron, based on their deep knowledge of existing contradictions between France’s discourse and its actions in Africa.

It emerges from these debates that this is not the first time a French president has promised to put an end to France-Africa coloniality, including president Nicolas Sarkozy (2007-2012) and president François Hollande (2012-2017). These presidents always talked about cosmetic change and a change of style in their relationship with Africa, but not the kind of rupture that the counter-summit participants were asking for.

An example of changing styles over time is how from President Charles de Gaulle (1959-1969) to Jacques Chirac (1995-2007), France had a personal relationship with African presidents, in order to maintain its influence on the African continent. The style then changed with Sarkozy and increased with Francois Hollande, with more emphasis and focus on ‘democratisation’, but still insisting on positioning a relationship with politicians and the Élysée (the official residence of the French president). More recently, the gradual disappearance of former dictators in some African countries has not allowed the Élysée to establish personal and deep relations with certain African presidents. Therefore, it was necessary to change the former way of doing things, in order to maintain, above all, the influence of France in Africa.

Sarkozy, who did not appreciate the need to change the old model of the France-Africa relationship, paid dearly in a lawsuit related to his relations with President Muammar al-Gaddaf. Macron thus had no choice but to try and refigure the relationship in a different way. Yet, this does not mean that the core of France-Africa coloniality has altered in any way.

This is what the counter-summit meant in demanding a sign from Macron, showing that there really was a will for radical change. This would consist of France’s commitment towards five very specific points: (a) ending its military presence in Africa, (b) ending the neoliberal trade policy of France and the EU in Africa, (c) stopping support to presidents who remain in power in an undemocratic manner and French interference in the internal political and economic affairs of African countries, (d) cancelling the odious and illegitimate debts of African countries, (e) respecting the freedom of movement and settlement of people as well as putting an end to expulsions of asylum seekers from France in accordance with international treaties.

Some post-colonial thinkers, including Mbembe, argue that we should not only see cynicism in France’s declaration of its desire to improve its relations with Africa. Sometimes the will is there, but differences still appear on the issue of what a healthy multilateral relationship means. Though, we would argue, that beyond cynicism, there is above all an issue of ideological and cognitive incapacity which is at stake in the official French political imagination.

For those who follow topical issues in French politics, there is still in its political world a kind of nostalgia for the French empire, power and influence in the world, which ultimately makes imperialism a criterion of the greatness of a state. According to Achille Mbembe, this deep rationality implies that “France is struggling to enter into the ‘decolonial’ world that is coming” . For this reason, the counter-summit argued that the official summit organised by Mbembe was unable to break with this imperialist baggage which is at the very foundation of the French state.

The empire and its technologies of domination

The cognitive empire sustains colonial relations. It continues to invade the mental universes of its targets. It maintains surveillance over new knowledge which is not informed by colonial and capitalist interests. What sense do we make of the fact that the summit took place within a context in which conservative politicians in alliance with conservative intellectuals were mounting a push-back against critical race theory, intersectionality theory, post-colonial theory, and decolonial thought? These are frameworks that emerged from the battlefields of history and struggles against racism, enslavement, colonialism, capitalism, and patriarchy. It is these frameworks that the current insurgent and resurgent decolonisation of the 21st century is building on, with students, youth and other progressive forces at the forefront.

The new world now has a critical language with which to propose and imagine a future beyond racism, colonialism, capitalism, and patriarchy. The counter-summit was inspired not just by rethinking but unthinking all toxic colonial relations. Summits have been well-known techniques of sugarcoating colonialities. The long history since the 1958 referendum in France has amply demonstrated that colonial relations do not need reform but abolition for any genuinely new relations between France and Africa. What is needed is a double rupture—which is simultaneously epistemic and systemic.

Aymar N. Bisoka is a lawyer and political scientist and assistant professor at the University of Mons. He also teaches at the Catholic Univesity of Bukavu, Congo Democratic Republic of the Congo and is a Meaning-Making Research Initiative (MRI) fellow CODESRIA, Senegal. In addition, Bisoka is a researcher at the Conflict Research Group (CRG) at the University of Ghent, Belgium.

David Mwambari is a Lecturer in African Security and Leadership Studies at the African Leadership Centre, King’s College London and is a Meaning-Making Research Initiative (MRI) fellow CODESRIA, Senegal. 

Sabelo J. Ndlovu-Gatsheni is the Professorial Chair of Epistemologies of the Global South Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences Africa Multiple Cluster of Excellence University of Bayreuth. He is also Honorary Professor, School of Education (Education and Development Studies, University of KwaZulu-Natal (October 2020-September 2023), South Africa

Featured Photograph: Emmanuel Macron speaks at ‘representatives’ of the continent at the Africa-France Summit in Montpellier on 8 October, 2021 (Ludovic Marin).

There is nothing past about historical land injustice

Ambreena Manji writes how Kenya still faces intractable land problems, including unequal concentration of land in the hands of the wealthy, land grabbing, landlessness, and unresolved historical land injustices. Manji calls for an acknowledgement of Kenya’s roots deep in regimes of land ownership facilitated first by a settler political economy but maintained in new forms today.

By Ambreena Manji

In 2010, Kenya’s new Constitution promised that ‘Historical Land Injustices’ would be investigated by a new body, the National Land Commission. Legislation passed in 2012 gave effect to this promise. The date for submission of claims has just passed (in September 2021) and this is a good time to reflect on our understanding of historical land injustices.

In their chapter on land in a milestone text entitled Public Law and Political Change in Kenya published in 1970, Yash Ghai and Patrick McAuslan wrote that ‘No part of the law of Kenya has raised stronger emotions over the years than the law relating to land and its administration, and none is of more importance at present.’ Over 10 years since the inauguration of the 2010 Constitution, we are faced with seemingly intractable land problems, including inequitable concentration of land in the hands of the wealthy, a propensity for land grabbing, landlessness, and unresolved historical land injustices.

Over the years, official accounts of the land mischiefs committed by the state, politicians and the elite have been made available in a series of official reports. That land reform was an important demand in the process of constitutional reform – and that it is a key idea in Kenyan history – is beyond doubt. Nonetheless, land reform can mean many things. But land reform has come to be reduced to land law reform. This has excluded critical debates: it has foreclosed discussions of redistributive politics. In fact, Kenya’s gini co-efficient on land has worsened since the inauguration of the 2010 Constitution. It is impossible to understand why without acknowledging the economy’s roots deep in regimes of land ownership that were facilitated first by a settler political economy and then, post-independence, by an elite that reserved for itself access to and ownership of land on a massive scale.

Land wrongs in Kenya do not fit the neat temporal categories of law and policy constructed around terms such as ‘historical land injustice’. The proceeds of land wrongs circulate and recirculate in the economy. Current land injustices shape the country’s political economy. The colonisation of Kenya centred on the redistribution of land from Africans to Europeans, the banning of Africans from owning the most fertile and productive land, and the disbarment of Africans from growing cash crops that might compete with colonial agriculture. Efforts to address the resulting skewed ownership and control of land that was a legacy of colonialism were necessarily a part of the political settlement entailed by decolonisation. It was tied up with ending colonial subjugation, asserting rights to territorial space and, importantly, demanding recognition of the existence and rights of citizens. Kenya’s leaders who emerged out of land reform in this period would cooperate in the preservation of European interests and could be relied upon to check any more militant demands. As Karuti Kanyinga has rightly pointed out, this period saw the defeat of a radical movement by an emerging liberal elite which consolidated its power through controlling both land and the dominant ideologies of land.

Taking racial form in the colonial period, after independence an African elite did not carry out a radical break with this model of land relations. We need to understand, from a political and sociological and not just a legal point of view, how the nature of the colonial state which Yash Ghai has described as being ‘without a trace of constitutionalism’ is linked to the subsequent ‘predatory nature of its descendant, the independent state’.

For those interested in conservatism in other domains, including in personal law, the wider connections are important. Robert H. Bates has convincingly shown in his study of rural transformation in the ‘White Highlands’ and the ‘native reserves’ that political struggles over land rights were also family struggles over kinship. A conservative bent about property rights (and by extension about family, sexuality, and reproductive rights), was built into the new order as it was under construction.

There is scarcely a region of Kenya that has not suffered from historical land injustice, whether by displacement to make way for European settlers or to create game reserves, through evictions for mining concessions or from forests, because of unjust allocations under settlement schemes, or by displacement as a result of politically motivated clashes or irregular and illegal land allocation processes. Although the historical, social, and psychological impacts of these dispossessions cannot be captured by any one description or term, the label ‘historical land injustices’ has come to be used as something of a shorthand for a range of land wrongs. The term has entered policy and legal arenas whilst also having multiple meanings in the everyday language and the daily politics of those struggling over land.

But we must recognise how deeply the present-day economy is rooted in the racial exclusivity of the colonial period which was continued after the end of the colonial period. Dispossession continued when racial exclusivity in access to land was transformed into what Issa Shivji has described as an ethnicized land question. Kenya’s land question cannot be understood apart from its status as a settler economy in which the hegemony exercised by the colonial state underpinned dispossession of land on a massive scale. When the ‘enclave(s) of super-exploitation and racial privilege’ thus created were Kenyanised so that land ownership was no longer racialised, the fundamental relations of production and accumulation did not change.

There is nothing past about historical land injustice. Land injustices are sedimented in the political economy. It is not possible to isolate present and past historical land injustices and it is not possible to understand Kenya’s political economy separate from an understanding of how the normal and the supposedly abnormal (corruption, land grabbing) are co-dependent. Historical land injustices have never been sealed off from apparently ‘properly functioning’ politics and economics.

Taking seriously the continuities between the colonial past and the recolonising practices of the present enables us to connect historical and present land injustices. Intricately connected, the land injustices of the past enable and deepen those of the present, structuring the economy, determining who owns what, and deeply affecting class formation. Although a neat temporal break is inscribed in law and policy by the distinction between past and present land wrongs, this is conceptually inaccurate. If we are to think meaningfully about Kenya’s ‘settler colonial present’ we need to keep in mind the structures of dispossession created by and since colonialism. Forced taking and violent dispossession is not incidental to the economy but is fundamental to it.

We can draw parallels here with the legal framework for land restitution in South Africa which similarly failed to grasp the psychological and social harms done by apartheid but, as Theunis Roux has argued, framed land wrongs as unjust seizures that could be reversed. It viewed apartheid as a legal scheme, and which therefore assumed it could simply be ‘unlegislated’. However, to claim historical land injustices have been committed is also to claim that spiritual harms have been caused by dispossession that cannot easily be reversed. Finding a language for these harms when before the law courts has been a major challenge. For example, when making such claims, indigenous peoples such as the Ogiek, Sengwer or Endorois have met with scepticism and suspicion.

Calls by indigenous groups for recognition can also inherently be calls for a different way of distributing resources and power within the state. Failed by the post-independence state first by being deprived of access to their most vital means of production (such as grazing cattle) and reproduction (for example, religious and cultural rites), and then by a failure of the courts to recognise their legal claims, indigenous people illustrate the ongoing struggle against land injustice.

This blog follows the British Institute in East Africa (BIEA) annual lecture ‘Dispossession is Nine Tenths of the Law’ delivered by Ambreena Manji on 3 November 2021. The lecture is available to watch here.

Ambreena Manji is Professor of Land Law and Development at Cardiff School of Law and Politics. She is the author of The struggle for land and justice in Kenya (James Currey/ Brewer & Boydell 2020).

Featured Photograph: members of a farming group in Machakos, Kenya farms a small plot where they grow oranges, avocados, vegetables, maize (14 October 2010).

‘Any bystander is a coward or a traitor’ – Frantz Fanon’s revolutionary challenge

Sixty years after his death from leukemia at the age of 36 on 6 December 1961, and the publication of The Wretched of the Earth, Timothy Wild reviews a new book which reminds us of the relevance of Frantz Fanon. Fanon’s work, Wild argues, continues to engage people by its brilliance, rage, analysis, and hope that the poor can be the authors of their own destiny. 

By Timothy Wild

From the end of May until a few days before Remembrance Day (November 11) flags at Canadian public buildings were flown at half-mast. This unusual occurrence was in recognition of the discovery of hundreds of unmarked graves containing the remains of Indigenous children on the sites of former Indian Residential Schools. The unearthing of the graves shocked many non-Indigenous Canadians, but it came as no surprise to Indigenous Peoples themselves who had long maintained that the graves were there and more would be discovered. They knew that some of their children never came home from these institutions; but their concerns went unheard or were dismissed. Many of the children who did return home were scarred for life, and this trauma then had an impact on the psychosocial wellbeing of future generations. Overall, this chapter is yet another tragic dimension in the history of settler colonialism in Canada.

Residential Schools, the last of which closed in the mid-1990s, were an instrument purposefully designed to undermine the culture and nuanced connections of Indigenous Peoples to time, each other, and the environment. The government and mainstream Christian Churches acted in strategic solidarity in a long campaign structured to annihilate Indigenous cultures, both figuratively and literally.  The schools were just one of the tools used by settlers, and their superstructure, to impose control over the totality of economic, social, cultural, and extractive relations. This campaign has resulted in social dislocation, loss of resources (including land and natural resources) and inter-generational trauma and marks the fact that the dark history of colonialism is still an eternal present in post-colonial Canada.

Part of my journey of understanding this dark history has involved reading and re-reading books on this ever-present historical tragedy, and that’s how I approached a closer study of Glen Sean Coulthard’s book Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Legacies of Recognition (2014)Using the work of the Martiniquen born, French educated and Algerian by choice psychiatrist Frantz Fanon (1925-1961) as a foundation – particularly Black Skin, White Masks – Coulthard argues that the conventional politics of recognition currently undertaken in Canada needs to evolve into “a resurgent politics of recognition premised on self-actualization, direct action and the resurgence of cultural practices that are attentive to the subjective and structural composition of settler-colonial power”.  In expanding on Marx by, for example, considering the impact of dispossession of land, as opposed to implementation of proletarian status on Indigenous Peoples, Coulthard applies a Fanonist framework to the current operation of neo-colonialism in Canada, and blends the psychology of the individual with the structural of the collective in his trenchant analysis and, equally important, call for action.

Obviously, the need for attention to the ongoing alienation and dislocation caused by colonialism in postcolonial societies is not only a Canadian phenomenon. The ongoing importance and wide-spread influence of Frantz Fanon in terms of both theory and practice reflects that fact.  Admittedly, there have been highs and lows in terms of Fanon’s place in the academic canon, due in large part to criticism regarding his framing of the role of violence in the process of decolonization, together with the fashionable disregard for meta-theories of liberation.  However, his works continue to inform counter-hegemonic theory and practice around the world, and his words and ideas are as refreshing as ever. Fanon continues to engage people by his brilliance, his candour, his analysis, his guarded optimism and his sense of people being agents in their own destiny.

Coming sixty years after the publication of The Wretched of the Earth and his death from leukemia at the age of 36, Fanon Today: Reason and Revolt of the Wretched of the Earth, edited by activist and scholar Nigel Gibson, provides a solid overview of the relevance of Frantz Fanon to the work of those of us who still believe that a just and humane world is both necessary and possible.  Throughout the volume the contributors provide space and examples of a Fanonist development of radical humanism, which provides for the psychological development of the person within the context of consciousness raising, collective action and structural change. Through a variety of examples, the book also clearly demonstrates the fact that the agents of change do not simply have to be the usual suspects of the industrial working class but includes – and must include – the peasantry and the various manifestations of the lumpenproletariat.  As noted by Gibson, “Fanon’s new humanism is a politics of becoming, based on the fundamental transformation of paralyzed Black and colonized subjects into new human beings through the liberation struggle” (p. 300).

Gibson then modestly concedes that the volume is “by no means exhaustive: it is rather something fragmentary, reflecting the moment” (p. 9). While that is a fair statement – I will comment on some of the gaps later – the bottom line is that this is an excellent book and marks Gibson’s long-standing commitment to ensuring that Fanon remains accessible and relevant to a wide-range of audiences, academic and popular. The theory is certainly there.  All the chapters, for example, pay attention to the role of consciousness-raising, the psychological trauma (indeed mental illness) caused by oppression, the blend of individual development and collective growth, the need for democratic discourse and leadership, and the destructive role played by the national bourgeoisie in alliance with outside forces.

However, in line with Fanon and respect for the development of mass support and organic intellectuals, the theoretical content of the book is woven together in a wonderfully accessible collection of essays demonstrating the ongoing importance of Fanon in a range of settings and on a diversity of social issues. Taken together the work provides multiple examples of the emancipatory potential of the “living politic” which is “the thought from the ground about the reality of our lives” as discussed by the South African activist S’bu Zikode (p. 124).

The book is divided into three sections. The first section contains several chapters written by ‘Fanon Militants’ and provides essays on Fanonist practices in a number of settings including Kenya, Trinidad and Tobago, South Africa, and Palestine. For me, the core element of this section can be found in the idea of “consciousness raising”. Subjects covered include the use of radio by a diverse group of women in England as a means of developing a person’s optimal psycho-social functioning, the deconstruction of the class and gender ridden term “White Syrian” and what it means to confronting the brutal Assad regime, and the experience of being Black facing daily racism, “systematic terror” and micro-aggressions in an overtly racist Portugal and Trinidad and Tobago, casting people into a zone of “non-being”.

The impact of Fanon on Black Consciousness is also clearly animated in this initial section of the book. Chapters on Fanon and the emergence of “New Afrikan Communism” and his influence of Black people imprisoned by the prison-industrial complex are two of the themes specifically associated with that longstanding link. A particular highlight of this section was contained in a chapter written by Toussaint Losier where he discussed the role played by Owusu Yaki Yakubu and how he developed a way to closely read Fanon which would engage his fellow prisoners, including those held largely incommunicado in the brutality of long-term solidarity confinement. The extension of Marxist thought, together with a dash of Freud and Hegel, shines through in this section in the intersection of race, gender and class. Taken together this section provides a mix of those structural variables, and how they fit together as an organic whole rather than a linear progression of mutually exclusive sociological categories.

The second section – ‘Still Fanon’ – moves into a more theoretical approach to the application of Fanon to transformative change and provides a number of excellent examples of why Fanon is still relevant and, perhaps more importantly, needed as a guide to engaged mass political action. As noted by, for example, David Pavon-Cuellar, in a passionate call for change and justice makes the important point that the “Wretched of the Earth are still here”. Pavon-Cuellar does not mince words and he insists on using the term “Third World” as opposed to “Global South” in his analysis. He argues the point that the historical example of de jure decolonization has not actually provided for the wellbeing of the rural and urban poor. Building upon the remarkable resilience of capitalism to do what it needs to ensure its domination and insatiable appetite, Pavon-Cuellar notes that “Colonialism had to change to stay the same” (p. 233). He puts it bluntly when he argues that the “current globalization of this neoliberal capitalism is the consummation of colonialism. Similarly, imperialism triumphs and disguises itself in the new global consensus” (p. 246).

Building upon this blend of passion and informed analysis, a major theme in this section of the book is related to the role played by the “national bourgeoisie” in terms of propping up the systems of oppression, exactly as highlighted by Fanon himself. The article by Ayyaz Mallick on Pakistan gives clear examples of the role played by national governments in terms of meeting the similar needs of a variety of global players, such as China, Saudi Arabia, Turkey and the United States, and the crises that result from this difficult balance.

Nigel Gibson contributes an important contextualizing chapter to this section of the book where he locates Fanon as both “a clinical practitioner and as a political practitioner” within the dynamic of movement. By paying attention to both the internalization of colonial messages and the environment constructed by post-colonial capitalist relations, Fanon provides a way to support the development of “disalienation” and the common good. As noted by Gibson, reflecting the dynamic of theory and practice has to be undertaken in unity with the people and is related to an evolving and tentative process of becoming, rather than a static case of being “…a moment of becoming is always incomplete. For me, this is an essential element of Fanon’s anti-formalist dialectic” (p. 283).

The final section of the book is loosely arranged around the idea of Fanon’s homes, essentially places he lived (such as Algeria in “The New Algerian Revolution”, the chapter by Hamza Hamouchene) together with places where his thinking has had a significant impact. These include the influence Fanon had on Black Consciousness in America, excellently chronicled by Lou Turner and Kurtis Kelley and on the growth of the Irish Language in the North of Ireland, powerfully presented by Feargal Mac Ionnrachtaigh. To me, however, this section was the most uneven in terms of readability. For example, I found the essay on postcolonial criticism and theory too academic for a book that attempted to make Fanon more accessible.

This may also have been related to the fact that this section also contained the transcription of a meeting between some of the leaders of the South African landless activist group Abahlali baseMjondolo and Nigel Gibson, which was beautiful in its integrity, honesty and dignity. What spoke to me most about this particular chapter was that it provided a sense of Fanon happening in real time and spoke to Gibson’s demonstrated desire to link Fanon with “the reader’s own lived experience” (p. 10). In this discussion, Gibson provided an overview of certain sections of The Wretched of the Earth  – which he prefers to call Les damnes de la terre in its original French – and then members of Abahlali baseMjondolo spoke about concrete application of Fanon’s works. To my mind at least, this chapter made the essential point that “awakening is a constant process” (p. 433). By putting Fanon into this process, and extending our understanding of Marxism, the argument is made that this can result in a “living communism” (p. 433).

The second section of the third part of the volume, dealt exclusively with Brazil, and contained essays on COVID-19 and the impact on Black people in Brazil together with pieces on “Black Female Intellectual Production” and one on the economic exploitation of Amazonia. These were undoubtedly interesting pieces, and they dealt with pressing socio-political issues related to the daily operation of both neocolonialism and neoliberalism. However, it is still unclear to me why Brazil was chosen as a focused topic for this section. Fanon noted that Rio as a city and construct was an offence to Indigenous people, and talked about the exploitation of young Brazilian women, but why three chapters were devoted to specific issues in Brazil was not immediately apparent. As mentioned, the issues are important, but they could have been examined within other contexts, particularly given Gibson’s previous comment about the content not being exhaustive.

Inevitably a lot is left out, and the list of what should or could have been included will be large, depending on one’s area(s) of interest. For example, I felt that more attention could have been given to Indigenous politics and Fanon in North America. As I have suggested, Coulthard has made a solid contribution to this nexus and that foundation could certainly be built upon, and it would have blended well with the work of Abahlali baseMjondolo and the need for a decommodification of land.

Furthermore, although there was an essay on racial and class-based injustice in Trinidad and Tobago, a chapter on current events in the Caribbean would have been useful, especially given Fanon’s relationship to the area, particularly the French Caribbean. I would also like to have seen greater attention to the ongoing influence of Fanon in southern Africa. I know that this was neither a history nor a biography, and Gibson has commented significantly elsewhere on Fanon and South Africa, but the influence of Bantu Stephen Biko was tremendous, both in and out of the country. In the South African Communist Party, though they continue to maintain the idea of a two-stage revolution, there were individuals who had read and digested Fanon – Chris Hani for one. Further analysis of this in relationship to the neocolonial project of white monopoly capital would certainly have been welcomed. I would also have liked to read about what role, if any, Fanon has played on the political consciousness of Zambians and civil society, given their almost textbook experience with neocolonial relations, extractive commodity dependence, the wrath of international funders, the IMF’s Structural Adjustment forays and, most lately, crippling foreign debt to both China and Europe.

Finally, in light of the selfies, compromises, the self-serving displays of Clinton, Blair and Obama, and empty promises of COP26 in Glasgow, I think a discussion of Fanon and his impact on eco-socialism would have been of considerable merit and could also serve to engage a new field of activists, especially younger people. I believe that Fanon’s notions of consciousness raising, and healthy ego functioning, lend themselves directly to a green movement. I regard this as a missed opportunity in the book, especially when issues related to the alienation of land, the neocolonial extraction of resources and the psychosocial implications of environmental change for the rural poor and lumpenproletariat where themes raised throughout the book. Fanon can certainly inform the eco-socialist movement, by literally placing the person within their environment.

Still, Gibson’s volume is an excellent companion to Fanon’s works. It is not only suggestive of how one can read Fanon, but also how it can be applied in a transformative politics. The bibliographies accompanying many of the chapters provide the reader with specific area and topic guides.

Ultimately, though, the major point is that Fanon is still relevant sixty years after his death in 1961. As he wrote in The Wretched of the Earth “[e]ach generation must discover its mission, fulfill or betray it, in relative opacity”. Certainly, a much-needed call to action. Individuals continue to be subject to the daily pain of alienation, they experience the daily indignity of threats to their various and multiple experiences of well-being. Millions face very real threats to their survival, both physical and psychological. Despite the hope that existed in the late 1950s and early 1960s, decolonialization did not help people on the social, cultural, and economic margins of these newly “independent” nations. The national bourgeoisie mimicked their colonial masters and enriched themselves at the expense of the poor. The brutality simply took another form, and the exploitation continues apace.

Nigel Gibson and the other contributors to the book remind us that Fanon can help support the process of disalienation and promote opportunities for hope over fear; but this needs democratic relationships and the ability to listen. It also requires not only consciousness but the will to collectively act on that collective awareness. Following from this it requires organization. As suggested by Pavon-Cueller, “The still wretched of the earth need from their allied intellectuals the continued reading of Fanon in a militant, politically committed way, and not just for academic research or reflection” (p. 246). As the book constantly reminds us, we need Fanon to help animate the struggle so we can all breathe more freely and easily.

Nigel Gibson, ed., Fanon Today: Reason and Revolt of the Wretched of the Earth (Daraja Press 2021).

Timothy Wild is a social worker in Calgary, Canada. He has worked with the JCTR in Lusaka, Zambia and he is particularly interested in the intersection of community development and social policy.

Structural inequalities and the political economy of citizenship

By Baindu Kallon

Baindu Kallon reviews Robtel Neajai Pailey’s new book, Development, (Dual) Citizenship and Its Discontents in Africa, which looks at dual citizenship and unpacks the relationship between citizenship, identity and development in Liberia, Africa’s first Black republic. The issues in the book, Baindu argues, reflect the lasting legacies of structural inequalities and exclusion that have shaped Liberians both at home and abroad.

The discourse around dual citizenship, or being a national of more than one country, is often praised as a move towards progress. It recognises that people move and that their identities and feelings of belonging transcend borders while identifying dual citizenship as a tool for encouraging economic development in the homeland. There is an extensive body of research on diaspora finance, remittances and diaspora investments, and its impact on economic growth and stability. But is dual citizenship as transformational as it seems? Robtel Neajai Pailey’s book Development, (Dual) Citizenship and Its Discontents in Africa examines this question by unpacking the relationship between citizenship, identity and development in Liberia, Africa’s first Black republic. Through interviews and analysis of the political economy and history of Liberia, Pailey illustrates an “unresolved historical crisis of citizenship”, which impacts the effectiveness of dual citizenship as a solution to further Liberian development (123). Thus, the debate on dual citizenship is not just a question of identity nor is it only a potential avenue towards development. Rather it reflects the lasting legacies of structural inequalities and exclusion that have shaped Liberians both at home and abroad.

Reproducing inequalities? Citizenship for homelanders and the diaspora

The discourse around dual citizenship in Liberia came to the forefront in 2008. Four senators introduced a bill that would allow Liberians by birth and foreign-born children to retain two citizenships. The bill was controversial and has yet to be passed, making Liberia one of seven African countries that do not recognise dual citizenship. Pailey explores the controversy surrounding dual citizenship through the voices of homelanders in Liberia’s capital Monrovia and Liberians in the diaspora, specifically London (UK); Freetown (Sierra Leone); Accra (Ghana); Washington D.C. (United States). It’s important to note the inclusion of Accra and Freetown as locations where the Liberian diaspora reside. In scholarship on diasporas and migration, far too often the focus is on the migrant journey from the “Global South” to the “Global North”. This focus ignores the fact that south-south migration, within subregions, is much more prevalent (33). Thus, by adding the voices of Liberians in Freetown and Accra, Pailey challenges the mainstream narrative and addresses a critical gap in migration and diaspora studies.

Pailey interviews more than 200 Liberians, dispersing and analysing their opinions and experiences through the book. These interviews are a key strength of the book. Their insights anchor theories on citizenship into active practices and interactions that Liberians navigate. Action, in Pailey’s analysis, is viewed through the lens of development. This could include moving back home to rebuild Liberia after the country’s civil war (1989-2003), paying taxes to the Liberian government or engaging with diaspora organisations. Interaction refers to the role of the Liberian government and their engagement with citizens abroad and at home as well as citizen-citizen engagement. For the homelanders and those in the diaspora, the expression of citizenship is not only about legal entitlements and rights but also how this is translated into the practice of developing the country and interaction with the Liberian state.

The political economy of belonging

Pailey connects these markings of citizenship through the term the political economy of belonging. Coined by Pailey, the political economy of belonging views citizenship from three lenses: identity (passive), practice (active), and a set of relations (interactive). These actions are shaped by “a set of practices and interactions embodied in the life-worlds and social locations of actors in Liberia and across transnational spaces” (51). In other words, citizenship for Liberians is shaped by lived experiences and their location. This in turn impacts how they practice citizenship as well as their interactions with both the state and other citizens. These varying experiences come to head within the debate on dual citizenship.

The respondents’ life experiences and ability to practice citizenship is rooted in their socio-economic positions. With recent mass emigration and armed conflicts, the changes in socio-economic positions created “diametrically opposed” life experiences that reinforce broader structural inequalities (108). For example, some in the diaspora, specifically in Western countries, view dual citizenship as a means to further development, given their ability financially to invest in property, build businesses or engage directly with capacity building in Liberia. However, some homelanders argued that granting dual citizenship would further widen the gap between the rich and poor. This points to the issue of income inequality in post-conflict Liberia. Homelanders are paid by the government at much lower “local” rates versus the diaspora who have returned home. The varying experiences of Liberians also point to unequal access in terms of land tenure, as returnees aim to claim their abandoned land that homelanders have taken over. Often these varying socio-economic positions reflect and reinforce structural inequalities. This in turn shapes the dual citizenship debate from the perspective of those in the diaspora and homelanders.

Linking the discourse around citizenship to structural inequalities is important to note. As Pailey rightly points out, the conversation around dual citizenship is one about Human Rights in a globalised world where people are increasingly more mobile. While this is true, motivations behind migration journeys, as to why people move and who stays behind, are nuanced. Migration is also a question of one’s ability to travel, gender, social connections, finances – all of which are tied and reflected in the broader global inequalities. The discourse on dual citizenship and development often divorces it from the complexities of the relationship between global inequalities and migration. Failing to do so presents a narrow view of citizenship and it’s often from the perspective of the diasporas and development organisations in the West rather than the homelanders themselves. To grapple with the true impact of dual citizenship, the discourse must be grounded in a greater understanding of its relationship with structural inequalities.

Pailey explores what could be argued as a quite clear divide between homelanders and those in the diaspora, specifically based in London and Washington D.C. One group is for dual citizenship while the other is against it. Yet less discussed in this conversation are the experiences of those based in the “near” diasporas of Accra and Freetown. For them, the conversation is more nuanced. Pailey touches on the reasons why briefly – ranging from the fluidity of identity between Sierra Leoneans and Liberians to the fact that many Liberians in Accra and Freetown are registered as refugees. Given this, what does the experience of being a refugee mean in terms of citizenship and belonging? Would the “near” diaspora, specifically those who are not refugees, benefit from dual citizenship or also further raise tensions between homelanders. For Pailey, these questions fall outside of the scope of the book, given the fact that those based in Western countries are much more likely to be engaged in development via government institutions and external donors. However, given the need for a greater understanding of the experiences of migrants in the Global South, a deeper examination of citizenship and identity for those in the “near” diasporas is much needed.

A history of conflict and post-war development

Citizenship, and its connection to socio-economic inequalities, can be identified through Liberia’s history – from the founding of the nation-state by Black settlers to post-war contestation over income, land tenure and transitional justice. As Liberia transitioned from a country of immigration to emigration so did the configuration of citizenship for Liberians. Initially, with the arrival of the Black settlers, citizenship was passive. It was conditional and “excluded all non-blacks and most indigenous, women, and non-Christians” who predominantly resided outside of the capital (113). With the rise of Charles Taylor in the 1990s, citizenship became active through protest and ultimately armed conflict. Rural spaces previously excluded from citizenship took arms to unseat “an elitist urban leadership made of autocrats” (126). Within this transition from passive to active is the underlying political, social and economic inequalities that were reinforced through citizenship. It created “tiers of citizenship”, life experiences shaped by structural inequalities, which carry through to post-war Liberia today (113).

With post-war reconstruction came the return of those from the diaspora, as many transnational Liberians took positions of power in the government. Pailey refers to this dominance of Liberians from abroad in homeland policies as a ‘diaspocracy’ (199). In neoliberal development practice and policy, returnees are seen as a positive force for change and development. Members of the diaspora coming home are “experts” and can help “recommit Liberia to the peripheral capitalist path to development” (182). Often this development path is driven by international organisations and NGOs, and it has so far generated little in terms of  improving the lives of the ordinary Liberians. While some repatriates challenge this neoliberal development, many actively support it, though it may well prove detrimental for the country. As noted throughout the book, returnees can often be out of touch with the conditions and needs of homelanders. Given this, the policies and initiatives pushed, in line with external post-war development programmes, often do not reflect the domestic realities. With a lack of homelanders involved in the government, the viewpoints from the ground are often lost when creating a national agenda, leading to mixed outcomes  from development initiatives.

Additionally, the return of the diaspora gives rise to “a new political elite…” (201). Some homelanders felt that this new political class invalidated their professional experiences and knowledge “thus resulting in low levels of motivation and outputs” (202). On the one hand, the divide between homelanders and returnees reinforces the power imbalances that helped spur Liberia’s armed conflicts in the first place. Again, tiers of citizenship emerge within the political sphere as one group is valued and prioritised over another. On the other hand, it also reflects a broader, global perspective that prioritises knowledge from those in the West, and subsequently places it at a higher value whether through coveted government positions, compensation or more. In development discourse, there are growing calls to “decolonise” the sector through localisation, a way to enable communities to lead development efforts. Yet localisation perpetuates the same colonial system, one where expertise, funding and knowledge continue to be concentrated with the Western-educated elites, rather than adapting to those closely linked to local realities.

What does it mean to be a citizen?

Who gets to claim Liberian citizenship? Is it the returnee from London, the Liberian with refugee status in Accra or the homelander living in Monrovia? Pailey unpacks the debate of dual citizenship by sharing the life stories of Liberians at home and abroad (read a recent interview with Pailey on roape.net here). Their narratives reflect the broader structures of development, inequalities and post-war nation-building. Doing so outlines how citizenship can be a tool for post-conflict development as well as a vehicle to reinforce inequalities. For a continent that too often sees its conflicts and subsequent post-conflict solutions reduced to regional, ethnic or religious identities, Pailey’s book is a refreshing and nuanced take on post-war peacebuilding. It illustrates that citizenship is not just a question of identity, nor is it a stagnant set of legal rights and privileges. Instead, it is constantly reconstructed and renegotiated through life experiences of Liberians that are shaped by the structural inequalities that impact the country and more broadly the African continent today.

Baindu Kallon holds a MA in African Studies from SOAS and has a keen interest in economic development and migration policy in West Africa. Baindu is a community activist and works with black creatives in the UK. 

Featured Photograph: Built in 1957, the Capitol Building in Monrovia is the seat of the country’s bicameral legislature (David Stanley, 12 March 2012).

China’s spatial fix and Africa’s debt reckoning

Ahead of the Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC), Tim Zajontz looks at the immense amounts of debt African governments owe Chinese lenders. This debt is central to capitalist accumulation and financial extraction from the African continent. Zajontz argues that Chinese capital is now pivotal to the global circuit of capital and China, just like other creditors, uses debt for the conquest of Africa and its resources.

By Tim Zajontz

From 29-30 November, the Forum on China-Africa Cooperation (FOCAC) will gather for the first time since the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic at the ministerial level. While the official narrative around the 8th FOCAC meeting in Dakar reiterates ‘win-win cooperation’ (合作共赢) and promises to ‘Deepen China-Africa Partnership and Promote Sustainable Development to Build a China-Africa Community with a Shared Future in the New Era’, the unburdened enthusiasm that once surrounded high-level FOCAC meetings is long gone. Particularly, the immense amounts of debt that some African governments owe Chinese lenders have become a delicate issue affecting Africa-China relations. Several African governments are currently negotiating with creditors and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) how to restructure and manage their debts. It is clear now that, after a decade of unfettered lending from Chinese and non-Chinese creditors, the post-pandemic ‘payback period’ will come at immense social costs. Africa’s debt owed to China will therefore be high up on the agenda of in camera meetings between African and Chinese officials in Dakar.

Even before the Covid-19 pandemic added urgency to the matter, China’s rise to become the world’s largest bilateral creditor, holding 57% of low-income countries’ bilateral debt in 2020, has caused controversies in African capitals and beyond. Chinese overseas lending has been infamously branded as ‘debt trap diplomacy’ and politically instrumentalised by the Trump administration and other hypocrites in the West. The latter have been quick to accuse China of leveraging its influence in Africa through loans, whilst they have usually remained entirely silent regarding the complicity of Western capital in the systematic underdevelopment of the continent. There have since been commendable research efforts to demystify the ‘debt trap’ narrative and to shed light (especially by means of more reliable data) on a topic that is complicated by the opacity pertaining to African debt exposure to China. Accordingly, the China-Africa Project, a news outlet covering Africa-China relations, has recently put to rest the narrative of a ‘Chinese debt trap diplomacy’.

In a recent article in ROAPE, I reflect on the scholarly debate on debt in the rapidly growing field of China-Africa studies and call for a critical research agenda which problematises the function of debt in late capitalism and calls into question dominant development paradigms and policies that have sustained Africa’s financial dependency. According to World Bank figures, the external debt stock of ‘Sub-Saharan Africa’ has more than doubled throughout the 2010s, from $305 billion in 2010 to $705 billion in 2020.

After highly indebted African states had seen debt write-offs under multilateral debt relief initiatives in the 2000s, Africa’s current debt cycle commenced against the background of the ‘commodities super cycle’ and related ‘Africa rising’ narratives. African governments, now with relatively clean balance sheets, rushed onto global capital markets, and increasingly to Chinese policy banks, to sign bonds, loans and export credits. Debt accumulation in Africa has since been further fuelled by the now hegemonic paradigm of ‘infrastructure-led development’, which, as described by Seth Schindler and J. Miguel Kanai, is promoted by a ‘global growth coalition’ that advocates ‘financing and financializing infrastructure’ to get African ‘territories right’ for their seamless integration into global markets.

Much of the scholarly debate around African debt owed to China has been focused on providing an evidence-based corrective to the ‘debt trap narrative’ – doubtlessly a commendable effort. However, we must not risk reducing debt to its discourse but expose its centrality to capitalist accumulation generally and financial extraction from the African continent in particular. Just like capital, debt is a social relation marked by asymmetrical material relations and power differentials between debtor and lender. As Tim Di Muzio and Richard Robbins argue in Debt as Power, ‘debt within capitalist modernity is a social technology of power […]. In capitalism, the prevailing logic is the logic of differential accumulation, and given that debt instruments far outweigh equity instruments, we can safely claim that interest-bearing debt is the primary way in which economic inequality is generated as more money is redistributed to creditors.’ It is primarily the asymmetry inherent to the debt relationship and resultant power differentials – not only the politicised ‘debt trap’ narrative, flawed and problematic as it is – that have made it increasingly difficult for the Chinese government to sustain official narratives that suggest the horizontality of relations between China and the global South.

Chinese (state) capital is now pivotal to the global circuit of capital and, just like other creditors, employs the social technology of debt in Africa and elsewhere. The massive increase in Chinese overseas lending over the last two decades has been central to efforts to address chronic overaccumulation within the Chinese economy through what David Harvey called ‘spatio-temporal fixes’, the geographical expansion and temporal deferral (for instance by means of debt financing) of surplus capital. China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) has become the superstructure to organise a series of such ‘fixes’ and the African continent – in line with the logic of uneven geographical development that is inherent to capitalism – a welcome outlet for Chinese surplus materials and finance capital.

It is now clear that several African governments have overextended themselves by taking on unsustainable amounts of loan financing (both from Chinese and non-Chinese sources). While Chinese lenders have been lenient to reschedule debt payments amidst the Covid-19 pandemic, African governments cannot expect blanket debt forgiveness from Beijing. China’s current spatio-temporal fixes need to see returns eventually.

As the IMF is yet again visiting Addis Ababa, Lusaka, and Nairobi to resurrect fiscal discipline and to ensure debtor compliance for the post-pandemic payback period, it is high time to acknowledge that periodic cycles of debt financing, debt distress and structural adjustment are systemic features of Africa’s integration into the global capitalist economy. It seems apposite to remember Thomas Sankara who – three months before his assassination in 1987 – argued that, ‘controlled and dominated by imperialism, debt is a skilfully managed reconquest of Africa, intended to subjugate its growth and development’. At the time, several African countries had plunged into severe debt crises which paved the way for externally ‘prescribed’ structural adjustment programmes and heralded the era of disciplinary neoliberalism, long before the latter ravaged capitalist heartlands.

Today, three and a half decades after Sankara’s famous speech at the Summit of the Organisation of African Unity, history appears to repeat itself, as Africa is yet again grappling with ‘the issue of debt’. It remains to be seen whether this time around African leaders can form the ‘united front against debt’ that Sankara called for in 1987. The upcoming FOCAC ministerial meeting in Dakar will give a first indication to this effect.

Tim’s article in ROAPE, ‘Debt, distress, dispossession: towards a critical political economy of Africa’s financial dependency’ is available to access for free until the end of December.

Tim Zajontz is a lecturer in International Relations at the University of Freiburg, Germany, as well as a research fellow in the Centre for International and Comparative Politics at Stellenbosch University, South Africa. @TZajontz

Featured Photograph: Chinese President Xi Jinping walks with former South African President Jacob Zuma to the Union Buildings in Pretoria (2 December, 2014).

Social Policy in Africa: The root causes of social problems

Anna Wolkenhauer commends a new book, Social Policy in the African Context, edited by ROAPE’s Jimi Adesina, which rescues social policy from the assault of neoliberalism by carving out the necessary space for sovereign and transformative policymaking that can tackle the “root causes” of social problems. With its timely and important intervention into the debates on radical social policy in Africa, this collection, she argues, contributes a significant step forward.

By Anna Wolkenhauer

Achieving socio-economic equality and development is an unfinished project on the African continent. While grand visions exist, many national and global initiatives remain piecemeal and palliative, certainly since the neoliberal turn. Although the reigning dominant doctrine for development includes a concern for welfare, much social policymaking has been criticised for being too narrowly concerned with poverty reduction and thus insufficient for making a significant dent in existing power relations. Especially in a development context, however, social policy must address the larger picture by connecting issues of production, reproduction and protection, as Thandika Mkandawire has so powerfully argued. He called for acknowledging and fostering the transformative potential of social policy, and his intellectual legacy is a gift in the continuing pursuit of transformation on the continent. After his death on 27 March last year, it now falls to his long-time companions as well as the new generation of scholars to keep the agenda alive. The volume reviewed in this blogpost, edited by ROAPE’s Jimi O. Adesina and published by CODESRIA in August this year, is dedicated to Thandika and his vision – it makes for a worthy tribute.

The professed aim of Social Policy in an African Context is to rescue social policy from the assault of neoliberalism by carving out the necessary intellectual space for sovereign and transformative policymaking that is able to tackle the “root causes” of social problems, as Adesina argues. Indeed, the book argues that visionary policies require intellectual grounding, reflection, and innovation; scholarship that conceptually expands the universe of thinkable strategies and empirically interrogates the appropriateness and effectiveness of social interventions. The book is based on the Social Policy in Africa conference of 2017 (which takes place bi-annually, again on 22-24 November, 2021) and assembles a total of 14 chapters, which study social policy in a variety of country contexts and fields. While each would merit a thorough review on its own, I will concentrate on what I consider the key overriding insights that the contributions collectively produce. Overall, the book constitutes an important step forward for critical social policy scholarship but also demonstrates that there remains a lot left to be done not only in formulating emancipatory visions but also in understanding better the impoverished form of social policy that we are up against.

What becomes more than clear throughout this volume is the importance of adopting a long-term view on social policy and seeing it as part and parcel of the ongoing project of decolonisation, development, and nation-building, as Tade Akin Aina argues in the second chapter of the book: “Africa needs to move towards sustainable, inclusive and democratic development more than ever before” (p. 13). Social policy develops over the longue durée; welfare states need to be negotiated and borne by all relevant social forces: governments, formal and informal workers, and society at large. In Africa, this process has been cut short, and the current focus on social policy must be seen as a return to what had essentially started at independence. As Katja Hujo argues in chapter three, the formation of social policy systems began long ago but was “aborted prematurely, with the state losing its steering and coordinating function in both social and economic policy” (p. 35). I see this and Aina’s claim that “the aims of the African project remain fundamentally unchanged yet unfulfilled over the past five decades” (p. 20) to be very much in line with how Thandika Mkandawire spoke about “Africa rising” some years ago, emphasising that the growth at the time was actually a recovery from the recession that structural adjustment had produced during Africa’s “lost decades”. In this unfinished recovery, social policy has a vital role to play.

A comparison with welfare states in other parts of the world, even though they have developed in different political moments, illustrates that welfare state building takes time. German health insurance, for example, has been scaled up over many decades until it covered all professions and citizens. In the book, Augustine I. Omoruan uses the German, Thai and Rwandan examples to understand why the Nigerian health insurance scheme is not achieving its goal of universal coverage. Having been developed as a response to the negative consequences of privatising healthcare during the 1980s and 1990s, the challenges for the scheme are manifold, including a large rural population, lack of solidarity, inadequate resource mobilisation, the fragmentation of the scheme itself, and the lack of cross-financing with other schemes. The cross-country comparison shows how these challenges might be tackled but also that strategic policy learning and consistency will be key.

Linking social policy and employment, despite wide-spread informal working relationships, is one aspect of the transformative agenda, according to Katja Hujo. She holds that this will require strengthening the bargaining position of informal workers and ensuring that both sectors become interlinked within the construction of a welfare state. She also reminds us that, ultimately, social policy cannot be divorced from economic policies, not least because widening the resource base through economic diversification will be one important component in ensuring sustainable social policy financing.

The importance of thinking about social and economic policies in tandem is highlighted in two chapters that focus on agriculture, a field of growing importance. Clement Chipenda makes clear, based on his research in Zimbabwe, that social protection gains in effectiveness when preceded by the redistribution of land. The Fast.Track Land Reform provided a way for farmers to become food secure by enabling them to build granaries, it provided them with shelter, allowed them to have family gardens and to keep livestock. Where coupled with the provision of farming inputs, the benefits could be exploited even more effectively. Yet, there is often a tendency to prevent the same households from benefiting under more than one scheme, which runs the risk of missing out on important synergy effects. Newman Tekwa then drives the point home that land reform alone, if not coupled with other services, can only achieve so much, and might even have adverse effects, for instance when women need to off-set the “shortfall that results from the deficient provision of social infrastructure” (p. 81).

Aligning social with other policies requires state capacity, and in many places, this, too, needs to be re-built. The chapter by Marion Ouma and Jimi O. Adesina shows not only that state actors are often aware of the need for seeing social policy as part of a larger developmental process, but also that the state is often side-lined by donors who promote specific social policy models based on their own interests. Their discussion substantiates the importance of carving out that space for sovereign policymaking, which will require capacity at all levels of the state. Moreover, social policy not only requires administrative capacity, it also must rest on a broader sense of community and solidarity. At the macro-level, such nation-building has historically been one of the overriding aims that social policy was meant to serve.

Ndangwa Noyoo and Emmanuel Boon make this very clear in their comparison of Zambia and Ghana, where equity and delivering economic growth for everyone were part of decolonisation and development. Kaunda and Nkrumah invested in manufacturing, agriculture as well as universal social services to lend credibility to the new nations. Without idealising either of the two leaders, the authors argue that what had been set in motion after independence could well hold important lessons going forward.

While nation-building seems like an abstract endeavour, I would hold that it ultimately boils down to creating structures of solidarity, belonging, and mutual support at the micro level. The chapter by Kolawole Omomowo and Jimi O. Adesina on communal mutual support structures in two South African townships, demonstrates very well how social policy can contribute to a sense of community. They argue that theself-help groups (e.g., credit and savings associations) in their two case-studies, which combine economic rationality and social values, should be seen as “a reservoir of organic praxis that could inform the broad planning of collective consumption to foster social wellbeing” (p. 182).

Similarly, in their chapter on farming cooperatives in Ethiopia, Kristie Drucza and Dagmawit Giref Sahile present the different forms of social capital that accrue from these groups. They find that while informal groups are declining, formal, state-registered ones are multiplying, and suggest that this might have to do with the specific advantages that connections to the state bring, such as access to inputs. Yet, they hold, top-down initiated structures should take customs and local values seriously and learn from grown informal arrangements.

Informal social protection arrangements deserve special discussion in the African context, given how long communities needed to cope without inclusion in formal schemes. As suggested by some of the book’s contributors, they can offer very valuable insights into what types of social policies work for people in real-life situations. But non-state actors, as Jonathan Makuwira makes clear, not only provide social services but also play important advocacy roles. He draws on examples from Malawi, Ethiopia, and South Africa, where non-state actors successfully lobbied for disability-inclusiveness, adult and non-formal education, and access to comprehensive AIDS prevention and treatment services, respectively, to argue that social policy development is ultimately a political process.

This view presents social protection as a human right that must be guided by universality, justice, democracy, and empowerment, as Hujo spells out; a point that is further underlined by Marlize Rabe’s study of gender relations in South Africa. Rabe describes how the importance of the mining sector in the country has historically contributed to men being disconnected from their families and care work, as well as to dominant notions of masculinity. These notions of masculinity ascribe men with ideas of being the main breadwinner, which exerts additional stress when these expectations are impossible to fulfil. So, social protection, she argues, needs to address these perceptions, too, and cites the example of an NGO that works towards changing gender perceptions and practices among people living in impoverished areas.

This example and other contributions demonstrate that social policy evolution still requires a better understanding of social problems. One of the drivers for social policy is inequality, but this concept is far from straight-forward, as Boaz Munga shows. Focussing on the Kenyan case, he compares the much-used Gini coefficient, the Atkinson and Theil indices, and the Palma index that is based on decomposing for income deciles. The latter addresses the problem that the Gini coefficient tends to gloss over changes at the bottom and top of the income distribution. He then shows the importance of regional variation that has to inform social policymaking. When looking at expenditure shares per decile over time and then disaggregating this for rural and urban households in Kenya, for example, it becomes clear that between 1994 and 2005-06, the expenditure share of the top decile in urban areas increased considerably more (from 23 to 42 percent) while that of the top decile in rural areas fell (from 30 to 26 percent). Practically, this means that addressing inequality within urban areas would be most effective for reducing inequality overall and becoming alert to growing shares of income held by the top decile, I would add, can be one important political lever to put the sustainable financing of social policies back on the agenda – another component of the transformative framework.

Looking at a very different problem, Walid Merouani, Nacer-Eddine Hammouda and Claire El Moudde also demonstrate the practical impact that research could make. Based on survey data, they show that social insurance uptake in Algeria is impeded by future-discounting behaviour and a lack of knowledge about existing social insurance schemes. They then derive practical suggestions such as coupling social insurance with more immediate benefits like child support and call for improving the visibility of the schemes. In addition, this and other chapters exemplify how worthwhile it is to focus on people’s own perspectives. Taking the knowledge, experiences and perceptions of communities seriously will make policies more effective.

To end my review on a slightly critical note, the book could have benefited from a deeper empirical unpacking of what is referred to as the “narrow” or “neoliberal” version of social policy. Katja Hujo states clearly that this version is characterised by “endorsing rather than questioning mainstream orthodox economic recipes and ignoring unequal power relations”, and often appears through targeted conditional cash transfers and privatised social services. But she also points out that the structural adjustment period had not fully resolved the role of social policy, even after the “social turn” had taken hold. Given that the neoliberal response to social problems is far from being a thing of the past, and that the covid crisis and economic recession might even be revitalising the risk approach to social protection, the criticism voiced in this book (and elsewhere) seems to be directed at a moving target. Although several chapters nuance our understanding of it indirectly – as having individualising effects (Omomowo’s and Adesina’s chapter); segregating social schemes for different groups (Omoruan’s chapter); avoiding redistributing the means of production (Chipenda’s chapter); and being blind to underlying societal hierarchies (see Rabe’s chapter), I would argue that we need more work directed at understanding its many faces. We need to interrogate the present moment with its new and complicated economic, political, environmental, and ideological challenges, while picking up the threads of building transformative social policy on the continent. With its timely and important intervention into the debates on radical social policy in Africa, this collection contributes a significant step forward.

Jimi O. Adesina (ed) Social Policy in the African Context (Dakar: CODESRIA, 2021).

Anna Wolkenhauer is a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Bremen, Germany. She wrote her PhD thesis on state formation and social policy in Zambia and has been involved with social protection advocacy in the SADC region since 2014. @AnnaWolke0201

Featured Photograph: Community action in Valhalla Park (Cape Town), South Africa (Lindsay Mgbor, 12 February 2013). 

African Feminisms – a decolonial history: an interview with Rama Salla Dieng

In her new book African Feminisms – a decolonial history, the Senegalese scholar-activist Rama Salla Dieng interviews feminist activists about their work, struggles and lives. Interviewed by Coumba Kane, Dieng speaks about what it means to be a feminist in Africa today.    

Coumba Kane: Your essay sketches a mosaic of feminisms across Africa and its diasporas. What do they have in common? 

Rama Salla Dieng: The fight against patriarchy is obviously at the heart of their struggles, but many interviewees also attack state powers accused of perpetuating political violence inherited from colonialism. This struggle is embodied, for example, in the figure of Stella Nyanzi, a Ugandan anthropologist and feminist, imprisoned for several months in 2017 for having published a poem lambasting President Museveni in power for thirty-five years.

My interviewees not only seek to stand up against those in power, but rather to find forms of creativity to embody their struggles and realize their feminist aspirations. They are no longer trying to convince us of their humanity. Hence the importance they attach to art, solidarity, revolutionary love and the right to pleasure.

I have also been particularly struck by the emphasis on mental health. It is a central notion for these activists. Unlike the former generation, they politicize the question of ‘rest’, like the Egyptian Yara Sallam.

We should also be aware of the divisions that exist within African feminist movements. Where are they located, for example? 

First of all, we must note the strong pan-African dimension of feminist organizations on the continent. In 2006, a hundred activists gathered in Accra, Ghana, drew up a Charter of Feminist Principles for African Feminists with the aim of converging their struggle against patriarchy. There are also transnational alliances that bring together different organizations, such as the African Women’s Development and Communication Network (FEMNET) and the African Women’s Development Fund (AWDF) based in Ghana.

But it is clear that today various feminist currents are not at the same point and, sometimes, controversies erupt between them. A few years ago, a Kenyan feminist in an online post taunted activists in Francophone Africa on the grounds that they would limit their fights only to the domestic sphere and to male-female relations. This had sparked a lively controversy.

In Senegal, for example, traditional feminist movements are fighting for the revision of the Family Code [which regulates marriage, divorce, succession, and custody rights] and the recognition of equal rights between men and women, in accordance with the Constitution. Their fight is also focuses on the application of parity and the rights over their own bodies, including abortion.

On the other hand, in Ghana, Kenya and South Africa, feminists interviewed make sexuality and the right to pleasure a key issue today. This work that has been undertaken by the Ghanaian Nana Darkoa, author of The Sex Lives of African Women  and the South African queer activist Tiffany Kagure Mugo who published in 2020 a guide to good sex, The Quirky Quick Guide to Having Great Sex.

You evoke a current of African feminism which essentializes the woman as mother. How did this emerge? 

In 1995, when the Nigerian Catherine Acholonu theorized “motherhood ” it was about bringing out an “Afrocentric alternative ” to Western feminism. In this work, marriage appears as an ideal of conjugality. Catherine Acholonu moreover proclaimed herself openly homophobic.

These women do not campaign for gender equality, but for the “complementarity” between men and women in society. This reactionary feminism promotes the idea that parenthood is solely the business of women. It reinforces the mental burden that weighs on mothers in the home and in society. It is still a dominant idea on the continent. My own work on feminist parenting in Africa, conducted with André O’Reilly, demonstrates the urgency of repoliticizing this central issue in order to transform African societies and establish social justice.

Some countries are faced with the resurgence of religious fundamentalisms, Muslim or Christian, and the shrinking of civic spaces. At the same time, a new generation of feminists is emerging, often speaking up on social media. What is their room for manoeuvre in this conservative context? 

It is narrow, but it exists thanks to social networks which constitute pockets of resistance. For example, in Senegal, feminists are at the forefront of the fight against Jamra, a powerful religious NGO that regularly attacks women’s clothing or television series deemed immoral.

In this ultra-patriarchal context, these activists managed to get around one of the most significant concepts of Senegalese society, the maslah, “respectability”. In their online campaigns, they use strong terms to say what cannot be said in the face. It is a way of discrediting a fundamentalist discourse, Christian or Muslim, which regularly goes on the offensive against the rights of women and sexual minorities.

Nevertheless, can this online activism concretely impact society? Isn’t it disconnected from the realities on the ground, particularly because of the profile of these urban activists, as highly educated and well connected?  

Indeed, the older generation of feminists often reproaches the younger ones for falling into “clicktivism”. However, both forms of activism – on the ground and online – are effective.

In 2020, in Nigeria, feminists played a major role in the #EndSars movement against police violence, by mobilizing internet users to protest. Likewise in Senegal, earlier this year, feminists played a crucial role by disseminating the hashtag #FreeSenegal during the mobilization against the regime. Some of them occupy a central place in raising awareness of feminist issues via social networks, like the feminist association AWA.

Moreover, being active online does not necessary protect an activist against violence. Like the previous generation, these feminists pay the price for their commitment and suffer insults and harassment.

These feminist movements also campaign for the appointment of women to political office. In Senegal, parity has been imposed on the National Assembly since 2010. The massive presence of women in politics has, however, not made it possible to impose a feminist agenda. How do you explain it? 

This is one of the Senegalese paradoxes studied by academics Aminata Diaw and Fatou Sow. These researchers found that when women join political parties, they are relegated to the background, tasked with mobilizing the female electorate and organizing political action for the benefit of men. This gendered work coupled with the feeling of illegitimacy and lack of financial means undoubtedly hampers women.

Among the few known African female figures, we often cite heroines or queens like Aline Sitoe Diatta, heroine of the Senegalese resistance to colonization, or Queen Nzinga in Angola, as if to prove that Africa has also produced powerful women.

Absolutely. But there is an urgent need to write an African feminist historiography which is interested in the “silences” of history and not only in the history of the powerful men and women. The history of resistance and African advances is also that of ordinary women. It is this feminism from below that must be revealed and told. Just as it is urgent to decompartmentalize knowledge and learn from the practices and thoughts of feminists who are active today.

Africa has also had its feminisms and it does not owe them to the West. It is this work of recognition that academics outside the continent are undertaking, to bring out of the shadows pioneers like Suzanne Césaire, Paulette Nardal or Andrée Blouin who have long been unrecognized despite their essential contribution to decolonial struggles.

You quote Françoise Moudouthe, a Cameroonian activist, who believes “that Afrofeminism carried out by black women outside the continent does not make enough efforts to connect with the African feminist movement”. How do you explain this?   

Divisions in feminist movements are a constant. Some in Africa question the use of the term “afro” by those of the diaspora, as if, due to their geographic remoteness, they cannot claim a link with the continent.

In this sense, Afro-feminism can appear to be disconnected from African realities. However, it should be noted that the Afro-feminists, although delimiting their space of struggle to the Global North where they live, very often remain in solidarity with the struggles carried out by their African sisters. In the end, each feminist speaks from where she lives, finds her voice and develops her own struggles.

Rama Salla Dieng is the editor of the newly released Féminismes africains, une histoire décoloniale (Paris: Présence Africaine, 2021).

Rama Salla Dieng, is a Senegalese writer, academic and activist. She is currently a Lecturer in African and International Development at the Centre of African Studies, University of Edinburgh. Rama is also a feminist activist who has collaborated with several feminist organisations on agrarian change, gender and development, and social reproduction.  She is editor of the anthology on Re-thinking Feminist Parenting: Perspectives from Africa and Beyond (Onterio: Demeter Press, 2020.

A version of this interview was published in Le Monde as ‘L’Afrique a aussi eu ses féminismes et elle ne le doit pas à l’Occident’ on 7 November, 2021. Translated by Leo Zeilig.

The workers’ movement, revolution and counter-revolution in Egypt

Mostafa Bassiouny and Anne Alexander explain that discussions of the Egyptian Revolution in 2011 rarely mention the workers’ movement, focusing instead on the idea of a social media-fuelled youth rebellion. In a long-read they argue that any attempt to understand the course of the revolution must necessarily grapple with the role of the workers’ movement.

By Mostafa Bassiouny and Anne Alexander

Directly after the downfall of Mubarak on 11 February 2011, workers’ struggles appeared as an independent factor in the revolutionary process, distinct from the youth of Tahrir Square or social media activists or even the political forces opposing the regime. Despite the exit of protesters from Tahrir and increasing calls on Egyptians by prominent political figures for them to ‘return to work’, and ‘restart the wheel of production’, millions of workers transmitted the revolution into their workplaces.[1] Fierce battles against ‘the remnants of the regime’ spread throughout government institutions and across the public and private sectors.[2] These strikes and protests continued the wave of workers’ struggles which had begun before the fall of Mubarak, spreading to the subsidiaries of the Suez Canal Company, the Public Transport Authority in Cairo, Post Offices, government institutions, military production factories, media institutions belonging to the regime and other workplaces between 6 and 11 February.

The extension of the revolutionary struggle to the workplace challenged efforts by reformist forces, whether Islamist or liberal, to confine the meaning of ‘revolution’ within the limits of constitutional reform and the development of electoral mechanisms. Through their struggles to ‘cleanse the institutions’ workers discovered the impossibility of separating the political struggle against the former ruling party from the struggle for social justice.[3]

Sometimes this discovery led to radical results: for example, in Manshiyet al-Bakri Hospital in Cairo, workers threw out the director and elected a new one, and strove to put in place mechanisms of direct rather than representative democracy, thus improving patient care. Cairo Airport workers forced the recruitment of a civilian director for the first time (as opposed to one from the military), and local government workers in Alexandria sacked an unelected general from his post as leader of the neighbourhood council. Teachers organized one of the biggest strikes in Egyptian history in September 2011, not only to improve their own pay and conditions but also to reform the curriculum and to end the burden of private lessons falling on citizens.[4] These examples point to the importance of ‘reciprocal action’ between the economic and the political aspects of the class struggle, as Rosa Luxemburg outlined in The Mass Strike.

This blog-post argues that this process of reciprocal action played a pivotal role in the development of the revolutionary process in Egypt. It also argues that a way to understand the counter-revolution is to see it as reciprocal action in reverse, where the political aspect of the class struggle tends towards the reproduction of tyranny and the mechanisms of repression and exploitation, as could be seen in Egypt from the autumn of 2012 onwards.

The rise of a mass political movement and its roots

The beginning of the Egyptian movement in solidarity with the Second Palestinian Intifada (uprising) in 2000 may well be the appropriate point from which to trace the events which would culminate in the revolution in January 2011. This is for two reasons. Firstly, because the flowering of a solidarity movement with Palestine came after a long period of apathy in the Egyptian street, during which forms of social and political protest had noticeably retreated, while the regime used the rhetoric of ‘fighting terrorism’ to control the opposition and prevent demonstrations. The second reason is the geographical spread and timescale of the movement in support of the Palestinian Intifada, which involved universities, schools, political parties and professional associations, and which organized street protests across many provinces, expanding participation beyond the political elites to popular areas. The movement’s wide geographical spread and extended timespan over three years between September 2000 and March 2003 presented an excellent opportunity to develop organizational mechanisms, drawing new generations of young people into political activity.

The Palestine solidarity movement also paved the way for the movement opposing the American war on Iraq, through the connections built between political forces and the professional unions, which had interacted in order to support the Palestinian Intifada. The protest movement against the US invasion of Iraq in 2003 was a turning point in the development of political mobilization in the Egyptian street for two reasons. Firstly, it involved a very successful mass mobilization, especially at the outbreak of war on 20–21 March. The call by the Coalition Against the Invasion of Iraq for demonstrations at the beginning of the aggression was answered by very large numbers, with thousands demonstrating in Tahrir Square in Cairo at the first hours of the invasion. The demonstrations only ended when the security forces broke them up violently at night. On the following day, which was a Friday, demonstrations began after prayers at several mosques, the largest taking place at Al-Azhar. Although the security forces attempted to disperse them, some protesters managed to reach the outskirts of Tahrir Square, where the security forces again broke up the protest and arrested a large number of people. The regime’s response then reached new levels of violence: the security forces blocked the entrance to Al-Azhar on 21 March and flooded the courtyard with tear gas, arresting large numbers of worshippers who were trying to protest. This level of violence underlined the importance of a struggle for democracy and the opening of a public space for protest and political action.

Increasing signs that Gamal Mubarak would succeed his father as president during 2004 made the project of democratic reform all the more urgent and led to the formation of coalitions demanding democracy and rejecting the inheritance of power. The most significant of these was the Egyptian Movement for Change (Kifaya), which was formed in December 2004. In addition, other movements emerged, most importantly Youth for Change, Artists and Writers for Change and Journalists for Change.

Towards a new workers’ movement

At the end of 2006, the emergence of a new workers’ movement shifted the balance in the struggle for change in Egypt. A strike by textile workers at the public sector Misr Spinning plant in al-Mahalla al-Kubra in December 2006 can be considered the beginning of a new phase in the movement for change. Founded in the 1930s, Misr Spinning is one of the largest spinning and weaving companies in Egypt; the struggles of its workers had become a reference point for the Egyptian labour movement.

There had been continuous workers’ protests during the years preceding December 2006, including important strikes such as those in the cement industry, the textile sector, the railways and elsewhere. However, the strike by the Mahalla workers in December 2006 marked the onset of a different trajectory in workers’ struggles, brought about by qualitative changes which could be considered marking the rise of a new workers’ movement. The workers at Misr Spinning in al-Mahalla began their strike on 7 December 2006, demanding payment of their annual bonuses, as specified by law for public sector firms. The strike followed a week-long ‘pay strike’ where workers had refused to cash their pay cheques in protest at the company’s failure to add the annual bonus to their pay. This was the biggest workers’ protest in terms of numbers involved since the protests by workers in the Kafr al-Dawwar Spinning Company in al-Beheira governorate in September 1994, which had ended in a clash with security forces. The Misr Spinning strike continued from 7 December to 16 December and ended with negotiations that led to some of the workers’ demands being met. This was in itself a transformation in the way that the state dealt with workers’ protests.

The ending of the Misr Spinning strike without violence by the security forces, and the meeting of some of the workers’ demands, dispelled the fears that had been created by the experience of earlier protests, in which workers had been fired upon and killed, detained or lost their jobs. Workers’ understanding that the state’s response had changed triggered a wave of industrial action in a variety of sectors: going on strike became an everyday activity in Egypt. Strikes were also of a longer duration than they had previously been.

There are multiple reasons for this change in the behaviour of the security forces. The most important was the liberalization of the media which was taking place in this period, which allowed the news of the strike to spread more quickly. At the same time, the security forces were hesitant about direct attacks on protesters in the face of online solidarity campaigns and increased media coverage both inside and outside the country. The authorities were also divided on how to deal with strikes, as a result of contradictions and conflicts between the regime’s own labour organization, the Egyptian Trade Union Federation (ETUF), and the Ministry of Labour.

The lengthening duration of workers’ protests during this period provided a new opportunity to develop organisationally. Workers had to protect equipment and buildings from sabotage and supply provisions during their protests. Likewise, negotiations required choosing representatives. This organizational development produced negotiations committees, organizing committees, protest leaders, provisions committees and security committees. These would lay the foundations for the future development of independent trade unions, beginning with the Property Tax Collectors’ Union, which was founded in December 2008.

The new workers’ movement was also characterized by the wide participation of women, to a much higher degree than in previous worker mobilizations. The 2006 strike at Misr Spinning was started by women, and the nursing sector, where large numbers of women work, played a major role. Women leaders also appeared in many other sectors to a much greater degree than had previously been the case.[5]

The period after the Misr Spinning strike in 2006 also saw the evolution of workers’ demands in parallel with this organizational advance. The Misr Spinning workers’ strikes provide an illustration of this qualitative shift. After the success of the 2006 strike, workers organized a further strike in September 2007 demanding the improvement of working conditions, the development of the company and action to hold corrupt elements to account. After a week of strike action, some of these demands were met. Just a few months later, in February 2008, Misr Spinning workers organized a street demonstration demanding a rise in the national minimum wage for all Egyptian workers. This was a major shift in consciousness as for the most part workers’ protests had previously only raised demands related to their own company. Moreover, they tended to focus on the ‘variable’ portion of the wage bill (composed of bonuses and allowances), as opposed to basic pay. Thereafter, the demand for a raise in the national minimum wage became a semi-permanent fixture in the list of demands of workers’ strikes in different workplaces.

The most important outcome of this strike wave was the emergence of new independent unions. In the ETUF elections of November 2006, just a few weeks before the Mahalla strike, the security apparatus and the government took the unprecedented step of excluding from office all of the major worker activists who had previously held elected positions. It was thus no surprise when ETUF stood side by side with management during the Mahalla strike in December. Workers responded by attacking the official union offices, throwing the ETUF officials out of the company and gathering signatures to a statement withdrawing confidence from the ETUF factory union committee.

The first attempts to found an independent union did not relate to Mahalla, however: they emerged out of the protests by property tax collectors which began in September 2007 and continued until December 2007, when their demands were met. This extended period of protests led to the formation of a committee to lead the movement and to negotiate in the name of the property tax collectors – effectively a trade union. Shortly after the end of the protests the tax collectors agreed to found a union as a natural extension of this committee.

It is important to note here that one of the factors which mobilized this new workers’ movement during this period was the neoliberal economic policies of the International Monetary Fund, which were initiated by the regime from 1991 onwards. The Egyptian state’s economic policies between 1952 and 1970 had been characterized by centralized planning, and even after the growth of the private sector and the economic changes which Anwar al-Sadat initiated, the state continued to play the central role in the economy, through its ownership of public sector projects and companies. The form of labour relations established during the Nasserist era continued to dominate the labour market in Egypt. Moreover, ETUF retained its importance for the regime as a tool of political mobilization during elections and in order to build support for important policies, ranging from the peace treaty with Israel to the policies of Structural Adjustment adopted after 1991.

These economic reforms led to the privatization of state-owned enterprises and the role of the state declined. The stable labour relations which workers had enjoyed during the previous era began to break down as market forces asserted their dominance. This development was reflected in changing practices by the workers’ movement that emerged after 2006. For a long time, workers in Egypt had relied on ‘work-ins’ as a means of protest, occupying their workplaces without stopping production. This tactic reflected the political culture of Nasserism, where production was considered a national goal, and the factory was seen as the property of the people. By contrast, after 2006, the majority of workers turned to strike action, reflecting the impact of Structural Adjustment and its direct subjection of the production process to market mechanisms rather than national development goals. The new workers’ movement can thus be considered a delayed reaction to the imposition of the neoliberal reform programme after 1991, and the retreat of the state from the Nasserist social contract, as well as the paralysis of ETUF.

The interaction between the workers’ movement and the mass political movement

The events relating to 6 April 2008 were a turning point in the development of the mass political movement in Egypt and illustrate the reciprocal action between the workers’ movement and political mobilization. The workers of al-Mahalla had announced their decision to strike on that day, demanding (among other things) a rise in the national minimum wage. Opposition political forces, headed by Kifaya (which united the majority of the forces pushing for change), then called for an Egypt-wide general strike on the same day. In the end, neither the general strike nor the al-Mahalla strike took place (the latter was aborted by the security forces); instead, a popular uprising exploded on 6 April against rising prices and poverty in al-Mahalla. In protests that lasted three days, crowds tore down pictures of Mubarak, and the Prime Minister was forced to visit the town and the factory in an attempt to calm the situation, offering concessions to the workers and local people.

Many of the characteristics of the workers’ movement would go on to influence the revolution in January 2011: occupying public squares, organizing committees for provisions, for negotiations and to protect facilities, and the wide participation of women. These practices were disseminated by the media and social media to the whole of society, moving organically from the domain of the workers’ movement to the wider domain of the revolution.

The role of workers during the 2011 uprising and the fall of Mubarak

By the time the revolution erupted in January 2011, the workers’ movement had made significant progress in organization and mobilization. Its impact on society was considerable: workplace sit-ins and workers’ street occupations had become part of contemporary protest culture and the movement was considered one of the principal factors that might bring about change in Egypt. Despite this progress, because of the absence of independent workers’ organizations with sufficient social weight or political experience, workers’ participation in the popular uprising at the beginning of the 2011 revolution took two principal forms. The first was the opening of a ‘second front’, with the eruption of a huge wave of strikes and sit-ins (which continued after the fall of Mubarak through battles to remove members of the ruling party from management). The second was through the battles between the security forces and protesters in the streets, squares and popular neighbourhoods, where many workers fell victim to the bullets of the security forces.

Workers were of course among the crowds on the streets on 25 January 2011 and thereafter, but there was no distinctive workers’ presence during this period. With the imposition of long hours of curfew, workers found it difficult to assemble at workplaces, which had mostly been closed by the authorities, who decreed a holiday. However, as soon as the curfew was relaxed, the workers’ movement began to make its mark on the revolution. In Suez, for example, workers from more than 10 companies called for a sit-in on 6 February, including at four subsidiaries of the Suez Canal Company, and at the Lafarge Cement and Glass Company. Workers at Telecom Egypt also announced a sit-in, while cleaning workers in Giza began a sit-in and strike, blocking one of the principal highways in the area, as did workers from Abu-al-Siba’i Spinning and Weaving Company in al-Mahalla.

This first substantial wave of workers’ protests lasted from 6 to 11 February and involved widespread action, with almost no sector of the economy unaffected. The strike by Telecom Egypt workers spread to employees in the public telephone exchanges, who organized numerous protests in Cairo and the provinces. Workers in the railway workshops and in the Cairo Public Transport Authority bus garages joined the strikes and protests. Postal workers converged in protest outside the Post Office in Ataba Square in central Cairo and their movement quickly spread to the provinces. Critical workplaces such as the airport and the military production factories were likewise affected, as were some of the oil companies and textile mills in Helwan, south of Cairo, and Kafr al-Dawwar in al-Beheira province. The health sector was similarly drawn in: nurses in hospitals in Assyout, Kafr al-Zayyat and Qasr al-Aini, and at the Heart Institute in Cairo, announced strikes. Printers and administrative staff in the state-owned magazine Rose el-Youssef refused to let the managing editor and chair of the board (both of them close to the regime) into the building. Meanwhile employees at the state’s ‘Workers’ University’, a training centre for the regime’s trade union cadres, had already declared a strike and locked up their boss, the deputy president of ETUF and a member of the ruling party.

Thus, during the days just before the fall of Mubarak, something which resembled a general strike, without a central organizing core, took place in Egypt. However, the workers’ movement as a whole did not declare its support for the revolution directly. Some workers did raise slogans supporting the revolution, and workers echoed chants against the regime, but their demands were mostly economic or trade union-related. Despite this, it is impossible to ignore the process of reciprocal action between the revolution and the workers’ movement. It is notable that in working class areas, where the workers’ movement had emerged before the revolution, such as Suez, al-Mahalla and Alexandria, the popular uprisings were more energetic and effective.

The number of workers who were killed during the uprising provides the greatest proof of the contribution of the working class to the revolution. The workers’ movement not only paved the way for revolution, it also played a crucial role in securing its victory. It is difficult to obtain data on all of the martyrs of the revolution, but statistics shed some light on this issue. According to the Arabic Network for Human Rights Information, there were 841 martyrs. Unfortunately, data about their occupations is missing for most of these people, but a committee of the Egyptian Journalists’ Union collected data about 279 martyrs, and recorded the occupation of 120 of them. Of these 120, 74 were workers and the remainder were students or professionals. Available sources point to workers as forming a large proportion of those killed and injured: where the place of residence is indicated, most came from impoverished areas. The data concerning those injured during the revolution confirms the same pattern. According to the information gathered by the Association of the Heroes and Injured of the Revolution, of 4,500 people injured, 70 per cent were workers with no qualifications, and a further 12 per cent were workers with intermediate-level qualifications. School students (11 per cent) and those with higher-level qualifications (7 per cent) made up the remainder. It was workers and the poor who paid the heaviest price in blood during the Egyptian revolution, and it was their great sacrifice which made the downfall of Mubarak possible.

Organizational gains and political marginalization

The end of Mubarak’s rule marked a new phase in the workers’ movement. In its wake, workers’ protests accelerated and broadened, with the foundation of a large number of independent unions. In addition to demands for the improvement of wages and working conditions, workers’ protests called for more sweeping politicized changes, such as holding corrupt managers to account, the reopening of mothballed public companies, the renationalisation of enterprises privatised during the Mubarak era, a higher national minimum wage and the right to organise.

The wave of strikes and sit-ins during the first stage of the revolution represented a partial fusion of the social and political aspects of the revolutionary struggle. At the same time, it presented a serious threat to the forces of counter-revolution, and especially to the military and security apparatus at the heart of the old regime. These forces now worked anew to separate the political and economic aspects of the revolution. A clear paradox emerged: despite the impact of the workers’ movement on the revolution discussed previously, after Mubarak’s fall the workers’ movement did not continue to play the same role; it did not shape the trajectory of the revolution. On the contrary, as soon as Mubarak was out of the way, attacks on the workers’ movement began. One of the first decisions taken (on 24 March 2011) by the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, which took power after Mubarak’s removal, was to ban strikes and refer striking workers to the military courts. In addition, a broad-based campaign against the workers’ movement was launched across different media, labelling workers’ protests ‘sectional’, rather than part of the general trajectory of the revolution.

Many activists from reformist liberal and Islamist currents who had opposed the former regime took part in media campaigns against workers’ strikes and their ‘sectional’ demands. The only defenders of the workers’ movement were the revolutionary left and the nascent independent unions. The majority of the revolutionary youth concentrated on the struggle in the squares, unaware of the potential of workers’ struggles to deepen and expand the revolutionary process through confrontations with the regime inside the state institutions and companies in efforts to cleanse them of the remnants of the former ruling party.[6]

After the parliamentary elections in November 2011 and January 2012 (which led to an Islamist government), and the victory by the Muslim Brotherhood-backed candidate Mohamed Morsi in the presidential elections in June 2012, a state of political polarization emerged between Islamist and secular forces. The secular forces interpreted the deteriorating economic and social conditions as a sign of the Islamists’ failure to manage the country, and not as a result of policies which had been implemented since the Mubarak era and continued under Morsi. For its part, the Muslim Brotherhood interpreted deteriorating conditions as signs of a conspiracy by the state apparatus against Morsi, and not as a result of his adherence to the same economic policies as those applied by the old regime which had led to the eruption of the revolution.

With the creation of the National Salvation Front, and its leading role in the opposition to the Brotherhood, the retreat of social and economic issues accelerated. The Front was announced in November 2012 by a number of political forces, including reformists and elements close to the Mubarak regime, in order to resist the attempt by President Mohamed Morsi to amend the constitution. It concentrated on restoring the prestige of the state and the legitimacy of its institutions, such as the judiciary, the army and the police. Thus, despite the continuation of workers’ struggles during 2012 and at the beginning of 2013, the possibilities for coordination between the goals of the workers’ movement and political struggles in the streets and squares receded.

Events in the wake of the downfall of Mohamed Morsi on 30 June 2013 represented the most significant change in the revolution’s course.[7] The intensifying repression against the workers’ movement was an important transformation; however, much more dangerous was the announcement by a considerable section of the independent unions of their backing for the new regime, along with a moratorium on strikes, announced in a joint agreement by ETUF and the Egyptian Federation of Independent Trade Unions. The threat contained in this announcement was not that it halted workers’ protests – these continued, albeit at a slower pace – but rather that it represented a transformation of the role of the independent unions. From striving for liberation from the state’s domination of the trade union movement, they now embraced the new regime, undoing the most significant of the gains made by the workers’ movement since 2006.

This underscored the contradiction between the scale of workers’ movement and the depth of its impact before and during the popular uprising in January 2011, and its political weakness after the fall of Mubarak. In seeking to explain this contradiction it is not enough to talk just about the domination of reformist forces or the constraints imposed by the Islamist–secular polarization on the political scene, even though both of these played a role in creating it. Rather, the contradiction has to be understood through an analysis of the weaknesses within the workers’ movement itself, both in terms of its connections to the political domain, and in relation to questions of organization and the role of its leadership, which lacked experience and coherence.

It is important to note here the retreats which the workers’ movement suffered during the 1990s, and even into the early 2000s. This period witnessed the disappearance of many experienced activists from the workers’ movement and the trade unions, who were not replaced by a new generation. When the workers’ movement rose again after 2006, it had lost much of the experience it had gained during preceding periods. The workers’ leaders who were formed after 2006 were a new cadre which had not accumulated experience in trade union work (in the sense of engagement in the struggle for workers’ interests within the workplace) or in political work. This was different to the experience of the cadre which developed during the 1980s, who were in general connected with the parties and organizations of the left. This is precisely what led to the separation between the workers’ movement and politics at a general level, and in some cases generated hostility among activists in the workers’ movement towards political action.

At the same time, the left, which had historically contributed to building the workers’ movement, was in a state of weakness and incoherence. The organizations and parties of the traditional left had practically dissolved following the collapse of the Soviet Union, while the organizations of the new left were still at a nascent stage of development, in hostile circumstances. On the other hand, the independent unions were in the process of being established, and their organizational capacity remained underdeveloped. They had not even been able put down deep roots among rank-and-file workers.

Conclusion

The separation between the political and social aspects of the workers’ struggle appeared at two principal levels during the revolution. Firstly, the revolutionary forces failed to win over large numbers of activists in the ranks of the working class to a political vision which centred the role of the working class in the revolution and the importance of deepening and radicalizing the revolutionary process, especially in relation to confrontation with the state so as to open up space for the workers’ movement to develop its political impact. Secondly, the lack of organizational experience in the independent unions themselves created another obstacle. The model of organisation which dominated was not radical enough, and lacked democratic mechanisms rooted in the workplace and among wide sections of rank-and-file workers. This problem appeared despite the formation of the first independent unions in the midst of mass strikes, which provided important experiences in self-organization at the base of the workers’ movement.

The weakness in these experiences lay in the lack of a political practice rooted in principles of working-class self-organization, not just restricted to the domain of economics but also encompassing the capacity for workers to emancipate themselves in the political domain. This capacity can be built through engagement in political causes – such as solidarity with the Palestinian people, or support for women’s liberation, or struggles against religious sectarianism or to defend the environment. Crucially, it requires immersion in these political causes as workers, and not simply as citizens in the streets or voters at the ballot box.

During the first phase of the revolution, workers’ struggles began to break down the walls which separated the social aspect of the revolution from the political. Workers’ demands expanded from focusing on economic issues to confronting representatives of the regime in the workplace and in the institutions of the state. However, the spontaneous nature of this process was not sufficient to maintain the influence of organised workers over the trajectory of the revolutionary process, in the absence of an organic link to the revolutionary mobilizations which was rooted in the working class. This demonstrates the importance of political, rather than merely trade union, organization in order to ensure that the weight of the workers’ movement shapes the trajectory of change.

Anne Alexander is a researcher and writer based in Britain. She is a trade union activist and a member of the editorial board of International Socialism Journal. Mostafa Bassiouny is an Egyptian researcher and journalist. Translated from Arabic by Anne Alexander and copy-edited by Ashley Inglis.

A version of this blogpost forms part of a dossier of articles that is published in collaboration with the Transnational Institute (TNI) and Rosa Luxemburg Foundation – North Africa and the full dossier can be accessed here

Featured Photograph: Workers at the Misr Insurance Company on strike in Cairo during the revolution. ‘We want change’ was their slogan.

Notes

[1] Gamal, W. (2011) “Al-Sha’ab yurid agalat intag akhir”, Al-Shuruq, 26 April (archived at: https://www.jadaliyya.com/Details/23927)

[2] ‘Remnants of the regime’ (filoul al-nidham) became a widely used phrase in Egyptian political life in the wake of Mubarak’s fall. It generally referred to members of the ruling National Democratic Party who remained in positions of authority in public sector institutions and private companies.

[3] The Arabic phrase ‘tathir al-mu’assasat’, was used frequently to refer to the process of removing corrupt and unaccountable managers associated with the ruling party. The word ‘tathir’ also has connotations of ‘purification’. The process and the phrase echo the saneamento (literally ‘cleansing’ campaigns carried out by workers during the Portuguese Revolution of 1974). See Alexander, A. and Bassiouny, M. (2014) Bread, Freedom, Social Justice – Workers and the Egyptian Revolution. London: Zed Books for more details.

[4] School teachers in Egyptian state schools often provide supplementary private lessons for a fee to eke out their meagre pay. Parents are effectively blackmailed into paying for these lessons because the schools are so poorly resourced and overcrowded that it is the only way to pass exams, but they are a huge financial burden, especially for poorer families. Striking teachers argued that private lessons could be eliminated by improving teachers’ pay and providing state schools enough resources to provide a decent education for all. Alexander, A. and Bassiouny, M. (2014) Bread, Freedom, Social Justice – Workers and the Egyptian Revolution. London: Zed Books.

[5] Kassab, B. and Shahba, O. (2018) ‘Al-nisa’a fil haraka al-ummaliyya al-masriyya’, ed. Bassiouny, M. Cairo: Dar al-Miraya.

[6] The series of documentary films created by the Mosireen media collective illustrates some of the contradictions between the social impact of the workers’ movement and its organisational gains, and its political marginalisation.

[7] Abdel Fatah al-Sisi, then Minister of Defence in Morsi’s government, removed Morsi from office on 3 July 2013, following mass protests on 30 June 2013 calling for early presidential elections. In the wake of Morsi’s downfall, hundreds of his supporters lost their lives during the dispersal of their protest camps by the security forces, mostly famously at Raba’a al-Adawiyya Square in Cairo and al-Nahda Square in Giza.

Let a hundred socialist flowers bloom: a conversation with Issa Shivji

In this extensive interview, socialist activist and writer Issa Shivji discusses the peasantry, capitalist development and socialism. In a discussion with Freedom Mazwi he argues that those who predicted the end of history, have been proven woefully wrong. Capitalism and the planet are in deep crisis. For the first time in decades people in both the South and the North are openly using the ideas and slogans of socialism – even if they have divergent ideas. Shivji argues, we must let a hundred socialist flowers bloom.

***

Freedom Mazwi: The theme of our conversation today is the ‘Peasantry, Neoliberalism and Alternatives.’ As we might be aware, the peasantry is under massive attack not only in Africa but the Global South broadly. This is why we considered this to be an important conversation. We will discuss the peasantry and its challenges, with extended consideration of what the alternatives may be. Let me start by asking you to define the peasantry. We know that it is a debated concept. There are various views on the peasantry, its characteristics and why is it important.

Issa Shivji: Thank you Freedom. I think you have raised a very important issue. I would like to briefly start with the traditional Marxist take on the peasantry. Karl Marx himself, based on the European experience, thought that with the development of capitalism, the peasant – basically meaning the smallholder who survives on land, produces on land – will disappear, and a large mass of people will become the industrial proletariat. It was in this regard that when it came to politics, we have Marx on record calling peasants a ‘sack of potatoes’ because he did not see a lot of potential in the peasantry for revolutionary change. Although that was based on the European experience, Marx did talk about countries of the South, particularly those in Africa. He however talked about them in relation to primitive accumulation of capital. But that was, for him, the original condition in developing his model of capitalism. Since then, we have had some theoretical and political developments. In this regard we must mention Rosa Luxemburg who disagreed with Marx. She argued that capitalist accumulation is not simply self-contained. Her position was that for capitalism to continue reproducing itself, it always needs non-capitalist sectors on which to feed for accumulation. She saw many of our countries as feeding capitalism through primitive accumulation.

That was the initial argument during those debates. The second point that I think Rosa Luxemburg made, which is also very important for us, was that Marx’s formulae saw primitive accumulation as the original condition and once capitalism has developed, we get what is called capitalist accumulation. It is based on labour and capital. The former is exploited to produce the surplus value and part of that surplus value is accumulated for the second cycle of expanded reproduction. Rosa Luxembourg’s argument was that primitive accumulation does not actually come to an end with capitalist development, but rather continues because exploitation of the non-capitalist sector based on primitive accumulation is essential for capitalist reproduction.

Subsequently we had other developments starting with Lenin, going on to Mao and so on. And contrary to the predictions of the earlier Marxists, the socialist revolution happened not in the centre but in the semi-periphery, i.e. Russia.

Russia of the time still had pre-capitalist relations in the countryside and also a mass of peasantry. That is where Lenin politically located his thesis of worker–peasant alliance. Previously, the peasantry had been seen as a conservative force but for Lenin, the working class could rely on the peasantry and lead the peasantry for revolutionary transformations and changes. This thesis was developed much more in the periphery, particularly in China. The Chinese argument about the role of the peasantry makes a very important contribution to Marxist theory and politics. It has been pretty prominent in discussions of Marxism in many countries of the Global South. But Mao still worked within the Marxist paradigm, and we should not forget that, initially at least, he saw the revolution happening in stages. First the national democratic revolution and then the socialist revolution. Later on, Mao developed a thesis of some kind of continuous revolution thus more or less abandoning the stageist thesis. That is where I will end my introductory remarks.

Now let me come to the question you raised in the context of the debates in the South. More recently, I would say in the last two or three decades, we have developed a thesis in the South, particularly in Africa, that exploitation by and accumulation of capital, which is dominated by the capital from the centre, is primarily based on the extraction of surplus from the peasantry. The dominant producers of surplus are the peasantry. As a matter of fact, the history of capital destroying the peasantry by turning them into a proletariat has to be modified when applied to many countries in Africa. Here, capital preserves the peasant form – the form of petty commodity production – but integrates it in the web of world-wide capital circuits. The dominant form of accumulation is primitive accumulation in which the peasant producer cedes to capital a part of his/her necessary consumption. Within this context, exploitation cuts into the producer’s necessary consumption. In effect, therefore, labour subsidises capital by taking on the burden of reproduction.

This thesis has increasingly been debated among African intellectuals and more recently within our own Agrarian South Network (ASN). Dramatically, this has proven to be so under neoliberalism. My argument has been that many of the efforts that were made by independent governments essentially tried to move away from the dominant tendency of primitive accumulation of the colonial period. This was for the purposes of attempting to install some kind of capitalist accumulation by, for instance, abolishing migrant labour, raising wages and initiating some social services like education, health etc. This contributed to the social wage and the adoption of some or other form of industrialisation, albeit in many cases, import substitution industrialisation.

This was justified, rationalised and presented in a variety of nationalist and developmental ideologies. Regardless of what these countries called themselves, capitalist or socialist, the underlying driving force of their policies was to move away from primitive accumulation as the dominant tendency of accumulation. This was done to try and install some kind of expanded reproduction of capitalist accumulation. That project of capitalist development in the image of the historical European development, for various reasons which I am not going to get into, did not succeed. It failed. And neoliberalism, through which imperialism has now assumed an offensive, in my view, has brought back primitive accumulation as the dominant tendency.

Before I proceed, you asked me the question of how we define the peasantry. For me, when we say the peasantry, I am thinking of smallholder producers on land. This includes not only those who cultivate and produce crops but also pastoralists. I will include them because very often we forget that pastoralists are a section of small producers on land. Pastoralists and the peasantry, directly or indirectly, derive their subsistence and incomes from land. That is where the centre of the agrarian question lies. Now having defined it so, a number of our scholars and intellectuals have tried to understand small producers within the specific political economy of our concrete situations. I also wrote an article in the 1980s arguing that capital, in this case monopoly capital, does not only destroy the so-called pre-capitalist relations but also preserves them. The so-called pre-capitalist sector is in essence capitalist in the sense that it is integrated in the world-wide accumulation of capital. For this reason, the so-called pre-capitalist is only that in form.

Under neoliberalism, we are witnessing new forms of primitive accumulation that include the privatisation and commodification of the commons. This also includes privatisation and commodification of public goods such as education, water, health, energy, finance etc. In essence, this is an attack on the production of public goods whose production was not subjected wholly to the market. That does not mean that the classical type of primitive accumulation, such as enclosures, has not continued. More recently we have witnessed, for example, a new wave of land grabbing. An important point to keep in mind is that when the land grabs occur, the smallholders who are thrown off the land do not become the proletariat since the expansion of industrial production and manufacturing is not happening. What happens is that they become landless and unemployed slum dwellers in the ghettos, as well as street hawkers and vendors. Large numbers of our youth between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five buy goods from merchants and hawk them in African cities and towns. They practically subsidise merchant capital and thus are subjected to a kind of primitive accumulation.

In the countryside, the peasant is exploited. Based on this, I developed the thesis that the peasant is subjected to primitive accumulation in that the peasant producer cedes part of the necessary consumption to capital. Consequently, capital is subsidised because the reproduction of a peasant household/family is on the shoulders of the peasant household itself, largely women and children. The peasant, therefore, does not only produce surplus for capital, but also reproduces the peasant household by cutting into its own consumption and exerting super-human labour to be able to live sub-human lives. These are the processes which have intensified under neoliberalism. You will notice that all the programmes of land or agricultural reform put forward are meant to further entangle and integrate peasant production in the capitalist circuits and therefore reproduce the exploitative relationship I have talked about.

If you were to ask my opinion, using the Marxist method, the way Marx derived the revolutionary potential of the working class, similarly my analysis of the current financial capitalism which manifests itself as neoliberalism, I think we can derive revolutionary potential of the peasant, small producers, small entrepreneurs, street hawkers and a whole group of people including those sometimes known as the lower-middle class. I have tried to amalgamate these groups in the concept of ‘The Working People.’

Therefore, the agency of transformation is ‘The Working People.’ This has a different political nuance than the traditional ‘working class’ (proletariat) concept but is derived using the same method of Marxism. Of course, the concept of the ‘working people’ is still in its putative form and sounds somewhat abstract. We have to do a concrete analysis of each of our social formations and see what social classes and groups in our societies have a revolutionary potential of transforming our societies away from capitalism. Such analysis and empirical study should help us theorise the concept of ‘working people’ in a more rigorous fashion.

Many scholars like you, Samir Amin and Paris Yeros have taken the capitalist crisis into consideration and have indicated that we have reached a point where we can take this struggle from capitalism and progress towards a socialist future. In your view, what would it take to reach that socialist stage, and how many decades would it take? What should progressive activists do to ensure that we achieve that?

I think that is an interesting question. This is a kind of question you are frequently asked. When you give a response about socialism as a possible alternative, you are immediately confronted with a follow-up rhetorical question – where has socialism ever succeeded? All the countries which tried socialism failed. The problem is that our interrogators cannot even imagine what Samir Amin called the Long Road to Socialism. When we are talking about socialism, we are talking about an epochal change. We are not talking about years and decades because we are talking about overthrowing a system that has lasted for five centuries. So, to answer the second question about the failure of socialism, I would say this. The socialist revolutions that took place in countries like Russia, China, Cuba, Vietnam etc. were what one might call ‘revolutionary advances’. No doubt, these countries did make revolutionary advances. That is undeniable. These, however, were only glimpses into the socialist future, not fully-fledged socialist societies. The fact that these advances failed in the countries that we described as socialist is nothing new in human history.

Take the analogy of the development of capitalism, and the transition from various pre-capitalist modes of production – like feudalism and other forms of tributary systems – to capitalism. Those places like Venice and Portugal etc. in which capitalism first appeared are not the countries where capitalism ultimately succeeded. It succeeded in Britain. So, long transitions with a zig-zag trajectory, from one epoch to another, are nothing new in human history. Compared to the development of capitalism, revolutionary socialist advances had a shorter period. The Soviet Union lasted for only seventy years. China, from which we can derive lessons, despite many internal changes and struggles that have taken place, cannot be fully described as capitalist. The jury is still out. We have seen a small country like Cuba surviving all these years, despite the ups and downs. We have also seen initiatives taken in Venezuela, as well as initiatives of major land reforms in countries like Zimbabwe, etc. We have also seen bitter struggles in South Africa on the question of land which remains unresolved, yet it was a central question of the liberation movements.

Based on these examples, I would say the era of revolutionary advances and struggles towards socialism is not over. It will, of course, take long, not just decades, yet we are witnessing major shifts and changes in the world. Those who predicted the end of history, and that capitalism was here to stay, have been proven woefully wrong. Capitalism is in deep crisis. Its very mode of existence is wars – from one war to another. Increasingly, and for the first time since the post-war period of the golden age of capitalism, people in both the South and the North are openly using the ideas and slogans of socialism, even though different people mean different things by socialism. Why not? Let hundred socialist flowers bloom!

The second point I would like to make in this regard is that in the last ten to fifteen years we have witnessed major crises of capitalism. Neoliberalism, for example, which made its entry in the 1970s, and became politically significant in the 1980s, is already discredited. Its triumphalism has been whittled down. It is almost in its last lag of existence. For how long did neoliberalism last, thirty years? We then witnessed a major crisis in 2008, which of course, took different forms in different countries. The crisis is not only economic. It is also a political one of political legitimacy in both the North and the South. One of the backlashes to neoliberalism is right-wing in the form of fascist tendencies that have been witnessed in countries like Brazil, India and some countries in Africa. But that is one tendency. Broadly, there also is a progressive left tendency. Youth all over the world are exploring and revisiting socialist ideas and developing new forms of struggle like the ‘Occupy movement’ or the upsurge of the Black Lives Matter movement or the farmers’ movement in India. All in all, there are rays of hope all over.

In Africa, we have progressive tendencies emerging. Our problem is that our progressive forces, particularly the Left, remain largely unorganised. Organisation is the foremost task before us. For many years we have been talking about World Social Forums at the international level and civil society organisations (CSOs) at the local level. The impact of the latter has been marginal at best, and diversionary at worst. Theoretically infected by the liberal virus, and socially constructed by the middle classes, CSOs have failed to make a breakthrough. They have failed to resonate with the hearts, minds and real-life struggles of the working people.

How do you organise the working people and how do working people get organised themselves? What kind of alternatives do you pose, what demands do you make and what are the sites of mass politics, for politics are where the masses are? In my view, those are the burning issues before the African Left.

More recently I have been arguing that one of the important demands of the working people that can be put forward, and around which the working masses could rally, is reclaiming the commons. Though not only the commons as traditionally understood to mean land and its resources, but commons in a new sense. By the new commons, I mean strategic sectors of the economy like education, health, finance, energy. These should also be considered the commons. They should be taken out of the realm of the law of value, that is, the market. These are the commons which we must struggle to reclaim. Why am I putting this forward? It is because it will sound feasible and doable by the working people. Thinking of land and its resources as the commons, not subject to private ownership, would not be new to many societies in Africa. The concept of ownership of land was introduced by colonialism.

Secondly, arguing for health, education, water, finance, and energy as commons not subject to private ownership, but essentially producing public goods, also cannot be considered new because privatisation of these sectors has caused devastation to the working people. It has polarised our societies into small classes of a few who are filthy rich, and large masses of the poor who cannot afford paid education, health, water, electricity, etc. This can be the basis of organising the working people and it could be a political demand to the existing states. That is where I think the struggle stands. As I said, this is only a suggestion which requires further discussion and theorising. It is only after theorising that we can develop ideologies based on those demands and also understand how we can then learn from the experiences of the people to mobilise and take the struggles forward.

Moving on to another question that is almost linked to the previous one on alternatives, I would like us to spotlight Tanzania’s Ujamaa, a collectivisation project that was implemented by Mwalimu Julius Nyerere. This project has been vilified by a number of people who have argued that they had previously expressed that the project does not work and therefore had discouraged developments that take that kind of path. As someone who went through this experience and followed it closely, what would you say was the major undoing of Ujamaa? I still think at some point people can try to relook and redefine it to make it work, but that can only be after a process of analysing its pitfalls. Did it really fail, and if so, why? 

That indeed is an important initiative that we should table and discuss further. You will remember, Freedom, that Agrarian South: Journal of Political Economy produced a special issue that looked at both a hundred years of the Russian revolution and fifty years of the Arusha Declaration. In the publication, we tried to revisit both issues. I would like to say, first and foremost, that Ujamaa was undoubtedly a very progressive initiative in Africa. Secondly, both in its conception and implementation, it was a nationalist project, not a socialist one. The architect of the project himself often said that for him nation-building was primary, socialism secondary. If I were to put it in some kind of Marxist language, in Ujamaa social emancipation and class emancipation were subordinated to national building, which in turn meant giving primacy to national unity.

The Social Question was subordinated to the National Question. The (national) unity of all classes trumped (social) class struggles and politically speaking, as we have argued in our biography of Mwalimu Nyerere, in Book 3, that partly explains the so-called undoing of Ujamaa, because it was not seen as a social question. The national question was privileged. Within Ujamaa and within the political class, we ended up accommodating all kinds of tendencies including rightist tendencies which had no interest whatsoever in Ujamaa, and even went as far as to sabotage it. When the crunch came, this proto-bourgeoisie turned against Ujamaa. That is the thesis of Book 3 of the biography. Of course, we can say a lot about the shortcomings at the policy level, referring to failures of implementation etc., but that discourse does not take us far. Inevitably, it becomes tautological. For example, although the Arusha Declaration talks a lot about workers and peasants as the movers of the project, the truth is it was a top-down project. The agency to carry out this project was the state bourgeoisie which developed on the heels of Ujamaa. Ironically, the Arusha Declaration ended up creating a new class in its wings, so to speak, a kind of bureaucratic state bourgeoisie. It was this class that was supposed to drive Ujamaa!

Secondly, although we kept declaring that agriculture was the backbone of our economy, we did not transform agriculture. It remained the same agriculture of peasants using the same age-old instruments and implements. It is also important to point out that the peasants continued to be exploited to the maximum and without any support going back to the farmers. This issue has been analysed in the context of the land question and the truth and reality is that we failed to transform agriculture and we failed to address the agrarian question. The peasant was sucked dry.

You are right when you say there was a time when Ujamaa was very much demonised as a ‘titanic failure’ (to use the late Mazrui’s hyperbole). The truth is, like many other African countries, whether capitalist or socialist, Tanzania found itself in deep a crisis in the late 1970s to the 1980s. All these countries had to submit to the so-called Structural Adjustment Programs (SAPs) to survive. I will not get deeper into this because we all know what happened. What I can say is that the consequences of adopting SAPs and neoliberal policies are now being dramatically seen and felt, and people (not only the masses but the so-called educated classes too) are revisiting the Arusha Declaration with nostalgia. If you read the Arusha Declaration today, you will realise that it was a pretty revolutionary document during its time, in spite of what happened in its implementation. There is a lot to learn from it.

That is a very interesting point. In the interest of time, let us move to another important issue which you and many others have raised. When we started this conversation, we talked about how an imperialist system disadvantages the South. In your writings you have gone further and postulated that that the solution is to delink. May you please provide clarity on this concept of delinking because some might interpret it to mean that we should not have any links with the outside world.

Firstly, delinking does not mean that there should not be any relations. Not only that it is impossible, but it is even undesirable. Delinking means subjecting your policies to the logic of national development not to the logic of imperialist and capitalist development. That is what you are delinking from. Simply put, you may say the kind of decisions you make and the policies you implement are meant to subject your development to the internal logic and not that of world capitalism. That is the meaning of delinking. How you do it is a different matter. Is it possible to do it? Yes, it is possible to do it and that is a political question. It does not happen mechanistically but depends on how well the popular classes are organised and mobilised to sustain the project of delinking.

We have the experiences of some emancipatory tendencies which were nipped in the bud. For example, Amílcar Cabral did not see national liberation as a stage but rather, a continuous process. If I may paraphrase him, he said ‘as long as imperialism exists, independence can only mean the national liberation movement in power’. This is a very profound statement. What are its implications? Take the example of South Africa and the stageist theory of some of its proponents. On the other hand, we had someone like Chris Hani who had a different vision of South Africa. He was killed. Amílcar Cabral was killed. These were strategic killings. Let us not forget them because in such struggles, individuals do matter. While we know that individuals do not make history, they do matter and play a critical role in certain circumstances. The turn that history takes does depend on the role of individual leaders. If you examine, and that is what we need to do, our history of national liberation, you’ll find that at very strategic moments, strategic people who had a different view of liberation were bumped off. Cabral and Chris Hani are examples. Would these countries have taken a different path had they lived, one cannot say.

There is a point of view which is arising now which totally rejects the ‘National Question.’ It views the National Question as the colonial question. That is also problematic. I do not think that the National Question has exhausted itself, but I will go along the line that in our present state of the struggle and politics of the left, the National Question needs to be subordinated to the Social Question. If we do not do that, we are likely to be identified with right-wing nationalisms and that is problematic.

Today in South Africa, for example, you cannot simply continue harping on the National Question. The question which is very much on the table is the social one. It never addressed the Social Question. Capital, ‘white-capital’, stayed with its privileges. In that situation, it is now important to discuss the Social Question and not simply stick to the National Question or pontificate on some woolly idea about all-inclusive democracy. So, the National Question exists, it has a role, yes, but where do we place it.

Before we end Freedom, I would like to make a couple of remarks. First, I want to suggest, I am of course thinking aloud, that we need to shift away from some of the dominant vocabulary. There is also an NGO vocabulary which many of us, unconsciously or unintentionally, tend to adopt. That is problematic. Here I am opening up myself to criticism. Is the term ‘alternatives’, for example, not very much part of the NGO discourse? I ask because in Marxist ideology, we talk of a ‘new world view’. In this ideology we do not talk about alternatives, but we talk about building a better world with a new world view. I know it sounds abstract and utopian, but the world’s history was made by utopias.

The second point I would like to make is this: maybe we cannot explore this a lot here, but it is relevant when we are discussing the land question. There is a lot of debate about private individual ownership versus communal ownership and many of us think that the latter is progressive. I would actually want to suggest that we should move away from the concept of ownership altogether. That is why I am trying to develop, and maybe we can debate it, the concept of the ‘commons’. The commons are not ‘communally owned’. They are only managed by the community through its democratic organs.

Finally, there is the question of the classes which I would want to address to my fellow comrades from the Marxist tradition. Many of us think that radical political economy and the analysis of classes is a Marxist method. It is not. Marxism was a critique of political economy, not its affirmation. The concept of class was developed by the classical political economists before Marx. What was specific to Marxism was the concept of historical materialism and the central problematic of historical materialism is class struggle. The question of class struggle has been discarded in our discussions. I would therefore like to suggest that we need to dig deeper in our work to understand better the question of historical materialism because, if we disregard it, we open ourselves to a very common criticism that Marxists are reductionists who only talk about economics and not politics. We also become susceptible to the criticism that Marxists talk about the ‘rule of capital’ but not ‘how capital rules’.

A version of this interview was originally published as ‘Freedom Mazwi in Conversation with Issa Shivji on the Peasantry, Neoliberalism and Alternatives’, CODESRIA Bulletin Online No. 24, October 2021.

Issa Shivji taught for years at the University of Dar es Salaam, Public Law Department, and has written more than twenty books on Pan-Africanism, political economy, socialism and radical change in Africa. He is a longstanding member of ROAPE.

Justice, equality, and struggle – an interview with Ray Bush

Reflecting on African studies, the neo-liberal university, decolonisation and resistance, Ray Bush discusses in an interview with Richard Borowski what it means to be a scholar-activist working on Africa, and how his teaching and research have been informed by a commitment to the radical transformation of the continent, and the world.

Richard Borowski: Could you give us a brief synopsis of your academic career – when and how did you enter academia, and how did you progress to where you are now? 

Ray Bush: I suppose I am what used to be called a late developer. I left school at 16 with few qualifications, and it took me more than four years to realise that the work that I was doing after school was not what I really wanted to continue doing. So, the sooner I could get some qualifications, I realised, the better. I did qualifications part-time while I worked as a civil servant in the Church Commissioners, of all places, which is the institution that pays and manages the clergy and the clergy’s land, which of course is extensive. So, I left school early, I didn’t get very much, and went back to study part-time. I left work in the anticipation that I would finally be able to get A levels, which my mother thought was the biggest mistake of my life, in that I was in work and should stay in work!

The Admission Tutor at Kingston Polytechnic said to me, basically, just get your A levels, he didn’t set grades even, and I remain really grateful for that. I thought if only I could get into the institution, I’ll try and do my best, and I did. I was the first 1st-class degree holder in Social Sciences at Kingston Polytechnic. The gamble paid off, the anticipation worked, and I was very lucky to have two fantastic mentors at Kingston. One was Bob Sutcliffe, who sadly passed away earlier in the year, and the other was Anne Showstack-Sassoon. Bob was an incredible Marxist scholar-activist, an engaged economist in development and the meaning and understanding of imperialism and labour studies. Anne was and remains a very important commentator on the Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci. She was then a PhD student supervised by Ralph Miliband, who was Head of Department at Leeds.

I came to Leeds from Kingston Poly in the hope that I would be the successful applicant for the ESRC grant to do the MA in Political Sociology, which I was, and I had a formidable interview panel to get the ESRC grant which was Ralph Miliband, David Coates and Hamza Alavi. Hamza was a Pakistani Marxist – the most amazing commentator, analyst and theoretician on rural development in India and Pakistan who authored a path-breaking article on The State in Postcolonial Societies – and much else besides. So that’s how I got to Leeds, with immense excitement and optimism, which was well, I guess 1978 – I kind of hung on in different reincarnations.

After I got the MA, I got the ESRC quota award to do a PhD in the old Department of Politics. I should be grateful to the late Justin Grossman, who also was Head of Department then, who has also just passed away – it’s terrible to reflect on the number of people that you knew and are now leaving us. I researched and wrote a PhD on African Historiography of the Gold Coast from the Fourteenth Century to 1930. I also had as a supervisor, Lionel Cliffe, who as you know certainly made the biggest impression and impact on my life, as a dear close friend, comrade and mentor. So that’s how I got to Leeds: as a migrant labourer from London – and I recognised that work in the semi-periphery of Yorkshire, God’s own County, wasn’t too bad after all.

Based on your experience, what are your key insights into teaching African studies at a UK university?  

I’ve always thought that teaching has to be exciting. Teaching has to be engaging and you have to capture very early on the room that you’re teaching in. The job is made easy by teaching political economy and politics. Political economy in general, but basically the structures and processes of African underdevelopment, is very exciting and very dramatic. I found it relatively easy capturing the engagement of students. Sustaining it, of course, is then a challenge if they come with views that are somewhat historically grounded in prejudice and the ideology of Britain being the (ex-)colonial power and a notion often brought from the UK school system of ‘what was wrong with colonialism anyway?’ I’ve tried constantly in the teaching that I’ve done, and certainly in my writing and activist work, to try and go beyond this view of Africa as the child that needs to be cared for, or Africa as a continent of crooks that need to be policed. I have rejected this constantly and it’s got me into hot water at different times with some of my colleagues.

I’ve rejected the nonsense of Western views of ‘responsibility to protect’ and Tony Blair’s idea that the conscience of the world has to be revealed by how we deal with Africa. And I’ve also tried to go beyond the debate about governance and neoliberal tropes about liberal democracy and assumptions that African politics and society are corrupt. I’ve always been absolutely emboldened by students who recognise the importance of locating Africa in world historical sociology. They do see the importance and the relevance of race and racism, slavery and of course recently Black Lives Matter and how that’s located in struggles in and around Africa and different historically constructed states in Africa. There was a time in the early 1980s – at the height of Thatcherism in this country, after 1979 with Kohl in Germany and Reagan in the United States – when there was a very strong hegemonic driver for intervention in Africa. Western liberal values constructed by ideologues including people like Samuel Huntington, who was involved at the time of the Vietnam War advising the US government, or influential economists in the UK like Paul Collier, considered that there was a moral but mostly an economic duty of the West to intervene in African political economies.

During the apartheid years in South Africa the US and European states bolstered dictatorship in Zaire to hinder and frustrate national liberation in Angola and Mozambique and to inhibit the end of apartheid in South Africa. The 1980s was a decade of economic interference and disruption by Western and especially US policymakers seeking to shape development throughout Africa. Neoliberal economic intervention in Africa, the lost development decade and economic and political conditionality destroyed patterns of growth after World War 2. It also shaped African opportunities for struggles against imperialism.

Some students did kick back against continued Western intervention and recognised that you needed an historical view of the continent, especially when as a lecturer you interrogated the romanticisation of liberal frameworks. Instead, I have always highlighted how the post-colonial state was a terrain of struggle where the power of the wealthy was often aligned with Western interests but workers and peasants in Africa have constantly struggled against the drain of surplus from the continent of its capital, savings and raw materials resources.

The conundrum is of course that the West always talks about wanting to help and defend the poor against the powerful. Yet the historically constructed relationship is one that extracts the resources and the wealth of the continent to benefit the industrial North and has done so since the period of informal merchant colonialism in the 14th century. If you actually understand how the movement of resources from the continent to the North has been developed over long periods of time, and how that’s been moderated by different kinds of struggles on the continent, you develop a sense of not only the constraints on development but also how underdevelopment can be and is being contested. This then enables students to explore and engage with writings of African scholar-activists like those of Kwame Nkrumah, in Neo Colonialism, the Last Stage of Imperialism (1965) and Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (1965) to get a feel and sense of the historical struggles in Africa for genuine sovereignty and to explore the relevance of African scholar-activism today.

So, students are fascinated by contentious debates regarding the hegemonic views of food security and famine prevention driven by the international agencies and the alternative food sovereignty. Food sovereignty is the idea and practice that drives an epistemic shift from the notion that food security is only sustained by trade, rather than local food production that is driven by sustainable local patterns of food production.

A student remarked at the end of my third-year module on this area that she could never have imagined how interesting agriculture could be! This was not a surprising comment for me, as most debate about food and agriculture in Africa is discussed without any reference to farmers – the men and women and children who produce food. I highlighted in my classes that African farmers not only feed themselves (of course sometimes with great difficulty because of land hunger and poverty) and their communities, but also engage with a wide array of political, economic and social practices that link the African countryside with the urban sprawl – notwithstanding high levels of social differentiation among farmers. The issue of food and agriculture cannot be separated from broader questions of development, the role of urbanisation – but with employment, not slums, and petty commodity production; industrialisation and if so producing what for whom at what cost, and with what kind of environmental hazard in the context of the Wests refusal to entertain reparations for African economies decimated by Northern industrialisation.

The debate about food sovereignty enables students to counter the hegemonic views of green revolution technology, genetically modified seeds and continued mining of African soil by agribusiness. Students are fascinated by the counter-narrative that small farmers are fighting back and need to be supported, not undermined; that diversity in farming techniques and cropping needs to be sustained and expanded, thereby rejecting trade specialisation and monocropping; and that an analysis of the gendered dimensions to food production needs to go beyond hand-wringing over the toughness and often everyday drudgery of family farming to raise questions about why food production is often difficult – not because of poor African farming techniques but because of poor and uneven access to resources, and the absence of land reform that can ensure land to the tiller. This necessarily requires students to explore issues of modern-day land enclosure or ‘grabs’, often by agribusiness companies producing high-value foodstuffs for export to European and US dinner tables, rather than the production of food for local consumption by African farmers.

Over many years, you’ve been part of, and contributed to, African Studies at Leeds, in the UK, and beyond. How have you seen the field develop? Which developments are you excited about, and which ones worry you? 

There’s lots of reasons to be excited. I was privileged last year to be the Chair of the African Studies Association UK Book Prize, which is a biannual jury, and for that prize we received 85 books from 39 publishers, many of which were published from Africa. Many of the books were really exciting, dynamic, interesting and interdisciplinary. I think what’s crucial and most exciting about African Studies (whatever African Studies means, as I think that’s a contentious debate because African Studies itself is a title that emerges from colonial content and foreign offices of France, the UK and elsewhere.) But there’s lots going on in African Studies that’s exciting and vibrant, and I think that I would mention two things that I think are really important for me in relation to academic activism.

One is the publication Agrarian South: Journal of Political Economy, which is a journal of the Agrarian South Network, with contributors mostly from Southern activist academics. It is a journal that really pushes the envelope about local knowledge production and how it engages with struggles against imperialism. The other is www.roape.net, which I have a particular interest in, because ROAPE (Review of African Political Economy), as the website and blogging area of the journal, has really accelerated contributions from the continent rather than only from Western academics. Both these journals reflect serious engagement with African experiences of colonialism and imperialism, the importance of exploring local patterns of capital accumulation and the differential impact of the development of capitalism and what is the room for manoeuvre to transition to socialism.

I think that my anxiety is around the continued preoccupation with what has seemed to be timeless Western concerns with African governance, the promotion of liberal democracy and the study of elections – usually without any historical grounding or understanding of the countries concerned. As we’ve already mentioned, history is crucial in setting parameters of inquiry and the questions to ask, and the other is the worry about the generalisation of responsibility to protect – ‘R2P’ – which is very, very strong in terms of contributors at the University of Leeds. But I always ask the question why is it that Africans end up in the International Criminal Court and Israel doesn’t for its many crimes of occupation of Palestine. Why is Africa singled out? Is it because there is more brutality in Africa than there is elsewhere in the world? Or perhaps it’s because there is more Western leverage over many African states? The trope that there is more brutality in Africa needs to be quashed. I think one of the ways in which it’s quashed is to recognise that R2P has become a veil for intervention. That is not to say that African elites can be allowed to go without punishment for some of their actions, but that those actions can be punished by Africans in African states themselves and by the African Union. The irony of course about the African Union – it’s not an irony, it’s a paradox or contradiction – is that it’s funded mostly by the West, and so its agenda of action and its types of intervention are constrained by Western sources of funding.

But the worry of course is the continued spread and intervention of US militarisation and the role of AFRICOM in trying to establish US bases in Africa. A kind of a foil to that has been the role of China although it may be too soon to say whether it’s a positive or a negative role. China has nevertheless provided in a sense what the former Soviet Union did until the end of the Cold War. Whether one supported the former Soviet Union or not, for states and leaders and people, workers and farmers in Africa, the presence of an alternative to the US and Western intervention, the fact that there was the Soviet presence, created the conditions for helping develop and promote alternative visions in Africa. China in Africa has a similar effect because it advances a policy of non-intervention in terms of respecting African sovereignty. And that’s why Britain, the US and the EU find China so challenging. China works with states without insisting on economic and political conditionality or intervening on issues regarding human rights. But I think the debate about human rights is reified beyond an understanding of what the constraints are for existing development in states in Africa. It’s not to excuse or in any way minimise the consequences of human rights violations, but it should also not be an excuse for Western intervention in Africa.

Your scholarly work has been closely linked to Review of African Political Economy, the journal that you helped lead for decades. How do you look back at the ‘radical transformation’ that ROAPE aims to understand and enhance? What is the need and potential for further work in this area in our current era? 

The journal started in 1974 and I joined in 1979. I think the important thing about ROAPE is that when it started with Lionel Cliffe, Ruth First, Gavin Williams, Peter Lawrence and others, it was seen as a journal that was certainly advancing understanding and themes of liberation and solidarity with National Liberation struggles at that time in Africa. The view was always that the journal would be moved to Africa and that it would be based there. But then something happened, neoliberalism, about the time I joined, and the lost development decade which we know now has been so dramatically documented.

The struggles on the continent during the 1980s and 1990s were ones that really changed the shape of what we felt a journal could do. In a sense, what the journal did in the 1980s and the 1990s was document and chart the consequences and the dynamics of neoliberalism and understandings of imperialism from the North. In so doing, partly the journal came under pressure to simply become another academic journal, and it lost a radical defining edge. I’m happy to say that in the last few years the initiatives we’ve taken in the journal have tried to counter the view of it just being another academic journal on Africa.

The good thing about being yet another academic journal on Africa is that it helped raise income for us to stabilise the journal and circulation and it’s also enabled us to develop something that we’ve called the Connections Workshops. This is basically to try and reconnect with the continent: to engage with an activist audience of scholars and younger people. We had workshops in Accra in November 2017Dar es Salaam in April 2018 and Johannesburg in November 2018. These were workshops with agendas set by activists and academics and social movements in Africa. It’s a collaboration, and an agenda from the continent that has focused on popular protest, with the Nyerere Centre in Dar es Salaam, the Third World Network Africa in Accra, Centre for Social Change at the University of Johannesburg and SWOP at Wits University. These are collaborative ventures to try and show – and we hope actually to gradually move the journal to Africa again – a way that enables the process of producing a journal that is more closely aligned to struggles and activist interest in the continent directly.

So, we’re asking questions about how to reconnect with the continent debating politics and activism. That’s somewhat been held up by COVID-19 because at the time of lockdown we were on the verge of having an activist meeting in Windhoek in Namibia, but we have postponed that for all the obvious reasons. What we’ve tried to do with the Connections workshops, and what we’ve tried to do with roape.net, is to try and reduce the distance between academics and activists, recognise that the 21st century is different from the struggles of the late 20th century and that there is now an amazing range of struggles, highlighted of course by the uprisings and revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt in 2011 that toppled dictatorships.

Yet this is also highlighted by COVID, the struggles by states to quell resistance during COVID has been so violent and so extensive that we’ve been busy trying to highlight that with involvement in Kenya of the Mathare Social Justice Centre, in Zimbabwe with the Zimbabwe Labour Centre and also through our Africa Editor, Yao Graham, based in Accra. The journal I think has moved on: I hope in a sense it’s coming back to what it originally was founded to try and do, which was to offer much stronger activist interventions and to embed those interventions with the development of how workers and farmers and peasants can construct an alternative to post-COVID neoliberalism.

ROAPE has always had a section of the journal for briefings and debates, which Lionel Cliffe was the editor of, and which I’ve now taken on in my ‘retirement’. I think it’s an opportunity to seek out where struggles are taking place and to allow the social movements to have platforms and voices which they wouldn’t otherwise have because they’re written up only as academic discourse. The formatting of academic articles has a very set agenda which doesn’t always touch the main themes that activists want to promote and engage with.

There’s recently been much debate about ‘decolonisation’, of African Studies, and of higher education more generally. What are your thoughts about this? 

I think at best the debates about coloniality highlight a potential link with Marxism that looks at an analysis of people in the continents of the colonial world, how knowledge is being produced and reproduced, and by whom, and the power dynamics that underpin them. That’s what decoloniality does I think at best. More descriptively, it’s basically sought to try and problematise the so-called age of discovery and put centre stage indigenous peoples and struggles over land – and struggles over land I think are quintessential to understanding the debate in the contemporary period.

Struggles over land go to the heart of capital accumulation that takes place prior to capitalist development in Europe and which remains persistent in Africa and elsewhere in the Global South. In short, accumulation by the dispossession of land requires an analysis of commodification of and privatisation of land, the expulsion of peasants and struggles to retain access to the commons – those areas of activity that have not yet been converted to exclusive private property, usually under the rhetoric of modernisation. Some of the most violent and contentious struggles in Africa take place around attempts to erode indigenous forms of production and consumption and the ways in which farmers and the dispossessed are able to respond to accumulation by dispossession.

I also think Black Lives Matter as a social movement, despite its very disparate and heterogeneous construction, has added to the view of the importance of understanding how knowledge is produced and how colonialism was built on an epistemology of domination. A theory of knowledge that effectively creates the ‘other’, of African peoples subordinated to other aspects of humanity. My own view is that within that debate about decolonisation I would not want to lose sight of, and what I have constantly reiterated in my own work, is an analysis that the late Samir Amin advanced. That is, the best way of understanding late capitalism is to look at how capitalism is organised around five monopolies. Monopolies that control technology, financial flows, access to resources, access to media and communications and access to weapons of mass destruction.

I think what that characterisation of how capitalism is sustained and reproduced – what that view of the five monopolies directs us to – forces us to ask is how it is possible for African states to begin to construct a new auto-centred view of development. A view of development that is not dependent upon a persistent international law of value that has been constructed historically to exploit resources from the continent. That, to me is how coloniality offers a relationship with Marxism that tries to look at different metrics of power, and I prefer, of course, to look at it through the view of those five monopolies. But what decoloniality has also done is basically to say look, there’s an illusion of modernity. Modernity is constructed as a palliative, it’s window dressing. This is what you could have if only you did this and you’re not doing this so therefore you won’t get it. It becomes a mechanism for exerting power. But it’s also directed as a quite concerted effort to look at the role of labour, labour migration, dynamics of energy and extractives and environmental destruction. So as a dimension of contemporary analysis, it’s important if for me it runs alongside, and is structured by a material analysis of how historical patterns of underdevelopment have been fashioned and what forms they take now.

To conclude, do you have any final thoughts, wishes, or words of wisdom to your students, colleagues, and comrades?

In terms of individuals working in the area of African Studies, and with students but especially of young academics, I think my view would be to try and avoid chasing money as a goal in itself. It’s now interestingly spoken about as ‘grant capture’, but effectively it is about how to sustain yourself within an organisation that is a university. But universities and higher education should themselves have agendas of research and scholarship that aren’t driven only by a financial Excel spreadsheet. So, colleagues must continue to think about innovative ways of navigating the neoliberal university and its commercialisation so we can continue to celebrate the important work of academic activists. As Lionel Cliffe once commented in one of the last pieces that he wrote: as academics, we need constantly to be aware of our vocation and be prepared to rebel and rebel because you make choices about your agenda and the approach that you take. The approach that you take means that you take sides, and you advance those sides because of the importance of justice, equality and international development.

A version of this interview was originally posted by Leeds African Studies Bulletin No. 82 (2021).

Ray Bush is Emeritus Professor of African Studies at the School of Politics and International Studies (POLIS) at the University of Leeds. He is also a leading member of the Review of African Political Economy’s Editorial Working Group.

Featured Photograph: Artwork on a street in Alexandria, Egypt shortly after the revolution of 2011 (22 October 2011).

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.
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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