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African Knowledges and Alternative Futures

By Amber Murrey and Edith Phaswana

The Toyin Falola @65 Conference brought together scholars from across the African continent and the world from 29 to 31 January 2018 under the theme, ‘African Knowledges and Alternative Futures.’ Our focus reflected on the long struggle for epistemic justice on the continent while centring and recognizing Falola’s important role in the project. This was a unique conference in terms of its structure, content, as well as the diversity of intellectuals that it attracted.

University of Ibadan

The venue for our coming together was the University of Ibadan (UI) – significant not only because Falola was born in the city in 1953 but also because UI is Nigeria’s oldest and most respected public university. UI was founded in 1932 as the first public university in Nigeria. At the time, it was an affiliate of University College London in the United Kingdom. Built in 1948 and completed in the 1960s, UI was the first university built in British-occupied West Africa.

Early colonial universities, Toyin Falola explains, were at the centre of colonial power dynamics and political struggles in Africa. Falola writes that these universities were ‘created to meet the needs of those Europeans who envisaged a permanent homeland in Africa… The universities were seen as concessions made after the Second World War, a strategy of pacifying restless Africans and of ensuring that decolonization was controlled at a pace set by Europeans’ (2018: 608). These universities were also spatially and geographically significant.

 At the conference, Oluwabunmi Fayiga traced the ideological symbolism of architectural materials in the British design in the construction of UI. In the colonial context, the design and production of spaces like UI was rich with colonial symbolism, in this case the association of certain materials with poverty and other materials with modernity/civilization. Fayiga’s discussion focused on the ways in which two British colonial architects, Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew, employed a conscious ‘social decision-making’ to promote the use of concrete and corrugated steel in Nigerian architecture. These ‘permanent’ materials were associated with the colonial power. All the while, bamboo roofing and the use of mud as building material was deemed ‘unrefined.’ Fry and Drew’s preferences for certain materials were regarded as ‘modern choices’ despite their inappropriateness for local ecologies and social settings. Colonial architecture, Fayiga argued, is a domain through which we might trace colonial arrogance and the resistances to it.

Honoring Professor Falola

This event was differently structured. Not just by the energy of governmental leaders delivering extended speeches in honor of Professor Falola, but also through an active and conscious attention on the part of the organizers and participants to collectively celebrate the intellectual lifetime of Professor Falola, who has been an influential powerhouse across the disciplines in the study of Africa.

A historian by training, Toyin Falola’s work transcends disciplinary boundaries, appealing to scholars across different backgrounds and disciplines. The author of some 300 books, chapters, and articles, Falola has also supervised several dozens of graduate students, some of whom were present at the conference. He is the coordinator for the highly subscribed e-group USA-Africa Dialogue and is well known within African Studies for his conference and workshop organizing. Falola has been at the forefront of charting a path for African intellectuals and validating humanizing accounts of African history.

Drawing from Falola, Loui Njodzevan Wirnkar Ngah spoke of the need to break the ‘trend of negativity in African historiography.’ This, he argued, requires a new redefinition of African historiography. Such papers delivered sought to do justice to Falola’s impressive and often ground-breaking work.

From Pan-Africanism to Poverty to Decolonization

Comprised of nearly 300 papers, the conference was impressive in its breadth and interdisciplinarity. Unifying topics including critical expressions of identity, dignity, colonial critique as well as grounded discussions of political and socio-economic paths forward. Specific papers considered historical and contemporary challenges to Nigerian publishers; doctoral training programs on the continent as important places for supporting and cultivating strong doctoral candidates, ‘alternative futures’ such as epistemologies based on Islam, Yoruba, Thomas Sankara’s political thought and decolonial thought, the role of the intellectual and more.

Some scholars argued that ‘the canon’ should be eradicated because it inherently reaffirms boundaries. Others considered the ways in which contemporary Pan-Africanism makes meaningful contributions to African problems. Some argued that Pan-Africanism must deal with capitalism. Others argued for a ‘new breed of African capitalism… one that is regulated and productive.’

Yoruba does not have a word for poverty, Tunde Decker informed the audience. The sense of ‘being a victim of poverty’ does not hold true in Yoruba. Rather, inée connotes a lack that signals a miscommunication between the individual and deity. To resolve inée, a person needs to strengthen that communication by going to an Ifa priest. Also related to poverty is the concept of ori, or the force that is chosen in the spiritual realm. In this way, it is thought that a person might have chosen an ori that does not allow them to live a good life. If a person has a disconnect with the ancestors, this disconnect might manifest itself within the material world through a lack. What was not considered was how the inée might, inadvertently, bolster neoliberal capitalism through an individualization of lack.

Innocent Moyo’s work on decolonizing borders generated powerful audience responses. Borders are political institutions and the heightened securitization of borders is in tension with moves to create regional integration in Africa. Moyo asserted the importance of race for projects to ‘decolonize borders,’ this is because, on the continent, borders often operate through and are constitutive of ‘anti-blackness.’ His talk generated considerable debate about the ‘practicality’ of a decolonized border system. Although his argument was not that borders themselves be altogether eradicated but that the practices of bordering be decolonized.

The Intellectual in Africa

Professor Chris BN Ogbogbo, President of the Historical Society of Nigeria, remarked in his keynote address, ‘The academic’s primary role must be to move students to be knowledge producers.’ He argued that scholars must necessarily become activists against the backdrop of the failure of mainstream intellectuals to provide grounded and politically relevant ideas.

The role of the intellectual in Africa has likewise been a centrepiece in Falola’s work. Falola writes,

How Africans, either at home or abroad, will acquire autonomy and control the production of knowledge about their continent will ultimately depend on the possibility of a positive political and economic transformation of Africa. The marginality of African studies and Africans’ feeling of irrelevance in Western institutions reflect the marginality of the continent in world affairs. If Africa lacks the resources to sponsor research and publish, to retain excellent scholars and build viable universities, it will be hard to overcome intellectual domination by outsiders who have their own agenda, interests, and priorities. (Falola 2018: 710)

Ogbogbo argued that, at the core of Africa’s development challenges, is the manner in which knowledge is produced, disseminated and consumed in Africa – including for what purpose and reasons. He lashed out at academics for what he referred to as the ‘think tank of the post-colonial state in Africa,’ for failing to provide ideas to ‘unshackle’ people and societies from persistent capitalist crisis in the continent.

Yet there was perhaps insufficient recognition of the inability of our states to use evidence-based information to make decisions and implement policies in such discussion. Africa is, after all, home to CODESRIA, a productive research organization in the social sciences that spans more than forty-years of successfully generating and circulating African knowledges. But the question is also how many African governments make concerted efforts to or are even willing to draw from such knowledge in public policy making.

A special panel was convened by the Thabo Mbeki African Leadership Institute in South Africa under the theme ‘African Knowledges, Epistemologies and Leadership’. Within the context of the coloniality of knowledge in which epistemic perspectives are informed by Euro-centrism, Samuel Oloruntoba asserted the need for ‘thought liberation.’ An aspect of this liberation involved the deliberate use of Pan-Africanism in a paradigm of global anti-Africanism.

Edith Phaswana spoke of the need for an Afro-decolonial curriculum at universities that draws from Afro-centered and decolonizing epistemologies. Drawing from Pedro Tabensky and Sally Matthews’ Being at Home, she spoke of the importance of African students finding a home in a university space that is usually alienating in terms of its knowledge and ways of knowing. ‘We are all products of Westernized universities —even if we have gone through university systems located on the African continent… We are all disciplined by the different disciplines we subscribe to,’ she reminded the audience.

Similarly, Falola writes,

As a historical reality, Africa was integrated into an international system on terms defined by the West. African intellectuals cannot escape the reality of this integration. Neither can they escape the fact that the ideology that drives scholarship is controlled by the West and that what African scholars have done is primarily to respond…In spite of the success of many notable African intellectuals and the creation of centers of learning in the continent, ‘the Western academy remains the unique source of validation for the African scholar.’ There is a dependence on Western languages and Western-derived theories and concepts… (Falola 2018: 682).

Phaswana’s work in South Africa seeks to bridge Afrocentricity and decolonial thought to assert an Afro-decoloniality by carefully selecting knowledge that seeks to ‘advance humanity’ in ways that offer possibilities to learn from each other and discarding those that are demeaning, infuriating, marginalising and harmful to humanity. She argued that Africa is unapologetically a legitimate site of knowledge production, and Africans are also credible producers of knowledge about Africa and the world.

In her powerful keynote address, Professor Gloria Emeagwali  articulated a ‘Toyin Falola framework for knowledge cultivation’: a model of knowing based on methodological plurality that draws on trial and error, is founded on diverse ecologies (including a ‘bias toward nature’), respect for ancestral wisdom, and commitments to holism and non-linear trajectories. This framework, she asserted, must connect with anti-racist scholarships.

Professor Emeagwali called on young scholars to take seriously the legacy of Africa. This is a legacy which must be preserved, improved on, and sustained for prosperity. She argued that this legacy is a bequest from ancestral wisdom, inspiration, and scientific experimentation. For her, Falola is a role model through his outstanding work, she urged the younger generation to replicate it transcontinentally.

Africa Beyond Africa

While sessions at the conference emphasized the importance of African knowledges for African futures, it is important not to lose sight of the importance of African knowledges for people and struggles outside of the continent. Our discussions at the conference should also be relevant for students in Cuba, Mexico, the Netherlands and beyond.

Falola asserts,

…Africans need not construct a cage for themselves, that Africans have to receive and use the ideas from all parts of the world, that African cultures and customs have to be refined to cope with the forces of modernity and change…Africans [must] transform ideas, create new paths, review their histories, and meet the challenges that transformation will pose (Falola 2018: 710)

Amber Murrey is a decolonial political geographer with research interests in political ecology, resistance studies, and resource sovereignty. She is the editor of ‘A Certain Amount of Madness’: The Life, Politics and Legacy of Thomas Sankara (2018) and teaches in the Department of Sociology at The American University in Cairo, Egypt. She tweets @AmberMurrey. Her participation at this conference was sponsored by an AUC Faculty Conference Grant.

Edith Phaswana (PhD) teaches Public Policy for Africa’s Development at the Thabo Mbeki African Leadership Institute – University of South Africa. Her research interests centre around Africa’s Renewal focussing on educational transformation, youth and development, youth leadership, Pan-Africanism and Decoloniality. She also served as former Deputy Chairperson of the South African Development Studies Association (SADSA).  

References

Falola, Toyin (2018) The Toyin Falola Reader: On African Culture, Nationalism, Development and Epistemologies. Austin, TX: Pan-African University Press.

Tabensky, Pedro Alexis and Matthews, Sally, eds. (2015) Being at Home: Race, Institutional Culture and Transformation at South African Higher Education Institutions. Durban: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press.

The Landscape of Struggle: Student Resistance in Burkina Faso

By Bettina Engels

Lila Chouli, Le contre-pouvoir étudiant au Burkina Faso (Paris, Fondation Gabriel Péri, 2018)

Students are an important political force in many sub-Saharan African states. Particularly when the industrial sector is relatively small, and as a consequence, organized labour is rather weak, movements of university and high school students, together with labour unions in the public sector in general and education in particular, are often central actors in struggles for democratic and social rights. Burkina Faso is a case in point. Since formal independence in 1960, the landscape of social struggles in the country is characterised, as in many other African states, by a strong student movement, whose claims and aims are far from being limited to educational policy but have addressed the very political and economic system itself.

Lila Chouli traces the history of Burkina Faso’s student movement and its core organisations: the Union Générale des Etudiants Burkinabé (UGEB), the general student union for the country as a whole, and Association Nationale des Etudiants Burkinabé (ANEB), UGEB’s branch at the University of Ouagadougou. Chouli demonstrates how the movements development is closely entangled with the general political struggles in the country; how organised students have positioned themselves in opposition to the state and ruling elites, and thus have faced and still face severe repression.

The Burkinabé student movement, as many other social movements in the country and in other states previously colonised by France, initially developed under the influence of the French Communist party and its related organisations and follows a Marxist orientation. In the 1970s and 1980s, the Parti Communiste Révolutionnaire Voltaïque (PCRV) has emerged on top of internal conflicts among Burkina Faso’s communist groups. Indeed, the student movement was involved in the establishment of the party in 1978. Those social movement organizations and labour unions that follow a joint political-ideological line are closely interconnected; overlaps in personnel among the student, youth, human rights and labour movement are commonplace. This is demonstrated clearly in Lila Chouli’s analysis. Hand in hand with other organisations, organised students were significantly involved in the mass mobilisations from 2011 onwards, that would eventually led to the turnover of Burkina Faso’s long-standing President Blaise Compaoré in October 2014, and in the popular resistance against the coup d’état in September 2015

Outstandingly informed and based on primary sources, Lila Chouli traces the intensive struggles by Burkinabé students in the 1990s, a period when activists were frequently ‘disappeared’ or killed. The first and probably best-known case was the murder of Dabo Boukary in May 1990. Until today, UGEB and ANEB demand the circumstances of his killing to be investigated and those responsible for it to be convicted. Though the student movement, since then, has achieved many things—for instance, the creation of the ‘Aide FONER’ (Fonds National pour l’Éducation et la Recherche, National Fund for Education and Research), a refundable grant for undergraduate, graduate, and doctoral students.

Since massive protests in 1996-1997 student demands have remained largely the same: The expansion of state grants, the improvement in quality and reduction in costs for canteen meals and student housing, and of public transport to the campus, the improvement in teaching and learning conditions, e.g. especially access and condition of lecture rooms and finally the guarantee of democratic rights – freedom of assembly, of association, and of expression – for student organisations. With regard to the terrible living and studying conditions that the overwhelming majority of Burkinabé students face, this is hardly astonishing. But once again, protests expand to address the impacts of ‘structural adjustment’ policies that have been promoted by the international financial institutions, for example the doubling of enrolment fees in 2002.

This is Lila Chouli’s third book, alongside numerous articles, on social struggles in Burkina Faso, after her first volume Chronique sur le mouvement social de 2011  published in 2012 and Le Boom minier au Burkina Faso in 2014. Tragically, Lila is no longer with us. The author, born in Northern France in 1977 into a Franco-Algerian family, died in 2016. The foundation Gabriel-Pér’, a leftist think tank established on the initiative of the French Communist Party, has published this book posthumously. Lila Chouli was not able to write the concluding remarks herself, instead, Laurent Ouedraogo, a long-standing activist of the student and youth movement himself took on the task to write a afterword. The book was put together by her friend and comrade Pascal Bianchini who wrote the preface.

It is a very special book—not only because there is hardly any other such detailed, insightful, and thoroughly researched study on an African student movement. Very few external observers have an understanding of the dynamics and motivations of social movements in Burkina Faso as Lila Chouli. Lila never saw herself as a one-sided researcher, journalist, or activist; her works were rather shaped by her being convinced that these are in no way activities that could be separated from one another—and that, accordingly, a self-designation as ‘activist scholar’ hardly made any sense to her.

The book features a precise analysis on the basis of profound and encompassing research. Once again, Lila Chouli has demonstrated that such an analysis and a distinct ‘self-positioning’ go hand-in-hand. In this sense, the book launch that took place at the University of Ouagadougou in late April 2018, organised by UGEB together with the largest and most important Burkinabé human rights organisation (the Mouvement burkinabè des droits de l’Homme et des peoples, MBDHP), was a tribute to an outstanding internationalist. With Lila Chouli, social movements in Burkina Faso have lost a distinguished comrade.

Bettina Engels is a political scientist at the Department of Political and Social Sciences at Freie Universität Berlin, Germany, bettina.engels@fu-berlin.de

Bibliography of Lila Chouli’s work

The popular uprising in Burkina Faso and the Transition’ in Review of African Political Economy, 2015, Vol. 42, No. 144, pp. 325 –333.

L’insurrection populaire et la Transition au Burkina Faso’ in Review of African Political Economy, 2015, Vol. 42, No. 143, pp. 148 –155.

(Lila’s Briefings are available to readers of roape.net who register and log-in to our members area on the website)

‘Sur l’insurrection populaire au Burkina Faso’ in Ndongo Samba Sylla (ed) Développements politiques récents en Afrique de l’Ouest Dakar, Fondation Rosa Luxembourg & Editions Plume, 2015, pp. 41-56.

Le boom minier au Burkina Faso. Témoignages des victimes de l’exploitation minière, Fondation Gabriel Peri, 2014.

‘Les mouvements sociaux et la recherche d’alternatives au Burkina Faso’ in Ndongo Samba Sylla (ed), Les mouvements sociaux en Afrique de l’Ouest, L’Harmattan & Fondation Rosa Luxemburg, 2014, pp. 239-275.

Popular Protests, Military Mutinies and Workers Struggles (pamphlet), Leo Zeilig (translation)

Burkina Faso 2011, Chronique d’un mouvement social, Lyon, Tahin Party, 2012.

‘Peoples’ Revolts in Burkina Faso’ in Firoze Manji and Sokari Ekine (eds), African Awakening: The Emerging Revolutions, Fahamu Books, Oxford, 2011, pp. 131-146.

Popular protests in Burkina Faso’ in Pambazuka News, n°183, April 2011

‘Harnessing students of Ouagadougou campus: on the crisis of June 2008’, in Journal of Higher Education in Africa, CODESRIA, n°3, 2009, pp. 1-28 [in French, ‘La domestication des étudiants du campus de Ouagadougou: Sur la crise de Juin 2008’]

‘Neoliberalism in the higher education of Burkina Faso’ in Revue Savoir / Agir, n°10, December 2009, pp. 119-127 [in French, ‘Le néolibéralisme dans l’enseignement supérieur burkinabé’]

Africa’s 1968: Protests and Uprisings Across the Continent

By Heike Becker and David Seddon

‘Global 1968’

Fifty years ago, in May 1968, what started as a localized student protest against proposed reforms in higher education at the Nanterre campus of the University of Paris became a major upsurge of popular protest that, at its height, mobilised millions of students and intellectuals, workers and trade unionists, as well as Communist and Socialist Party members, in revolt against the Gaullist state overseen by Prime Minister Georges Pompidou and President Charles de Gaulle. It rocked France for two months during May and June 1968, and had an impact across Europe and North America, and beyond.

In a piece on ‘why 1968 still matters’, Peter Taafe wrote recently in ‘Socialism Today’ (Taafe 2018) both on the global context of the French revolt and also on some of the events that took place across the world in that year. He argues that the ‘events’ in France were one aspect of ‘a year of revolution… and to a lesser extent counter-revolution throughout the world’. Yet he does not mention in his ‘overview’ of popular protest among students and workers much about Africa; yet there too, 1968 was a year of political turmoil.    

In the days before social media – which played a significant role in the mobilization of protests during the so-called ‘Arab Spring’ in 2011 and during recent mobilizations across Africa – news of the ‘events’ in France often took some time to reach Africa. But this was not always the case, however. African students in Europe and on the African sub-continent were in contact with each other and were therefore aware of what was happening elsewhere (see, Plaut 2011); news of the ‘events’ in Paris certainly reached the French-speaking public in West and Central Africa very fast. It seems striking, therefore, that even those discussions of the 1968 ‘events’ that have emphasised their international or ‘global’ nature have failed by and large to discuss the extent to which popular protest and conflict in Africa that year – and indeed throughout the 1960s – had both their own internal dynamics and yet were also linked closely with wider international events and developments.

For most commentators and scholars, it was only events in the Global North that constituted ‘Global 1968’. None of the relevant overviews brings related events on the African continent to the fore. ‘What’, Becker has already asked (see the blogpost by Becker on roape.net here), ‘is the reason for the fact that in the current debates on ‘1968’ and its legacy on the African continent are almost never mentioned?’ Burleigh Hendrickson similarly remarked in 2012, ‘in spite of this global turn, many of these studies have reproduced Eurocentric narratives by focusing on actions in the transatlantic First World. Popular student and worker movements of the 1960s occurring in the Third World, including North Africa, have received far less attention’.

A Decade of Struggle Across Africa

In fact, the 1960s as a whole constituted an exceptional decade of popular protest across Africa. From 1960 onwards, in much of Africa, when so many former colonial territories gained their political independence, the various national liberation movements were transformed, in a complex and uneven fashion, into struggles against the widespread establishment of one-party states and the espousal by many new nationalist (often military) governments of various forms of authoritarian populism, as well as against neo-colonialism and post-colonial imperialism. In the southern parts of the continent, where White minority regimes still held power, the struggles against settler colonialism and apartheid were taken up afresh by a new generation.

In all of these struggles, students, as well as workers and the unemployed, socialist and communist political parties played a key role. But not only was ‘the 1960s’ a decade of struggle in many individual countries across the African continent, but the rise of radical protest was also ‘international’, in the sense that not only did these struggles take place at around the same time, in similar or comparable circumstances, but there were often direct links between protest in one country and protest in another, and there was also a movement of political activists across continents which served to stimulate and invigorate local struggles and to reinforce the inter-relationship between them all.

Even commentators who identify popular protest in the Congo, in Guinea, in Upper Volta and Senegal, and in Kenya and Ethiopia, fail to recognize some of the cases that we consider below, notably those in North Africa. Our own contribution can rectify this only to a certain extent, simply because there was too much happening in Africa in the 1960s to be able to cover it all in one article, so our approach is necessarily selective.

Case Studies: North Africa

Egypt

In Egypt, in the early 1950s, a military coup had displaced the British puppet king and led to the establishment of a regime under Gemal Abdel Nasser, which, while ‘speaking for the people’ (the peasants and workers) was hostile not only to the feudal landowners but also to any political opposition or any attempt to create independent trade unions to represent the working class directly. Egypt’s defeat by Israel in June 1967 led to a political as well as a military crisis and Nasser’s resignation as president. He returned after massive popular demonstrations in his support. But his credentials were damaged.

In February 1968, students and workers launched protests calling for political reforms. The first move was made by steel workers in Helwan (to the south of Cairo) protesting the military court’s lenient ruling in the case of the military aviation officers accused of negligence during the June war. They were joined on 21 February – which is Egyptian Student Day – by up to 100,000 students from major universities in Cairo and Alexandria. The Cairo uprising alone resulted in the death of two workers and the wounding of 77 citizens, as well as 146 police officers. Some 635 people were also arrested, and some vehicles and buildings were destroyed in the capital. The protest obliged Nasser to give a major speech in response, which, in the light of the June 1967 defeat, was exceptionally conciliatory.

Seen by some as the most significant public challenge to is regime since workers’ protests in March 1954, this popular movement forced Nasser to issue a manifesto promising the restoration of civil liberties, greater parliamentary independence from the executive, major structural changes, and a campaign to rid the government of corrupt elements. A public referendum approved the proposed measures in May 1968, and elections were held for the Supreme Executive Committee. Hailed at the time as signaling an important shift from political repression to liberalization, the manifesto and the promised measures would largely remain unfulfilled.

Further student unrest broke out in November 1968 following the announcement of a new education law. The uprising began with protests by high school students in the city of Mansoura. They were joined by university students and others, including peasants, and the next day, demonstrations resulted in clashes with the security forces which led to the death of three students and a farmer as well as the wounding of 32 protesters, nine police officers and 14 soldiers. News of the events in Mansoura reached Alexandria University, where leaders of the student movement from the engineering faculty launched massive protests and clashed with police forces, in which some 53 policemen and 30 students were injured.

The head of the Faculty of Engineering Student Union, Atef Al-Shater, and three of his colleagues were arrested. The governor of Alexandria tried to convince the students not to escalate the situation, but they held him inside the faculty and did not allow him to leave until Al-Shater and his colleagues were released. The national assembly discussed the problem of the new law the day after the governor of Alexandria was detained. On 25 November there was a strike by workers in Alexandria as well as large-scale demonstrations which ended in clashes with the police, resulting in 16 deaths.

Fifty public buses were smashed, along with 270 tram windshields, 116 traffic lights, 29 stalls, 11 shop windows and a number of other public transport and private vehicles and lampposts. A sit-in staged by the Faculty of Engineering ended without achieving any significant results because of the lack of food during the days of Ramadan and power outages suffered by the protestors, as well as the withdrawal of the union leader from the sit-in and the governor’s threat to evacuate the building by force. Those who were arrested during the sit-in were transferred to the courts for trial, but ultimately, no trials were held. After three months of being detained, the students were released but their leaders were sent for military service.

In the late 1960s, the Egyptian economy went from stagnation to the verge of collapse, political repression (particularly of the Muslim Brotherhood) increased and the first steps towards privatization and liberalization – that would be continued and accelerated under his successor Muhammad Anwar el-Sadat – were taken by Nasser, who then died in September 1970. Sadat was unpopular with the more radical students both because of his moves to liberalize the economy and to effectively reverse Nasser’s ‘Arab socialism’ in favour of a form of ‘neo-liberalism’ and also because he promised on more than one occasion that there would be ‘a final reckoning’ with Israel but did nothing to pursue such a policy. This led in 1972 to the outbreak of yet another uprising in the Egyptian universities.

Morocco

In Morocco, the national minister of education, Youssef Belabbès, published a decree in 1965 preventing young people above the age of 17 from attending in the second cycle of lycee (high school). In practice, this rule affected 60 per cent of students. Although at that time the Baccalauréat concerned only a few (1,500 per year) it became a rallying symbol which set off student unrest in Casablanca, Rabat, and other cities.

On March 22, thousands of students gathered on the soccer field at Lycée Mohammed-V in Casablanca. According to an eye-witness, there were almost 15,000 high school students present that morning. The goal of the assembly was to organize a peaceful march to demand the right to public higher education. Arriving at the street in front of the French cultural centre, the demonstration was brutally dispersed by the security forces who fired on the demonstrators. The students were thus compelled to retreat into the poorer neighbourhoods of the city, where they explained their grievances to local workers and the unemployed. They agreed to join up and meet again the following day.

On March 23, the students gathered again at the stadium of Lycée Mohammed-V. They were soon joined by their parents, workers, and the unemployed, as well as people coming from the bidonvilles (slums). This time, the assembly was not so peaceful. The advancing protesters vandalized stores, burned buses and cars, threw stones, and chanted slogans against the king. The response was swift and decisive: the army and the police were mobilized. Tanks were deployed for two days to quell the protestors, and General Mohamed Oufkir, the Minister of the Interior, had no hesitation in firing on the crowd from a helicopter. King Hassan II blamed the events on teachers and parents. He declared, in a message to the nation on March 30, 1965: “Allow me to tell you that there is no greater danger to the State than a so-called intellectual. It would have been better if you were all illiterate.”

After the events of March 23, the opportunity was taken to arrest suspected dissidents including communists and Iraqi teachers. In April, the king also tried to come to terms with the more radical political opposition, notably the UNFP (Union nationale des forces populaires). These discussions came to nothing and in June the king declared a state of emergency. The UNFP continued to criticize the regime and on 29 October 1965, its leader, Mehdi Ben Barka, was abducted and assassinated in Paris. Students in Casablanca mobilized for an anniversary demonstration on 23 March the following year, and many were arrested.

By 1968, although students in Morocco were certainly aware of what was happening in France, they were no longer inclined to rise up in protest against the regime. The state of emergency declared in June 1965 lasted until 1970. The ‘Years of Lead’ is the term used to describe a period of the rule of King Hassan II (mainly the 1960s through to the 1980s); a period marked by state violence against dissidents and democracy activists.

Tunisia

It is not clear to what extent the Egyptian and Moroccan students who were involved in protests in the 1960s were directly influenced by the ‘events’ of 1968 in Paris; the Moroccan protests preceded those in Paris by three years, while those in Egypt appear to have been a response to the specific circumstances of Egypt after the 1967 military defeat. In the case of Tunisia, however, there is little doubt that there were direct links between the student protests there and in France. Burleigh Hendrickson (2012) has made it clear, that, in his view, during the series of events surrounding the student protests of March 1968 at the University of Tunis, political activists across Tunisia and France forged communication networks or drew upon existing ones in order to further their political claims.

He argues that ties with the former metropole shaped students’ demands and that a strictly nationalist perspective of events is insufficient. In response to state repression, Tunisian activists shifted their struggle from global anti-imperialism towards the expansion of human rights at the national level. The networks between France and Tunisia proliferated over the course of 1968 and beyond as concrete realities shaped the direction of new claims. Furthermore, while certain aspects of the Tunisian movement were specific to the local context, it was also transnational for several reasons: 1) activists identified with international and anti-colonial causes such as Palestinian liberation and opposition to the Vietnam War; 2) actors and organizations involved in the protests frequently crossed national borders, especially those of Tunisia and France; and 3) the Tunisian and French states responded to specifically  transnational activism with varying degrees of repression.

He argues that Tunisia’s post-colonial relationship with France established important Franco–Tunisian networks of students and intellectuals that took on new forms during and after the protests of March 1968. Just as imperial knowledge was constructed in a ‘web of empire’ in which the colonies acted as relays of knowledge transmission, transnational circuits of activists emerged in the postcolonial era to constitute ‘webs of resistance’. These networks of Tunisians moving between France and Tunisia and of French activists who had ties to Tunisia enabled the trans-nationalization of political activism—and often made it more difficult for states to contain. They provided access to information censored in Tunisia from the comparatively safe distance of the former metropole, and Paris became a meeting place for activists from other former colonies who were sympathetic to the Tunisian cause.

For Hendrickson, the ties – both hostile and friendly – that linked Tunisians with Paris and the French with Tunis are evidence of a wider global process of building networks of resistance that resonated well beyond the moment of ‘68 itself. Moreover, Bourguiba’s extreme reaction to the 1968 protests contributed to a shift in the nature of protesters’ claims, which was eventually manifested in the creation of the Tunisian League for Human Rights (Ligue Tunisienne des Droits de l’Homme) in 1976 and the establishment of the first Amnesty International section in Tunisia in 1981, in which 68’ers played an instrumental role. The state’s repression of activists fuelled unprecedented activism in the region, conducted initially from afar, making 1968 seminal in the development and articulation of opposition to a Tunisian single-party state. Tunisia’s place in the ‘global 1968’ thus goes far beyond the fact that it occurred simultaneously with other movements around the world.

Case Studies: Central Africa

African countries south of the Sahara also experienced student and broader popular protest during ‘Global 1968’. Although the protests took different forms, many involved mass mobilisation together with other sections of society, including workers and the unemployed. In some cases, the protests were successful, at least to some extent in provoking significant change; in other cases they were not. One of the most significant examples is that of Senegal, which has already been covered in Becker’s blogpost on roape.net.

The Congo

University students had been consistent and vocal critics of Joseph Mobutu’s regime since the early 1960s.  During the first two years after Mobutu’s 1965 coup student groups supported his programme of nationalisation and Africanisation, the national student body Union Générale des étudients du congo (UGEC) – though cautious – took his radical rhetoric at face value. This relationship is easy to dismiss today, but as we have seen Mobutu was speaking from a radical script, condemning tribalism and calling for a new nationalism that would return the Congo to its African roots. The renaming of cities, town and provinces and later the insistence that European names be replaced by ‘authentic’ African ones was conformation to the student body of Mobutu’s sincerity. Mobutu also saw the co-option of the student body – and principally its main representative body the UGEC – as a key element in his control of potentially the most important opposition group in society. Taking the lead of the UGEC the new government even recognised Lumumba as a national hero.

The student movement was regarded as a vital element in Mobutu’s attempt to conquer civil society. Was the regime exaggerating the threat from students? The organisational and political coherence of student groups – in the national union and university affiliates – was far greater than other groups in civil society, a situation that was common in many sub-Saharan African countries after independence. Mobutu was desperate to control his unruly students, and to convince them of his national project.

However, the alliance did not last. The tension between the regime and students was graphically demonstrated on the 4 January 1968. When the vice-president of the United States Hubert H. Humphrey attempted to lay a bouquet of flowers at the Lumumba memorial in Kinshasa, students from Lovanium university who had turned up for the occasion pelted the vice-president with eggs and tomatoes. A UGEC communiqué stated that the protest had been called to prevent ‘a profanation by the same people who had yesterday done everything [so that] the great fighter for Congo’s and Africa’s freedom disappear[ed]’ (Nzongola-Ntalaja, 2002, p.177). The event caused the regime obvious embarrassment, but also clarified the reality of Mobutu’s fake anti-imperialism. The definitive rupture came later in 1968 when the regime banned the UGEC following the arrest of the president André N’Kanza-Dulumingu and student protests in Lubumbashi, Kinshasa and Kisangani.

Mobutu’s strategy of co-opting the student leadership of UGEC eventually won out. Apart from the national president N’Kanza-Dulumingu who refused co-option for years, other leaders caved in. The MPR would not tolerate an independent voice of student organisation, instead the ruling party created the Jeunesse du Mouvement populaire de la révolution  (JMPR), whose leadership saw their political futures tied to a blind loyalty to the regime. The co-option by the regime of the now-banned UGEC did not however silence student activism. The next years were marked by violent demonstrations and strikes across the country. In 1969 sixty students from the University of Kinshasa were killed. In what was to become a familiar gesture of solidarity students in Lubumbashi marched through the city bare-footed and bare-chested in support of their fallen comrades in the capital almost two thousand miles away. Other universities came out in support, and hundreds of activists and student leaders were expelled.

Case Studies: East Africa

Ethiopia

From the very outset, in the kingdom of Ethiopia, the curriculum and other aspects of student life at the University College of Addis Ababa (founded in 1951) were strictly controlled; Emperor Haile Selassie was himself Chancellor and many members of the government sat on the ruling council of the University. Tight censorship was imposed on the student newspapers that began to appear in the late 1950s.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the tight control of ideas and actions, unrest began to boil among the university students in the early 1960s. Students began their push for political and social change and participation subtly in the form of poetry. In 1962, at Student Day Ceremonies in May, students read poems that were charged with political commentary that criticized Selassie’s regime. After the readings, several students were suspended and many more warned not to meddle in politics, but this did not hinder the students from doing so.

Although the unrest was widespread in the early 1960’s, the students of Addis Ababa lacked any central leadership or a unifying cause. But disturbances in the forms of protests continued, causing the university to shut down in 1963. In 1964 and 1965 students held large demonstrations under the slogan ‘Land to the Tiller!’ which called for a redistribution of land from wealthy landlords to working class tenants. The students did not direct their protests at Emperor Selassie, but instead appealed to Parliament, which was in the midst of debating the polarizing question of land distribution. Students held demonstrations outside the Parliament building in 1965 in favor of redistribution, and their cause was bolstered from abroad, as nations like Sweden threatened to cut ties if reforms were not made.

Despite the protests and pressures from abroad, the regime did not budge on the issue and created a law banning student organizations, unions, and demonstrations. In 1966, the students added a new cause to their movement, demonstrating against the imprisonment of beggars in camps outside Addis Ababa. Their demonstrations led to small improvements in the camps’ facilities and treatment of the incarcerated. Enthused by their small victory, students reorganized their efforts in 1967, when the movement became more unified and cohesive. The student unions that were protesting various issues they had with the government joined into one organization, the University Students Union of Addis Ababa (USUAA) and focused on overthrowing the government. The University newspaper ‘News and Views’ was replaced by a much more politically charged publication called ‘The Struggle’. The student movement now had a single, unified voice.

A major issue that drove the movement was opposition to the large military presence that the USA had in Ethiopia at the time. The students saw the US as keeping Emperor Selassie in power and focused their actions on opposing Western influence in Ethiopia, and worldwide. In March 1968 students protested at a fashion show in protest of mini-skirts, a style that the students saw as un-Ethiopian. They organized a student boycott and picket lines and attempted to stage a large demonstration in the streets surrounding Addis Ababa. Police cracked down immediately, resulting in violent clashes, involving beating and some shooting of students and other protestors, and some fringe violence from students, including stoning buses and the US Embassy, and overturning cars.

Protests continued into 1969 at the University College of Addis Ababa (USUAA) and spread to other colleges, universities, and even high schools. The USUAA drew up a list of ten demands on the government, distributing them widely in pamphlets and by word of mouth. These demands included the overturning of new school fees, the expulsion of the American Peace Corps from Ethiopia, an overhaul of the government and education system, and trials for police officers who had fired on students at peaceful demonstrations.

They also accused the government of mismanaging resources and criticized the state of education in Ethiopia. The movement snowballed among younger students until a large part of the school system had to be shut down due to massive demonstrations, school boycotts, and riots. When secondary schools attempted to reopen, students staged a sit-in in schools that resulted in 500 arrests and one death when police arrived to break up the action.

Haile Selassie tried hard to hide the massive unrest from international eyes, heavily censoring newspapers and publications. Finally, though, he made an appearance on television agreeing to discuss the demands with the students, but at the same time ‘The Struggle’ was banned. By the end of 1969, Selassie had made some concessions by firing his minister of education and pardoning some of those arrested earlier that year. However, these concessions were not enough to stop the student movement. Over the next few years, the government cracked down hard on the student movement, violently dispersing organized demonstrations. 

Tanzania

Student activism has been common at the University of Dar es Salaam throughout its history and has played a part in its institutional development, as well as in helping shape the wider social and political agenda in Tanzania. As the country’s flagship university, it was always going to play an important role in Tanzania’s development, but there was a contradiction – here as in other African countries – between students as an educated cadre for the progressive transformation of economy and society on the one hand, and students as a privileged elite on the other.

Nyerere, like most other African leaders, had numerous confrontations with students through the late 1960s and 1970s as the government of Tanzania – rather as in Ghana – increasingly drew the University of Dar es Salaam and those it regarded as its privileged cadres into its initiatives for development, many of which were regarded by the students as blatant ‘top-down’ state intervention inimical to participatory democracy. The student demonstration that received the most support in 1968, was one held in Dar es Salaam in July to protest against an agreement recently signed by the government to receive American aid, thus highlighting the strong anti-imperialist, and specifically anti-American, attitude of many Tanzanian students during the Vietnam war.        

Kenya  

Student attitudes towards the USA were somewhat different in Kenya. As early as 1959, before Kenya attained independence on 12 December 1963, nationalist leader Tom Mboya had begun a programme, funded by Americans, of sending talented youth to the United States for higher education. British colonial officials opposed the programme. The next year Senator John F. Kennedy helped fund the programme, which is said to have trained some 70 per cent of the top leaders of the new nation, including the first African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize, environmentalist Wangari Maathai.

The development of the University College of Nairobi from its origins as a technical college in the late 1950s took place in piecemeal fashion over several years. In 1968, however, hundreds of students from the University College marched through the streets of Nairobi, accompanied by a contingent of anti-riot police, to protest against the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia and eventually the president of the students’ union, Chibule wa Tsuma, handed over a strongly-worded memorandum to the Soviet Ambassador urging the withdrawal of troops from Czechoslovakia, and the release of Mr Dubcek and all of the other arrested political leaders.

In March the following year, students from the University College organised a demonstration to protest against the hanging of African nationalists in Rhodesia. One of those involved was arrested and convicted of ‘incitement to the defiance of lawful authority’ and ‘assaulting a police officer’, for having twice attempted to break a police cordon in front of the British High Commission and having exhorted other students to stage a ‘sit-down’, and also for having thrown a stone which hit a policeman.

Case Studies: South Africa

The 1960s are widely regarded as the decade in which mass protest in South Africa was effectively repressed and the leadership of the ANC and PAC either forced into exile or put on trial and imprisoned. It is true that the first years of the decade saw much opposition crushed by the apartheid state. But the 1960s in South Africa were, like the decade that preceded it and those that succeeded it, years in which the struggle continued, even if to some extent in more muted forms, in the universities both ‘black’ and ‘white’ and elsewhere, largely among the ‘black’ community but also among some sections of the ‘Asian’, ‘coloured’ and ‘white’ communities.

The demonstrations against the pass laws in Sharpeville and Langa in 1960 were brutally crushed. Shortly afterwards, the African National Congress (ANC) and the Pan-African Congress (PAC) were banned under the Unlawful Organisations Act No 34 which provided for organisations ‘threatening public order or the safety of the public’ to be declared unlawful. Even the Liberal Party came under pressure, with 35 of its leading members arrested and detained at the Fort in Johannesburg and banning orders under the Suppression of Communism Act restricting the political activities of 41 leading members of the party for the next five years.

The imprisonment, execution, escape or departure into exile of so many opposition leaders and activists during 1964 undoubtedly had a negative impact on the ability of the opposition to maintain the same level of activity in the second half of the decade as it had during the early years of the 1960s. As Raymond Suttner commented in 2012, in his essay on the ‘long and difficult journey’ of the ANC at the time of its centenary, its initiatives under the rubric of the ‘armed struggle’ (through the ANC’s armed-wing MK) ‘were brought to a swift halt, first with the arrest of the national leaders… and then with the ‘mopping up’ of smaller units over the following two years’ (International Affairs, 88 (4):729). But it is not correct to suggest that protest and opposition to the apartheid regime died away entirely in the second half of the decade.   

Suttner points out that while ‘until recently, historians record the period between the Rivonia Trial and the 1976 Soweto uprising as one of almost complete inactivity’, in reality ‘a substantial number of supporters and members remained outside prison’, many of whom formed underground units in both urban and rural areas, and continued the struggle, albeit on a significantly smaller scale. ‘In the meanwhile’, he suggests, ‘the gap left by the ANC in the public domain was partially filled by liberal organizations and the new vibrant self-assertion of the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM). There was also active support now from the international community and from ‘anti-apartheid movements’ in many parts of the world.

During these years students were regarded as a particularly dangerous source of protest against the apartheid regime, and further ‘segregation’ was seen as a method of control. On 1 January 1960, for example, the Minister of Bantu Education assumed control of the University of Fort Hare (already identified as a key source of resistance and rebellion) and all ‘black’ students (including Coloured and Indian) were prohibited from attending formerly ‘open universities’, particularly the Universities of Cape Town (UCT) and the Witwatersrand (Wits). Under the 1959 inappropriately named ‘Extension of University Education Act’, Fort Hare was transformed into an ethnic institution for Xhosa-speaking students, and a number of ethnic ‘bush colleges’ were founded for various racial and ethnic groups, including also the University of the Western Cape (UWC) for ‘Coloureds’ and the University of Durban-Westville (UDW) for ‘Indians’.   

Notwithstanding these oppressive moves under the regime’s grand apartheid scheme, the latter part of the 1960s saw the emergence of opposition to apartheid among students and some university and college staff, as well as among other broadly liberal organizations. Student protests and reformations of the organised student movements were significant too. The developments need to be understood in respect to major student organisations of the time, particularly NUSAS (founded in 1924), the Afrikaanse Nationale Studentebond (ANSB) founded in 1933, and the South African Students Organisation (SASO), founded in 1968. After the establishment of the ANSB, students from Universities of Bloemfontein, Potchefstroom and Pretoria withdrew from NUSAS, followed at a later date by Stellenbosch. NUSAS was always vocal in its criticism of the apartheid regime of the National Party and backed the ANC in their campaign against repression, and adopted the Freedom Charter and involved its members in non-racial political projects in education, the arts and trade union spheres.

In the 1950s and 1960s NUSAS ideologically emphasised ‘multiracialism’, and ‘liberalism’ of the South African variant that claimed incompatibility between apartheid and capitalism. Even then, however, a small number of Marxists and members of the South African communist party were members of the student association. In the 1960s there were direct confrontations between government and the NUSAS leadership, which at some instances resulted in detention, banning, deportation and withdrawal of passports for the office-bearers. NUSAS President Jonty Driver, for instance, was detained in August and September 1964 without trial by the police and held in solitary confinement, possibly because of his suspected involvement in the African Resistance Movement (ARM), a small group of young white militants.

At the ‘black’ universities which had been established as apartheid institutions in the early 1960s small numbers of students joined NUSAS, and at some institutions of tertiary learning battles took place for permission to form autonomous Student Representative Councils (SRC) and to affiliate to NUSAS. An exception was the longer-established University of Fort Hare, where – in contrast – the SRC temporarily disaffiliated from NUSAS in 1952 because of frustration about racist tendencies within the student association.  The Fort Hare students argued that they had not been too successful in their attempts to radicalise NUSAS. They also raised concerns of alleged racial slights.

They argued that that NUSAS, despite its multiracial membership, was essentially dominated and controlled by white students. This was what Steve Biko, a student at the all-black University of Natal Medical School (UNMS) had in mind when he expressed in his column, ‘I Write what I Like’, in the SASO Newsletter, his objection to ‘the intellectual arrogance of white people that makes them believe that white leadership is a sine qua non in this country and that whites are divinely appointed pace-setters in progress’ (Biko 1987: 24).

Biko was frustrated that NUSAS and other anti-apartheid groups were dominated by white liberals, rather than by the blacks who were most affected by apartheid. He believed that even when well-intentioned, white liberals failed to comprehend the black experience and often acted in a paternalistic manner. In 1968, he and others thus formed the South African Student Organisation (SASO), which for political reasons offered membership to students of all ‘black’ sections of the population, which included those assigned to the apartheid categories of ‘African’, ‘Coloured’ and ‘Indian’.

Biko and his associates believed that to avoid white domination, black people had to organise independently. Influenced by Frantz Fanon and the African-American Black Power movement, Biko and his compatriots developed Black Consciousness as SASO’s official ideology. The movement campaigned for an end to apartheid and the transition of South Africa toward universal suffrage and a socialist economy. It organised Black Community Programmes (BCPs) and focused on the psychological empowerment of black people. Biko believed that black people needed to rid themselves of any sense of racial inferiority, an idea he expressed by popularizing the slogan ‘black is beautiful’.

In the early years, the new all-black SASO was allowed space to grow at the black universities, in part because the government regarded the separate black student association and its emphasis on largely psychological-oriented black consciousness as quite compatible with the apartheid ideology. They were to learn very soon that SASO, and more generally the ‘black conscious movement’ that Biko promoted, posed a major threat to the regime. But by the time that SASO began to be more active in political campaigns, from about 1972-3 onwards, the organisation had established already firm structural roots, which made it difficult for the government to entirely suppress it despite brutal repression, best exemplified by the murder of Biko in 1977.

Despite their organisational split, white and black student activists of NUSAS and SASO continued working together. In the early 1970s, a new generation of white students also became active in increasingly radical politics. Radical anti-apartheid and increasingly ‘new-left’ white students organised campaigns to rediscover the history of resistance which had been hidden through the repressive climate of the 1960s. They then embarked on a massive campaign for the release of all political prisoners. At the University of Witwatersrand (Wits), they took the protest beyond the confines of the campus into the city of Johannesburg. Students engaged with the workers and labour conditions on the campuses and founded ‘wages commissions’. Radical students and a few younger academics became instrumental in laying the grounds for the new black trade unions that emerged in the 1970s.

In some instances, black and white students, and a few younger, radical academics, worked together in these new leftist politics. Radical academics were involved particularly in the efforts around strikes and the emergence of structures and ultimately new black labour unions in the first half of the 1970s. Of special significance was Richard (Rick) Turner, a lecturer in philosophy at the University of Natal in Durban, who worked closely with Steve Biko. Their political cooperation and personal friendship played a significant role in the ‘Durban moment’, a massive wave of strikes in 1972-3, which is often regarded as the harbinger, if not the start, of the new wave of resistance that led to the Soweto uprising, the massive uprisings of the 1980s and eventually the demise of the regime. Like his friend and comrade Biko, Turner was assassinated by the apartheid state in 1978. 

The Mafeje Affair

Apart from the significant organizational developments during that year, South Africa too had its 1968 moment of ‘transgressive’ student activism (J. Brown 2016). At the country’s oldest university, the University of Cape Town (UCT), Archie Mafeje, a black master’s graduate of UCT (cum laude) and by then in the process of completing his PhD at the University Cambridge, was appointed in 1968 to a senior lecturer position in social anthropology. The university offered him the job, but then, after government pressure by the apartheid regime, rescinded the offer.

The issue was discussed at the congress of NUSAS, which organized most of the UCT students at the time, and the idea emerged of a sit-in along the lines of the university occupations then taking place in the rest of the world. Some of those who were involved remember that the European protests (in Paris and elsewhere) were widely reported in South Africa and that students followed them with interest (Plaut 2011). So, when the university authorities failed to stand up against the government intervention in its hiring policies in August 1968, a mass meeting took place in the university’s grand Jameson Hall, normally the site of graduations and other academic events. After rousing speeches from student leaders, most of the one thousand–strong audience marched out, and about six hundred students occupied the university’s administration building.

Yet, for a brief moment in August 1968, South Africa had its taste of ‘1968’. Those involved remember the inspiration and solidarity they received from Paris and London. Beyond media connections, Rick Turner who had recently returned from his doctoral studies at the Sorbonne provided a personal link of lived experience (for a full account of the Mafeje affair read Becker’s account).

The events at UCT are hardly remembered today, few of the international debates on the 1968 movements take note of the protests against the university’s dismal attitude during what has become known as the ‘Mafeje affair’, nor is there much memory of these 1960s student protests in South Africa itself. For most observers, ‘student uprising’ in South Africa refers in the first place to the events commonly known as ‘Soweto 1976’ – which is generally regarded as the beginning of the country’s student protests.

Though the Soweto uprising was in the main focus due to the protests by school-going pupils and high school students, and not led by university students, it was connected to, and ideologically grew out of developments at South African universities, which started in 1968. Most prominently, of course, this included the Black Consciousness (BC) movement, commonly associated with Steve Biko and SASO.

Conclusion

Although a comprehensive discussion of ‘1968’ on the African continent is impossible here, the examples we have presented demonstrate that students, workers and often the unemployed urban poor revolted in different ways and in contexts different from than those that took place in the North American and Western European settings. However, even a selective survey like this, let alone a closer comparison, of the many uprisings in Africa’s 1968 shows the diversity of settings and forms of activism on the continent. Our survey also suggests that the 1960s were a crucial decade for popular protest and ‘revolt’ across Africa – as they were elsewhere across the world. Despite a few honourable exceptions the problems with the huge amount of literature that poured out of the social movements in the late 1960s and 1970s (and continues to) was its extraordinary eurocentrisism. As we have shown the decade was as important for activists and other groups in Africa as it was in Europe and North America. 1968 was a crucial year for student revolutionaries on the continent. In Senegal, in events that some have claimed predated the upheavals in France, students were central to the worst political crisis the President, Leopold Senghor, had faced since independence eight years previously. Forcing him to flee the capital and call in the French army to restore order, after only eight years of independence.  The unfolding of these events and the fact that they took place at the same time and often in relation to protests in the Western centres of the ‘global movement’ indicate conclusively that Africa should not be left blank on the map of scholarship that seeks to understand ‘1968’ in a global perspective. 

Heike Becker is a regular contributor to roape.net, she is an activist and writer. As a professor at the University of the Western Cape she teaches anthropology and writes on politics, culture, and social movements across the continent.

David Seddon is a researcher and political activist who has written extensively on social movements, class struggles and political transitions across the developing world. He studied ‘food riots’ and protest in a ground-breaking study on North Africa and the Middle East Free Markets and Food Riots: the politics of global adjustment with his co-editor John Walton. Seddon also coordinates the roape.net series on Popular Protest and Class Struggle in Africa.

Featured Photograph: Egyptians pour into the streets on 9 and 10 June, shouting, ‘we shall fight’ in support of President Nasser, and against his resignation (June, 1967).

References  

Bianchini, Pascal. 2002. “Le mouvement étudiant sénégalais: Un essai d’interpretation.” In La société sénégalaise entre le local et le global, ed. Momar Coumba Diop, 359–396. Paris: Karthala.

Biko, Steve. 1987. I write What I Like: Selected Writings by Steve Biko.  London: Heinemann.

Brown, Julian. 2016. The road to Soweto: Resistance and the uprising of 16 June 2016. Johannesburg: Jacana.

Brown, Timothy Scott. 2013. West Germany and the global sixties: The anti-authoritarian revolt, 1962–1978. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Carey, Elaine. 2016. “Mexico’s 1968 Olympic dream.” In Protests in the streets: 1968 across the globe, ed. Elaine Carey 91–119. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing.

Frei, Norbert. 2017. 1968: Jugendrevolte und globaler Protest. Munich: dtv. Kurlansky,

Hendrickson, Burleigh. 2017. ‘Finding Tunisia in the Global 1960s’, Monde(s) no.11 (1): 61-78. Presses universitaires de Rennes.

Luhanga, Matthew Laban. 2009. Courage for Change: re-engineering the University of Dar es Salaam. Dar es Salaam: University of Dar es Salaam.        

Kurlansky, Mark. 2005. 1968: The year that rocked the world. London: Vintage.

Monaville, Pedro A.G. 2013. “Decolonizing the university: Postal politics, the student movement, and global 1968 in the Congo.” PhD diss., University of Michigan. http://hdl.handle.net/2027.42/102373.

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

Nzongola-Ntalaja, George. 2002. A People’s History of the Congo. London, Zed Books.

Plaut, Martin. 2011. “How the 1968 revolution reached Cape Town.” MartinPlaut blog, 1 September. martinplaut.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/the-1968-revolution-reaches-cape-town.

Seddon, David. 2017. “Che Guevara in the Congo”, Jacobin, 4 April 2017 www.jacobinmag.com/2017/04/che-guevara-cuba-castro-congo-patrice-lumumba-colonialism.

Seddon, David. 2017-2018. RoAPE Project on ‘Popular Protest, Social Movements and Class Struggle in Africa’, RoAPE.net

Suttner, Raymond.  2012. “The African National Congress Centenary:  a long and difficult journey”. International Affairs, 88 (4):729).

Taafe, Peter, ‘Why 1968 Still Matters’, Socialism Today, no. 218, May 2018, p. 11.

West, Michael, William Martin and Fanon Che Wilkins. 2009. From Toussaint to Tupac: the Black International since the Age of Revolution.

Zeilig, Leo. 2007. Revolt and protest: Student politics and activism in Sub-Saharan Africa. London: I.B. Tauris.

‘Power to the People’: the 1968 Revolt in Africa

By Heike Becker

Fifty years after student protests shook much of the Cold War world, in the ‘West’ and in the ‘East, ‘Global 1968’ has become the catchphrase to describe these profound generational revolts. West Berlin, Paris, and Berkeley spring to mind prominently, and most memorable behind what was then the Iron Curtain were the events of the Prague Spring. For most commentators and scholars, these events in the Global North appear to have constituted ‘Global 1968.’

At the beginning of the anniversary year, for instance, a recent publication by a German scholar of contemporary history, Norbert Frei, dubbed 1968: Youth Revolt and Global Protest made it to the front tables of major Berlin bookstores. Frei’s monograph includes chapters on Paris, and on the events in the United States, Germany, Japan, Italy, the Netherlands, and the United Kingdom in ’The West,’ supplemented by a chapter on ‘Movements in the East,’ which discusses protest in Prague, Poland, and the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Frei mentions neither the events of the 1968 revolts in Africa, nor indeed those that had taken place in any part of the Global South. What then, I am wondering, is his concept of the global of the revolt?

Though obliterated in Frei’s monograph, Latin America gathers a little more attention with the 1968 events in Mexico City, which are occasionally mentioned in the discussion (see Carey 2016; Kurlansky 2005). In contrast, none of the relevant overviews brings related events on the African continent to the fore.

What may be the reason for the fact that in the current debates on 1968 and its legacy on the African continent are almost never mentioned? It certainly was not the case that nothing happened on the continent that matched the activism of the revolting generation elsewhere. In fact, students and workers in a range of African countries appear to have contributed to the global uprising with their own interpretations, from Senegal and South Africa to the Congo (see a full account of the continent’s revolt in 1968 by Becker and Seddon on roape.net), to mention just a few. Yet, those African revolts and protests have been forgotten in the global discourse of commemoration.

There is clearly a great need to look more closely at African events, trajectories, and meanings of 1968 activism. For a start, here are two vignettes of student protests that come to mind; both took place in 1968 on the continent. The first uprising happened in Dakar, the second in Cape Town.

Student-led protests: Dakar 1968

The majority of those celebrating and debating in the Global North may be surprised to hear that in May 1968, it was Senegal where a student-led revolt almost sent a government packing. In Dakar, students had been on strike from March 1968, initially criticizing the conditions in their university. From April 1968, they connected with broader concerns in the society, such as the high price of local staples, the fall in the standard of living, unemployment of graduates, and foreign domination of the domestic industry. In May, the Senegalese trade unions adopted the students’ slogans and joined the struggles. Leo Zeilig (2007: 182), who has studied the Senegalese protests in the wider context of African student movements, describes the events of Dakar 1968:

On demonstrations the crowd declared: ‘Power to the people: freedom for unions,’ ‘We want work and rice.’ The coalition of student and working-class demands culminated in the general strike that started on 31 May. Between 1 and 3 June ‘we had the impression that the government was vacant . . . ministers were confined to the administrative buildings . . . and the leaders of the party and state hid in their houses! . . .’

The government reacted to the strike by ordering the army onto the university campus, with instructions to shoot on sight. During a demonstration after these events, workers and students decided to march to the presidential palace, which was protected by the army. French troops openly intervened, occupying key installations in the town, the airport, the presidential palace and of course the French embassy. The university was closed, foreign students were sent home and thousands of students were arrested.

There has been some discussion among former activists and analysts about how far the events in Dakar were connected to those in Paris. Although it seems clear that they were certainly no distant ripples of the storm in the French metropole—and in fact, the students in Dakar had taken to the streets before those in Paris—authors like Zeilig maintain that they were indeed part of the global 1968 youth revolt.

UCT 1968 sit-in protest: marching from Jameson Hall to the Administration Block (photograph held by UCT Photograph and Clipping Collection—Special Collections, University of Cape Town Libraries, used with permission).

Today, the events that took place in Dakar between March and June 1968 are seldom debated as central foci of a global 1968 protest movement. This is ever-more surprising as the brutal crackdown on the uprising in Senegal sent ripples to Europe. In September 1968, thousands demonstrated against the ‘Peace Award of the German Publishers’ Guild’ to Senegalese President Léopold Senghor during the Frankfurt Book Fair. The protests were explicitly directed against both Senghor’s concept of Négritude said to ostensibly promote neocolonial development and the brutal crushing of the Senegalese opposition movements earlier that year (T. Brown 2013: 117–120).

Yet, the events in Dakar were related to Global 1968 and those in the country’s former colonial capital, Paris, in a more complex ways than suggested by those who claim that ‘the French events . . . found their way quickly to Dakar’ (T. Brown 2013: 118). The Senegalese movement not only began earlier, it was connected also to local histories of protest. In February 1961, 250 students had taken to the streets of Dakar to protest against the assassination of the Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba. Analysts suggest that this was the moment when the Senegalese students shifted from an anticolonial orientation toward an anti-imperialist ideology (Bianchini 2002).

African uprisings in 1968 also need to be considered in the context of broader waves of student activism and rebellion on the continent. Again, events in the Congo were central to this as the assassination of Lumumba radicalized student politics with an impact on both the local, the African, and indeed the international (Global North) student movements. In West Germany, for instance, long before the massive protests against Senghor at the Frankfurt Book Fair, students had been marching in West Berlin against an official visit of Congolese President Moise Tschombé in December 1964, who was said to have been implicated in the murder of his predecessor, Patrice Lumumba. On the African continent, as elsewhere, student revolt took different forms in response to varying local, national, and regional conditions. Yet, the late 1960s saw protests in countries across Africa.

Student protests against apartheid: Cape Town 1968

South Africa too had its 1968 moment of transgressive student activism. At the country’s oldest university, the University of Cape Town (UCT), Archie Mafeje, a black master’s graduate of UCT and by then in the process of completing his PhD at the University of Cambridge, was appointed in 1968 to a senior lecturer position in social anthropology. The university offered him the job, but then, after government pressure by the Apartheid regime, rescinded the offer.

The issue was discussed at the congress of the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS), which organized most of the UCT students at the time, and the idea emerged of a sit-in along the lines of the university occupations then taking place in the rest of the world. Some of those who were involved remember that the European protests were widely reported in South Africa and that students followed them with interest (Plaut 2011).

So, when the university authorities failed to stand up against the government intervention in its hiring policies in August 1968, a mass meeting took place in the university’s grand Jameson Hall, normally the site of graduations and other academic events. After rousing speeches from student leaders, most of the one thousand–strong audience marched out, and about six hundred students occupied the university’s administration building. The sit-in of students and some academic staff, as the action was called following the designation of similar forms of activism from Berkeley to West Berlin, resolved ‘to sit in this Administration Building until such time as the University Council has met to 1. Appoint Mafeje to University Staff. 2. Make a statement of policy to ensure that the future appointments be made solely on Academic grounds’ (BUZV UCT). While the form of activism was thus fairly radical, the language of the protest, with its emphasis on ‘academic freedom,’ remained within the limits of liberal opposition against the apartheid regime. Significant for the South African political and academic condition of the time is that most if not all of the student protesters belonged to the country’s white minority.

UCT 1968 sit-in protest: inside the occupied administration block (photograph held by UCT Photograph and Clipping Collection—Special Collections, University of Cape Town Libraries, used with permission).

Eventually, the occupiers—about 90 had stayed the course—gave up and left after one-and-a-half weeks. A white anthropologist was appointed in Mafeje’s place. South Africa’s oldest university had caved in to the demands of the apartheid policy regarding university education.

The 1968 ‘Mafeje affair’ must be understood as representative of the enforcement of apartheid policies in the academy. From 1959 onward, South African students had been admitted to universities along racial and ethnic lines—at UCT, which had been declared a white institution, black students were admitted only under exceptional circumstances and any non-white applicant aspiring to study at UCT had to apply for a special permit from the government. Although this law did not pertain to academic staff members, Mafeje’s appointment was prevented.

Yet, for a brief period in August 1968, South Africa had had its taste of 1968. Martin Plaut (2011), one of the occupiers, described this action of a section of South African white students:

Six hundred of us decided to participate in the occupation, determined not to leave until UCT reversed its decision. For ten days we held out, sleeping on the floors. Food was cooked communally—even by the men who, at that time, were largely ignorant of the workings of a kitchen. Plenty of wine and marijuana were consumed and virginities were lost, but on the whole it was a carefully managed protest, with a sign asking for rubbish to be removed and the areas being occupied to be kept clean. Messages of support flowed in from students in Paris and London and there was favourable coverage in the international media.

Perhaps the most important thing was that we discovered intellectual liberation. Alternative lectures were organised on the stairs. We got a newspaper up and running. In one fell swoop we had thrown off our mental shackles. At last we were not just some isolated racist outpost of empire, but part of an international student movement.

This conclusion was indeed significant: the student protesters felt that through their transgressive activism they had gained a sense of intellectual freedom and self-respect, which the academic institution, proud as UCT was and remains of its ‘liberal’ stance, had not been able to maintain.

The events in Dakar and Cape Town demonstrate examples of students on the African continent revolting in very different ways and contexts than those in the North American and Western European settings. The comparison of these two instances of the many uprising in Africa’s 1968 also shows the diversity of settings and forms of activism on the continent. The unfolding of those events and the fact that they were met with solidarity and related protests in the Western centres of the revolt highlight that Africa should not be left blank on the map of scholarship that seeks to understand 1968 in a global perspective.

Heike Becker is a regular contributor to roape.net, she is an activist and writer. As a professor at the University of the Western Cape she teaches anthropology and writes on politics, culture, and social movements across the continent.

An earlier version of this article was published on Heike Becker’s blog and on Focaal Blog. On 31 May roape.net will be publishing an extensive survey of the 1968 protest movement across Africa by ROAPE writers Heike Becker and David Seddon.

References

Bianchini, Pascal. 2002. “Le mouvement étudiant sénégalais: Un essai d’interpretation.” In La société sénégalaise entre le local et le global, ed. Momar Coumba Diop, 359–396. Paris: Karthala.

Brown, Julian. 2016. The road to Soweto: Resistance and the uprising of 16 June 2016. Johannesburg: Jacana.

Brown, Timothy Scott. 2013. West Germany and the global sixties: The anti-authoritarian revolt, 1962–1978. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

BUZV UCT. Photograph and Clipping Collection, University of Cape Town Libraries, Special Collections. “Academic Freedom—1968: Sit-in Protest.” mss_buz_acad_freedom_1968_sit_in.

Carey, Elaine. 2016. “Mexico’s 1968 Olympic dream.” In Protests in the streets: 1968 across the globe, ed. Elaine Carey 91–119. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing.

Frei, Norbert. 2017. 1968: Jugendrevolte und globaler Protest. Munich: dtv.

Kurlansky, Mark. 2005. 1968: The year that rocked the world. London: Vintage.

Monaville, Pedro A.G. 2013. “Decolonizing the university: Postal politics, the student movement, and global 1968 in the Congo.” PhD diss., University of Michigan. http://hdl.handle.net/2027.42/102373.

Plaut, Martin. 2011. “How the 1968 revolution reached Cape Town.” MartinPlaut blog, 1 September. martinplaut.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/the-1968-revolution-reaches-cape-town.

Zeilig, Leo. 2007. Revolt and protest: Student politics and activism in Sub-Saharan Africa. London: I.B. Tauris.

Contradictions of Peripheral States

By Tamás Gerőcs

I was the only participant in the Dar es Salaam workshop organized by the Review of African Political Economy (ROAPE) from Eastern Europe. I am grateful that I could be there and despite the fact I did not know any of the participants in person before, I could still follow the debates and make my small contribution thanks to what I think is the global and historical perspective of the majority of issues that were raised. One debate was especially familiar to me because we used to have similar reflections on our socialist history in Hungary.

Much of the debate in Tanzania centred on the legacy of Julius Nyerere’s revolutionary government. My impression was that this legacy is celebrated among young activists in Tanzania who use Nyerere and his Arusha Declaration as the main historical reference point to which they want to return today when they imagine a revolutionary struggle that can transform social relations in a capitalist society. Yet this strong and positive memory on the Nyerere’s years surprised me.

In the context I am most familiar with in Eastern Europe, we usually tend to critically reflect on our socialist past. This is not just an abstract theoretical question, but all over the world the left needs to develop a social critique to the age of post-war developmentalism not only from a moral standpoint but also economically and socially in order to understand the origin and eruption of the neo-liberal reversal. The main question which we tend to ask in Eastern Europe is whether state socialism was a genuine attempt to delink our society from global capitalist forces or at least to withstand these forces as the state socialist ideology promised us. Or whether the state mediated a current mode of world-economic re-integration through which capitalist social relations were reproduced and modified. The question these debates in Eastern Europe focus on is whether the period between 1960s and 1980s was state socialism or state capitalism.

I think such a debate is necessary in relation to the experience of the national liberation movements in Africa too and especially on the role of the state that had emerged from the national struggles throughout Africa and in particular in Tanzania. I welcomed the debate on this issue when some of the comrades discussed the revolutionary potential of the Arusha Declaration and the state that was built upon its principles by Nyerere. Some of these arguments went as far as to admit that Nyerere’s state was capitalist in essence as it was either unable or unwilling to address questions surrounding class struggle. Instead it (re)produced what dependency and world-system scholars, including Samir Amin and Issa Shivji and many others called the “state bureaucratic bourgeoisie” which were embryonic forms of those oligarchs who later emerged in the neo-liberal transition.

This whole question goes back to the debates around the Russian Revolution, the other crucial topic which was discussed in the workshop. Later debates developed along these lines on the question of the Asiatic mode of production addressed by Maoist comrades in the 1960s and 1970s in China. These historical debates of the global left tended to reflect on the question whether the transition to socialism from non-capitalist social relations must include the temporary transformation to a form of petit-capitalist society or whether there is a leap forward from the colonial situation directly to socialism without any bourgeois ‘interruption’.

Other questions in these debates include whether socialism and capitalism must look the same everywhere, hence industrialization as the crucial means in an agrarian society to leap forward to socialism (some of these issues are being raised in the debates on capitalism in Africa on roape.net). Or as world-systems and dependency scholars argue, uneven and combined development encompasses many forms of capitalist social relations making capitalism a very complex global system in which non-capitalist modes of production and organizations of labour are constantly reproduced as was the case with slavery in the Americas or the second serfdom in Eastern Europe in the 19th century still under the aegis of the emerging global capitalism. No surprise that these scholars suggest that even the Soviet socialist experiment which managed to undo private property relations and industrialize the Russian economy to an unprecedented degree was indeed a form of state capitalism transformed by the emergence of the post war international division of labor.

One conclusion is that neither industrialization, nor nationalization are revolutionary acts per se at least not for the cause of the proletariat. In fact, during systemic crises of capitalism the national bourgeoisie might even be compelled to nationalize industry in defense of its own interest as has been the case in many parts of Eastern Europe since 2009. The crucial question to be addressed in these debates and hopefully the next workshop in Johannesburg will be the nature of the popular socialization of the economy for which nationalization might be a necessary but certainly not sufficient requirement. Naturally, there are additional questions. What then does socialization of the means of production and the state mean and how shall it work? In order to revisit these question, and to develop a critical assessment of the socialist past, we must return to the legacy of the Arusha Declaration and the Russian revolution.

Questions on class relations were another important discussion at the workshop. Adequate class analysis is inevitable for any leftist initiative. We have to be very careful not to use rigid categories that do not apply to specific socio-historical circumstances. From a structuralist point of view, however, class relations are global relations as the production, distribution and circulation of (surplus) value are organized on a global scale. In peripheral countries, such as in East Africa and Eastern Europe citizens of a particular state might occupy distant global positions compared to each other while their class relations remain indirect in regard to their global class positions despite the geographical or cultural proximity in the state (see the discussion of Greece’s crisis on roape.net). This ‘structural heterogeneity’ makes these nations highly unintegrated and polarized which is one of the main contradictions of capitalist peripheral states.

Tamás Gerőcs is a political economist, currently employed as a Research Fellow at the Institute of World Economics, Hungarian Academy of Sciences.

Featured Photograph: South African socialist Trevor Ngwane speaking at the workshop, behind him is a projected image of national liberation heroes.

Consciously Identifying as a Ugandan Comrade

By Norah Owaraga

‘Imperialism in Africa today, the place of class struggles and progressive politics’ was the theme of the ROAPE Connections workshop that was held from 16 _17 April 2018 at the Council Chamber of the University of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. I was privileged to attend the workshop, on invitation and sponsorship of ROAPE.

For me the first major conscious awakening that the workshop ignited was to note that workshop participants referred to each other as comrade –  even I was referred to us a comrade. And I thought, what qualifies one to be a comrade? More specifically, what qualifies me to be a comrade? Am I deserving of designation comrade? What does one mean when they refer to another as a comrade? How should one feel when another refers to them as a comrade?

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, comrade means, ‘a friend, especially one who you have been involved in difficult or dangerous, usually military activities.’ I wondered what difficult or dangerous activities the workshop participants had been involved in or are currently involved in, in order for them to have become comrades. I wondered what difficult and dangerous activities ROAPE thought I had been involved in or that I am currently involved in, in order for ROAPE to consider me to be among comrades.

The Cambridge Dictionary, however, also offers a second meaning of comrade as, ‘a member of the same political group, especially a communist or socialist group or a trade union.’ Even with this second definition I had questions of whether the workshop participants were homogenous. Were we truly of the same political group? Were we really of the same persuasion? Yes, many questions for me were sparked off by the workshop – questions that I am now grappling with and perhaps will continue to do so in the longer-term.

Within the context of the workshop, however, my feeling is that the participants felt that we were comrades, in the sense that we each have socialist agendas. So, for me, the workshop triggered a further journey of self-discovery; a journey for me to consider consciously identifying as a socialist comrade. A journey to find out what it was in me that ROAPE saw to make them consider me a comrade.

If a comrade is a socialist, as in she or he who aspires to be driven by moral incentives over and above the material kind, I wondered, in modern day Uganda – where I am from – who is a comrade really? How might one identify a Ugandan comrade? What distinguishes a Ugandan as a comrade? Or perhaps, there is no such thing as a Ugandan comrade for all comrades are the same the world over?  

Is it truly feasible that working class internationalism exists and is concerned with a single global class struggle? Does international socialism truly exist? Is internationalism the central logic within which the series of ROAPE workshops are being organised? Or are the ROAPE workshops being organised on the basis of an appreciation of separate localised struggles around the world, and particularly within the African Continent which is ROAPE’s primary focus?

Right from the presentations of the first workshop panel on ‘Imperialism and the state of class struggle in Africa’, and the discussions that ensued, I have become convinced that my journey of self-discovery to consciously identify as a leftist socialist needs to be informed by an appreciation of localised struggles within my homeland, Uganda.

At the workshop, however, discussions on contemporary imperialism tended to take on a binary format, which pitied them (the imperialists) against us (the victims of imperialism). We seemed, for example, to primarily consider the Global-West  – specifically the G8 Countries – and China as the imperialists, on the one hand and African countries as the victims of imperialism, on the other hand (see the roape.net debate on imperialism here).

Accepting that an imperialist nation uses capitalism, globalisation and culture, in order to extend its power over another sovereign nation, I wonder about how efficient our binary discussion was. In fact, I am of the view that the notion that African nations, such as Uganda, are simply being used by G8 countries or China provides a smoke screen that masks local struggles.

Internal struggles within each country exist. The challenge is recognising and identifying the struggles and who the players are. The workshop discussed the applicability of the concept of ‘class’ to Africa. In Uganda the concept of class is particularly challenging to use as an analytical framework. The majority of Ugandans are self-employed smallholder farmers who own the land on which they produce and own the homes in which they live. The dichotomy employee versus employer is not always distinct. Thus, such popular socialist debates on job creation, minimum wage and on employee working conditions, for example, divert attention away from the more relevant debates for Uganda, like those on the terms of trade for smallholder farmers, farm-gate prices, for example.

As our workshop discussions ensued, I tried to locate Uganda, as a country, and to locate an individual Ugandan within the context of the second panel, Legacy of Russian Revolution and Arusha Declaration.’  Though I wondered why ROAPE chose to draw lessons from the Russian Revolution as opposed to drawing lessons from the life and work of revolutionaries from the African continent, such as Mozambique’s Samora Machel, Ghana’s Kwame Nkurumah or even from Latin America, such as Argentina’s Che Guevara who fought ‘imperialism’ in the Congo in the 1960s.

I also wondered why ROAPE chose not to directly draw lessons from how the socialist beginnings of President Museveni were not sustain, for he is clearly now considered, perhaps, the biggest advocate against socialism on the Continent. Speaking in front of a huge crowd gathered to witness his swearing-in as Uganda’s new president on January 26, 1986, Yoweri Museveni, stated, ‘no one should think that what is happening today is a mere change of guard: it is a fundamental change in the politics of our country’. How did he transform from being a comrade to an agent of imperialism and a servant of capitalism? Or, as some argue, he never was actually a comrade? If that is the case, it is interesting to analyse why he hoodwinked us into believing he was a socialist in order to capture state power.

My journey of self-discovery continues.  I am looking to find Uganda socialist role models who embody socialist ideals so that I may appreciate the true principals of what it means to be a comrade in modern day Uganda. The need for self-reflection and self-auditing is a priceless benefit that I took away from the workshop.

The search for famous Ugandan socialist role models is proving more challenging than I thought it would be. The other famous Ugandan comrade, other than the President Museveni of 1986, is Mahmood Mamdani, whose work I am familiar with and to a significant extent admire. However, apparently, Mamdani does not necessarily always conform to the ideals of a comrade, some socialists argue at the workshop.

During panel three on The state of progressive politics in Africa today: organisation, forms and the agents of social transformation’ there were glimpses of who modern East African socialists might be. I feel that the breakout sessions that were cancelled would have generated more insight on local struggles within East Africa and thus who the modern East African socialists really are and where they organise. But, all in all, for me the workshop was greatly beneficial. I am energised and inspired to find and relate with those whom Che considered as comrades, those who ‘tremble with indignation at every injustice.’

Norah Owaraga is a Ugandan researcher and activist whose areas of interests include social institutions, culture, food insecurity and African knowledge systems. Her blog can be found here.

Voices from Dar: Interviews from ROAPE’s Workshop

At last month’s ROAPE Connections workshop in Dar es Salaam (16-17 April, 2018), activists and activist-scholars came together to discuss radical political economy and struggle in Africa. Over two days debates explored contemporary activism, resistance and research across the continent. 

The workshop was the second of three in Africa between 2017-2018. The first was held last year in Accra, Ghana (material, blogposts and videos from Accra can be found here). The third will be held in Johannesburg, South Africa in September 2018. The workshops link analysis and activism in contemporary Africa from the perspective of radical political economy.

Among the questions that were raised in Tanzania were the lessons that can be drawn from revolutionary historical transitions, including the Russian revolution, and the demise of colonialism in Africa. In what ways do economic crisis, land alienation and dispossession, unemployment and migration generate local resistance and what forms have resistance to the increased financialisation of globalisation taken? And what alternatives to (neoliberal) capitalist social and economic transformation are being debated in Africa?

In this blogpost roape.net publishes the first in a series of short interviews conducted at the workshop. We hope these posts will continue the discussions started in Accra and Dar and draw in other voices.

Interview with Brian Kamanzi

 

Interview with Peter Dwyer

 

Interview with Issa Shivji (and Peter Lawrence)

 

Interview with Trevor Ngwane

 

Interview with Sabatho Nyamsenda

 

Interview with Muthoni Wanyeki

 

Interview with Tina Mfangwa and Monika Shank

 

Interview with Noosim Naimasiah

 

Interview with Tamás Gerőcs

 

Interview with Norah Owaraga

 

Interview with Karl von Holdt

 

Interview with Simon Rakei

 

Interview with Godwin Murunga

Tunisia in Crisis: Protest and Transition

Popular Protest and Class Struggle in Africa – Part 12  

By David Seddon

In the last issue – the latest of a series on popular protest in those African states where long standing presidents have attempted to consolidate their grip on politics by extending their legitimate period in office, often by changing the Constitution – I considered the case of Zimbabwe, where Robert Mugabe was eventually forced at the end of 2017 to step down as president and give way to  ZANU-PF’s Emmerson Mnangagwa.

In this issue I examine the background to the events that took place at the beginning of this year in Tunisia, when what appeared at first sight to be old fashioned ‘bread riots’ revealed the deep crisis of the Tunisian political economy and consider the significance of the local elections in May.

Tunisia: a brief historical review

Tunisia achieved independence from France in 1956 with Habib Bourguiba as Prime Minister. A year later, Tunisia was declared a republic, and Bourguiba became its first President.

Tunisia under Bourghiba experienced two decades of relative stability and economic progress, but the global economic crisis of the 1970s and 1980s had its effect. In late 1977, growing dissatisfaction with economic conditions led to a wave of strikes which effectively brought whole sectors of the national economy to a standstill. The army was called in to deal with the strikers and, in response, the General Union of Tunisian Workers (the UGTT) called a national strike, which was observed throughout the country in January 1978.

Hardliners in the government voted for the repression of the strike movement with a view to destroying the power of the trade union movement, which remained strong and when disturbances broke out in Tunis during the general strike, the army was given carte blanche to intervene. Estimates of the number killed varied between 50 and 200. Some 800 people were arrested immediately, and thousands of trade unionists were sentenced subsequently by summary courts.  

Short term repression and a degree of medium term political liberalization – opposition parties were legalized in 1981 – resulted in a period of relative calm. But the economic difficulties that generated the popular protests had not been resolved. Structural adjustment and ‘economic reforms’ were implemented by the regime in Tunisia, just as they were across the developing world during the late 1970s and early 1980s, and they tended to be associated, again in Tunisia as elsewhere, with ‘austerity’ and cuts in subsidies.

Free markets and ‘bread riots’

In Tunisia, social unrest following price increases began in January 1984 in the Nefzaoua, a semi-arid region in the south west and historically the poorest region in the country, and then spread to other parts of the South. After the outbreak of mass protest in January 1984, a local observer in Kebili – one of the small southern towns where violent demonstrations had taken place – remarked that ‘it was not for bread that the young demonstrated, but because they were the victims of unemployment’.

The southern interior had a relatively high unemployment rate, and many had left the region for the more prosperous coastal areas in the north; some 60,000 had left Tunisia altogether to seek work in Libya. The region also suffered from the drought of 1983-84 which substantially reduced the local harvest. But many of those in power refused to accept that economic and social problems experienced by the mass of the Tunisian people – particularly the poor in the rural areas and small towns – underlay the social unrest.

The governor of Kebili in the West blamed ‘foreign-inspired agitators’, while in Gafsa, the ‘capital’ of the South, the governor identified ‘Libyan- or Lebanese-trained Tunisians’ as the leaders of the protests. This was justified by the fact that the south had been, for some time, an area where Libyan influence was felt to be considerable and where the main political opposition to the regime had been openly expressed in the recent past.

Ben Ali’s authoritarian regime and ‘neo-liberalism’

After the ‘bread riots’ of 1984, there was a short period during which the Tunisian government backed off somewhat from its ‘austerity’ programme and a degree of political glasnost (opening up) was allowed. But the economy was still in crisis, with 10 per cent inflation, an external debt accounting for 46 per cent of GDP and a debt service ratio of 21 per cent of GDP; and the regime itself was badly shaken. When, on 7 November 1987, after 30 years in power, doctors declared Bourguiba unfit to rule, his former security chief, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, assumed the presidency, in accordance with Article 57 of the Tunisian constitution.

Ben Ali initially promised a more democratic regime than that of Bourguiba. Indeed, one of his first acts upon taking office was to loosen restrictions on the press. For the first time state-controlled newspapers published statements from the opposition. In 1988, he changed the name of the ruling Destourian Socialist Party to the Democratic Constitutional Rally (RCD), and pushed through constitutional amendments that ‘limited’ the presidency to three five-year terms, with no more than two in a row. However, the conduct of the 1989 elections proved little different from past elections. The RCD swept every seat in the legislature, and Ben Ali appeared alone on the ballot in what was Tunisia’s first presidential election since 1974.

In the meanwhile, however, the ruling elite – including the president and his family – began to develop a reputation inside the country for corruption and criminality. In 1992 the president’s older brother Habib Ben Ali was tried in absentia in France for laundering the proceeds of drug trafficking, in a case known as the ‘couscous connection’. French television news was blocked in Tunisia during the trial. The First Lady, Leila Ben Ali, was widely described as an ‘unabashed shopaholic’ who used the state airplane to make frequent unofficial trips to Europe’s fashion capitals and Tunisia refused a French request for the extradition of two of the President’s nephews, from Leila’s side, who were accused by the French State prosecutor of having stolen two mega-yachts from a French marina.

The next two decades saw the return of several Bourguiba-era restrictions. For many years, the press was allowed a degree of freedom, but it was always expected to practice self-censorship. This, however, increasingly gave way to official censorship. Amendments to the press code allowed the Interior Ministry to review all newspaper and magazine articles before publication. The dominance of the RCD was maintained by a combination of propaganda and repression, and Ben Ali was consistently re-elected as president with enormous majorities (well over 80 per cent of the vote) periodically through the 1990s and 2000s, the last time being on 25 October 2009.

The Ben Ali regime had initially presented itself as politically ‘liberal’. Independent human rights groups, such as Amnesty International, Freedom House and Protection International, persistently reported human rights abuses and serious restrictions on basic freedoms but these were largely ignored by ‘the international community’. A popular tourist destination for Europeans in particular, Tunisia was represented as – and was widely considered to be – one of the few democracies in the Arab world, despite the overwhelming dominance of the ruling party, the long duration of presidential rule by Bourghiba and Ben Ali, and the repressive nature of the state apparatus. It was also heralded as being relatively ‘secular’ in a region that was becoming increasingly marked by the rise of political Islam.

Economic reform and apparent success                                             

The Tunisian economy had experienced a decline in the last years of Bourghiba, with a significant slow-down in growth and productivity between 1981 and 1987. But the change of regime helped business confidence at home and abroad, and a systematic programme of economic reform through the 1990s accelerated privatization, encouraged foreign investment and deepened integration into the European market. Tunisia signed up to the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs (GATT) in 1994 and, in 1995, became a member of the World Trade Organisation (WTO) and signed the European Union Association Agreement. A special programme was launched in 1996 to upgrade the industrial and manufacturing sector, and there was investment in transport and communications infrastructure. Efforts were made to expand the service sector in general and the tourist sector in particular. 

Under Ben Ali, for a time, the Tunisian economy thrived. It was neither an economic miracle nor a full success story, but it did better than its neighbours. It achieved an average economic growth rate of nearly 5 per cent over the 1990s and 2000s, out-performing most other Middle Eastern and North African and lower middle-income countries. The service sector grew at over 7 per cent a year, while the export of goods and services expanded at an average rate of 8.6 per cent a year. It kept its domestic and external economic imbalances under control.

Thanks to its successful family planning policy – made possible by the prevalence of relatively ‘secular’ social attitudes – the population growth rate declined significantly, to around 1 per cent a year. As a consequence, Tunisia boasted a per capita growth in GDP of more than 3 percent a year during the 2000s. Its per capita income, which stood at $2,227 in 1990, had risen to $2,713 by 2005, and reached $3,720 by the end of 2010.

By the end of the first decade of the 21st century, the Tunisian economy as a whole was relatively diversified, with strong foreign direct investment, the growth and development of new (mechanical and electrical) industrial activities, and an increasingly important role for the service sector, whose share increased from 55 per cent in the early 1990s to more than 62 per cent currently. The country also diversified its exports, with a relatively high proportion of manufactures (including mechanical and electrical goods as well as textiles).

The growth of inequality

The overall success of the economy, however, effectively masked growing inequality, both regional and social. Agriculture, which had stagnated and declined overall in terms of its contribution to national GDP, remained an important source of livelihoods in the Tunisian interior as a whole. The dynamic sectors of the economy were highly concentrated in the coastal areas of the north and the east, and in the larger cities and – as Habib Ayeb has remarked recently in his discussion of ‘food sovereignty’ posted in the roape.net interviews section – positive links between these ‘developed’ and ‘less developed’ regions/sectors have been historically limited.

President Ben Ali steered most of Tunisia’s riches to the northern coast. It received 82 per cent of development funds in his final budget. Today, the south and the west lag on almost every socio-economic indicator. Regional inequality, always a feature of Tunisian economy and society, had grown significantly (but unremarked) during the ‘boom’ years of the 1990s and 2000s. Even those areas that experienced significant ‘development’ were marked by inequality and unemployment as the ‘development’ that took place failed to benefit the majority in those regions and tended instead to ‘trickle up’ to the wealthy and privileged (as Ayeb has remarked in his recent interview). On 5 May this year, the Economist remarked that ‘though the interior contains much of Tunisia’s farmland, its mineral resources and some of its best tourist attractions, it reaps few benefits. Tataouine, in the south is the hub of Tunisia’s oil industry. But profits are whisked up north. The governorate has the country’s highest unemployment rate’.

Unemployment has grown, particularly in the interior (in the mid-west, the south-west and the south-east), and the disaffection and hopelessness of the Tunisian youth has been expressed for many years in high levels of migration to work in Libya and elsewhere in the Arab world. Rates of unemployment among those aged 25 to 29 rose from 13 per cent in 1984 (at the time of the ‘bread riots’ discussed above) to 25 per cent in 2008. Like many other African countries, Tunisia experienced the effects of the global rise in food prices in 2007 and 2008. The country also suffered, as did so many other developing countries, from the crash of 2008 and subsequent recession.

Major political disturbances of the kind experienced in many other African countries were largely prevented by the high level of subsidies provided by the government, although mine-workers in the south rioted, and there were strikes in the manufacturing sector and factory occupations. But it was not to be very long before the growth of regional and social inequality, and of unemployment, resulted in an outburst of popular protest in Tunisia, as elsewhere across the Arab World, in the ‘Arab Spring’ of 2011.    

The rise of political Islam in Tunisia

The underlying inequalities of Tunisian economy and society, and unemployment, and the impact of these on young men in particular, combined with the increasingly repressive policies of the Ben Ali regime, led over the years to considerable disaffection and to greater involvement with those Islamist groups that developed in opposition to his government’s neo-liberal policies and to the traditional secularism of Tunisian society. Under Ben Ali, the Tunisian government arrested and detained thousands of political Islamists in the 1990s. Not all opposition groups espoused violence or takfirism, yet the regime made little distinction between those representing legitimate political opposition and those with more radical agendas.

In 2000, Tunisian nationals Tarek Maaroufi and Seifallah Ben Hassine, also known as Abu Iyadh al-Tunisi, founded the Tunisian Combatant Group. The group became an important vehicle for Tunisians’ participation in global jihadi-salafi networks, recruiting fighters to train and fight with al Qaeda in Afghanistan, providing logistical support to Algerian jihadis linked to al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), and plotting attacks from a constellation of Europe-based cells. Ben Hassine had spent time in Afghanistan and Chechnya before he was arrested by Turkey and extradited to Tunisia in 2003.

In some cases, such radical Islamists were encouraged by the Tunisian government to leave the country, to fight their jihadi cause abroad, in Afghanistan, Iraq or, later in Syria, in the hope that they might die on the battlefield and not return. At the same time, the government suppressed most overt religious expression and debate not sanctioned by the state, creating a religious vacuum that salafists and jihadi-salafists would later seek to fill. In 2002, Tunisian courts convicted 34 Tunisians of recruiting other Tunisians residing in Europe to join armed groups in Afghanistan, Bosnia, and Chechnya; and a new generation of young men was incarcerated under a sweeping counter-terrorism law passed in 2003.

Hundreds of young Tunisians did leave their country to fight as jihadis abroad, though in fewer numbers than their counterpart in other North African countries. Around 400 Tunisians were among the ranks of the ‘Afghan Arabs’ fighting against the Soviet Union in the 1980s, compared to an estimated 2,800 Algerians and 2,000 Egyptians. In the period after 2001, more Tunisians went to fight in Afghanistan, and, after 2003, in Iraq but according to 2006 estimates, Tunisians and Moroccans together constituted only around five percent of foreign fighters in Iraq, while Algerians represented almost 20 per cent.

The legacy of Tunisian fighters was significant, however, despite their relatively small numbers. Veteran jihadis built networks of recruiters, facilitators, and financiers within Tunisia as well as internationally that provided an infrastructure for the wider mobilization of Tunisian fighters after 2011.

The ‘Arab Spring’

It was in Tunisia that the incident occurred which many argue marks the beginning of the ‘Arab Spring’ – the wave of popular unrest that swept across the Arab world in the early months of 2011. A desperate street vendor, Mohamed Bouazizi, set fire to himself in Sidi Bouzid, a town in Tunisia’s Centre-West.   In his recent interview in roape.net, Habib Ayeb argues that what he calls ‘the constructed history’ of Bouazizi ‘has dispossessed the peasants of Sidi Bouzid and the rest of the country of their stories of struggles and resistance, stories with which the real history of Bouzazizi fits perfectly’. Ayeb comments that he has himself written on the relationship between the peasants of Sidi Bouzid, Bouazizi and the ‘revolution’ (see Ayeb’s ROAPE Briefing here).  

He explains in the interview that Sidi Bouzid was the region of Tunisia that received the most investment between 1990 and 2011. ‘It is a region that had an extensive semi-pastoral farming system, and it became in less than 30 years the premier agricultural region of the country. Regueb, which is part of Sidi Bouzid, looks like California. Regueb is a perfect technical success, an exemplar of the Californian model. The problem is that the local population does not benefit. It is the people from Sfax and the Sahel who get rich in Sidi Bouzid, not the people of Sidi Bouzid. Hence the link with the story of Mohamed Bouazizi’.

Mohamed Bouazizi was a Tunisian street vendor of fruit and vegetables in Sidi Bouzid who set himself on fire on 17 December 2010 in response to the confiscation of his wares and the harassment and humiliation inflicted on him by a municipal official and her aides. Bouazizi died at the Ben Arous Burn and Trauma Centre 18 days after he set himself on fire, on 4 January 2011. Simmering public anger intensified into mass protests following Bouazizi’s death, leading Ben Ali to step down as president on 14 January 2011, after 23 years in power.

Popular protests broke out in Sidi Bouzid within hours, and gradually became more sizeable over the next two weeks, with attempts by police to quiet the unrest serving only to fuel what was evidently becoming a significant movement. There were reports in mid-December 2010 of police obstructing demonstrators and using tear gas on hundreds of young protesters who had gathered outside regional government headquarters to demonstrate against the treatment of Mohamed Bouazizi. It is estimated that more than 5,000 people participated in the funeral procession that began in Sidi Bouzid and continued through to Bouazizi’s native village.

Coverage of events was limited by Tunisian media.  After Bouazizi’s death, however, the protests became widespread, moving into the more affluent areas of the country and eventually reaching the capital. The protests constituted the most dramatic wave of social and political unrest in Tunisia in three decades, and resulted in scores of deaths and injuries, most of which were the result of action by police and security forces against demonstrators.

The protestors came from a wide range of different backgrounds but reflected for the most part the social groups that had been most adversely affected by unemployment and poor living conditions (ie the working classes and the rural poor). The demands of ‘the street’ referred to ‘freedom and dignity’ as well as to ‘bread and jobs’. Indeed, although in the West the uprising came to be referred to as ‘the Jasmine Revolution’, locally it was referred to as ‘the Dignity Revolution’ (Thawrat al-Karāmah).

The labour unions were heavily involved. So too were the various Islamist groups whose strength inside Tunisia had gradually increased over the years in opposition to the Ben Ali regime and whose links with other groups in neighbouring countries and across the Arab world had also developed with the general rise in political Islam. Notable among these was Ennahda, an Islamist party widely referred to as ‘moderate’, although sections of the party saw ‘moderation’ as ‘selling out’ on their core principles (see Anne Wolf’s history of the party here).  

The protests became so intense that President Ben Ali fled Tunisia with his family on 14 January 2011. They first tried to find refuge in France, but this was denied them by the French government,  eventually they were given refuge by Saudi Arabia with ‘a long list of conditions’ (such as being barred from participation in the media and politics), sparking ‘angry condemnation’ among many Saudis. Back in Tunisia, unrest persisted even as a new regime took over, following elections in October 2011 which resulted in a landslide for Ennahda.

Tunisia after the ‘revolution’

The process of political change in Tunisia since the Arab Spring and the so-called ‘revolution’ of 2011 has been complex and uneven, with the interim government led by the apparently ‘moderate’ Islamist Ennahdha initially – during 2011-2013 – trying to maintain a balance between the radical Islamists on the one hand and the old RCD loyalists on the other, and to ensure effective security for Tunisian citizens. Progress as regards both the development of democratic politics in general and the reform of the security sector in particular has been slow. However, some specific progressive reforms were achieved. These included the ratification of a procedural guide on human rights for internal security forces, the revision of laws governing arrest and detention, the legalization of unions for security personnel and the ending of the electoral role of the Ministry of Interior. The interim government also ratified several international protocols prohibiting torture and forced disappearance and affirming universal civil and political rights. A torture commission law was passed in October 2013 that subjected detention facilities to surprise inspections by human rights monitors; and the state of emergency, which had been declared in the wake of Ben Ali’s overthrow in January 2011, was finally lifted in March 2014.

One of the most controversial reforms was the formalisation of the ‘citizens’ committees’ that had provided basic security for local communities in the wake of the uprising. In November 2011, Ennahdha had formed these into an unarmed body, the National League for the Protection of the Revolution, which was granted legal status in June 2012. Ostensibly intended to root out ancien régime loyalists and prevent members of the former ruling party, the Constitutional Democratic Rally (the RCD), from re-entering political life, the League was seen by Ennahdha’s critics as an instrument to ‘Islamize’ law and order, a replica of ikhwanization in Egypt.

Detractors claimed that the League included ‘the scum of society, criminals, or remnants of the former ruling party, whose salaries were paid by Qatar and who were being Islamized and used against demonstrators’. Support for such local ‘vigilante’ groups also encouraged many of those with grudges against former security personnel, including the locally paid informers, to threaten and assault them with virtual impunity. Not all of these were Islamists; many were simply individuals who had suffered in various ways (for example, arrest, imprisonment, ill-treatment while in detention, etc.) because of charges brought against them on the say-so of a local informer. 

Islamist ‘terrorism’ and state repression

From mid-2013 onwards, political violence, especially by increasingly militant salafists, evolved into a jihadist terrorist threat. Public opinion became more supportive of assertive security policies, and Tunisia’s political parties in turn became even less willing to pursue security sector reform actively. One consequence of this was that the police were increasingly able to act with impunity against those they deemed to be ‘undesirables’, whether Islamists or former RCD supporters. The police remained legally able to hold suspects for six days without pressing charges or processing them in the prison system, according to Human Rights Watch, which additionally gathered testimony showing that detainees were subjected to abuse during arrest and interrogation ranging from threats of rape, shoving, slaps, punches, kicks, and beatings with sticks and batons. 

The government’s concern with the evident threat posed by the radical Islamists and the increasing influence of former RCD loyalists in this context brought it into direct conflict with efforts to implement ‘transitional justice’ to those who had suffered under the previous Ben Ali RCD regime. On 24 December 2013, the National Constituent Assembly (NCA) adopted a law on ‘transitional justice’, which set out a comprehensive approach to addressing past human rights abuses and provided criminal accountability via specialized chambers within the civil court system to adjudicate cases arising from past human rights violations, including abuses committed by military and security forces. The law also established a Truth and Dignity Commission (TDC) tasked with uncovering the truth about abuses committed between July 1955, shortly before Tunisia’s independence from France, and the law’s adoption in 2013.

Concern over ‘Islamization’ and a series of assassinations of secular politicians led to a crisis for the government, and Ennahdha actually stepped down following the implementation of a new constitution in January 2014. The party came second, however, with 28 per cent of the vote, in the 2014 Tunisian parliamentary elections, and agreed to form a coalition government with the largest secular party or bloc of parties, Nidaa Tounes. But it did not offer or endorse a candidate in the November 2014 presidential election.

In August 2014, Mehdi Jomaa – the Acting Prime Minister between 29 January 2014 and 6 February 2015 – ordered the suspension of 157 Islamist associations for alleged links to terrorism, basing his decree on a 1975 law that had in fact been amended after the 2011 uprising to limit this power to the judiciary. The government also shut down several radio channels and mosques that it accused of promoting religious extremism without judicial orders, while at the same time police assaults on journalists multiplied. 

The security effort was primarily directed at the Islamist ‘threat’, but former RCD loyalists were also targeted where it seemed appropriate, and those who complained of being harassed and arguably persecuted by local ‘vigilante’ groups and disgruntled individuals tended to get short shrift from the local police and authorities. At the higher level, some action was also taken against senior RCD figures.

A tendency towards state repression was further strengthened by a series of incidents that highlighted the ‘threat’ of the Islamists. Tunisia experienced several deadly attacks by Islamists in 2015 that left dozens of people dead and others injured. On 18 March, two gunmen attacked the Bardo Museum, adjacent to Tunisia’s parliament, killing 21 foreign tourists and one Tunisian security agent. On 26 June, a gunman rampaged through a beach resort in Sousse, killing 38 foreign tourists. On 24 November, a suicide attack on a bus killed 12 presidential guards and wounded 20 others, including four civilians.

These attacks prompted the government to declare a state of emergency. This empowered authorities to ban strikes or demonstrations deemed to threaten public order and to prohibit gatherings ‘likely to provoke or sustain disorder’. At the same time, in July, the government approved a draft Law on Economic and Financial Reconciliation, which, if enacted, would offer broad amnesty to officials of the former Ben Ali regime and would terminate prosecutions and trials of, and cancel any sentences against, corrupt business executives who submit a reconciliation request to a state-run commission.

The contradictions inherent in the current political dispensation, meant that in 2015, Tunisian law still allowed police to deny those they arrested access to a lawyer for the first six days of their detention, typically the period when detainees face the greatest pressure to ‘confess’. The counter-terrorism law adopted in July 2015 extended this to a maximum of 15 days in the case of terrorism suspects, increasing the risk of torture.

On the other hand, on 2 February 2016, parliament adopted revisions to the Code of Criminal Procedure granting suspects the right to a lawyer from the onset of detention and shortening the maximum duration of pre-charge detention to 48 hours, renewable once, for all crimes except for terrorism cases, where pre-charge detention can last up to 15 days. Whether these formal rights are observed in practice remains to be seen.

In April 2016, the UN Committee against Torture welcomed constitutional and legislative progress in the fight against torture, but also noted with concern the persistence of torture in police custody, and consistent reports of the lack of due diligence exercised by judges and judicial police during investigations into torture or ill-treatment. Ironically, on 28 October 2016, Tunisia was elected to the UN Human Rights Council for a three-year term beginning in 2017.

Tunisia in crisis

By 2016, many commentators were remarking on the inability of the state to maintain effective security and to contain and control the various militant groups, many of them Salafist Islamist vigilantes and their opponents. They were also noting the impact of this political turmoil on the state of the economy.

The main industrial sectors, including the oil and gas industry and phosphate extraction, were increasingly threatened by capital flight and questions about future foreign investment, while tourism was adversely affected by the terrorist threat and the reality of attacks on tourist locations. The state corporations providing public utilities were sinking into deficit, and the STEG (the Tunisian  Electricity and Gas Company) was obliged to take out an emergency loan from an African bank to maintain basic services. Smuggling was on the increase and revenues from customs and other sources of taxation were declining.

The economy had grown by only just over 1 per cent in 2015 and by 1 per cent in 2016, with agriculture in particular performing poorly. A national unity government – a coalition of the main political parties and civil society groups – was formed in September 2016 to tackle the urgent economic situation, the consequences of which posed a risk to ‘normal’ politics and to law and order.

In its 2017 Report, the international human rights agency, Human Rights Watch commented that on the one hand the government continued to consolidate formal human rights protections, while on the other serious violations by the state – including arbitrary house arrests, torture of detainees and restrictions under a state of emergency – also continued, and the ability of armed militant groups to terrorize their opponents was evidently not significantly diminished, despite these measures.

A new wave of popular protest

It proved not to be Islamist terrorism that threatened the status quo, but a wave of popular protest, which broke out in the second week of January 2018, across Tunisia but notably in working class suburbs, like Ettadhamen in Tunis, the capital.

The unrest was sparked by a package of tax increases, affecting dozens of consumer goods that took effect on 1 January, after the government had received ‘a nudge’ from the IMF, which had agreed to lend Tunisia $2.9 million to pay off its creditors. Fuel prices, which had been heavily subsidised, were raised, as was the price of bread and phone cards (now considered basic essentials). The government had hoped to reduce the budget deficit of six per cent of GDP and hold down public debt. 

Hoping to head off further unrest, the government announced it would spend an extra 100 million dinars on welfare payments this year, pensions were also set to grow along with health-care benefits for the unemployed. But even these measures would not make much difference to the 240 dinars that constitutes the basic monthly wage. In any case, the explanations and concessions failed to stop the demonstrations. At their height, it was estimated that tens of thousands of people were involved.

When the carrot proved ineffective, the stick was used. The police arrested more than 800 people in a week or so, among them political activists and bloggers, and the army was deployed in some areas. By 20 January 2018, the protests had subsided. But the unrest was a symptom of deeper problems and at their peak there were thousands on the street.

Whither Tunisia?

Seven years after the ‘revolution’, many Tunisians have lost faith in the ‘democratic transition’ that they hoped would bring wider prosperity and greater security. A poll by the International Republican Institute, a US pro-democracy organization found that most Tunisians (over 80 per cent) think their country is going in the wrong direction, as compared with less than 30 per cent in the aftermath of ‘the revolution’ in 2011, and very few (under 20 per cent) consider it to be going in the right direction, as compared with over 60 per cent in 2011. Significantly, when asked whether prosperity or democracy was more important, almost two-thirds chose the former.

Undoubtedly, the ‘the democratic transition’ has stalled. Local elections, postponed four times, were eventually held on 4 May 2018. Ennahdha was the front-runner: with deep roots in the rural areas, including the south (Tataouine) and west (Kebili) – where poverty and unemployment continue to be rife – it was the only party to field lists in all 350 districts.

But both the main parties, Ennahdha and Nidaa Tounes, the secular party that continues to lead the national government, have lost much of their earlier allure and there is considerable disillusionment with regard to both parties. Polls suggested that barely one in five Tunisian planned to vote, compared with nearly 70 per cent in the most recent parliamentary election. This was the first election in which soldiers and the police could vote – they did so on 29 April, but turnout was a bare 12 per cent.

Some politicians feared that the elections would only serve to cause more anger and possibly lead to further disturbances, others feared that apathy and a low turnout would be the manifestation of despair. At least 33 people tried to kill themselves in 2018 in Sidi Bouzid, the impoverished region of about 430,000 people where the Arab spring began. Yet even with a wider mandate, local councils will have limited resources: Tunisia allocates just 4 per cent of its budget to local government (compared with 10 per cent in Morocco).

Whether Tunisia is able to progress towards a more open, more egalitarian economy and society, or whether the historic tendency to impose an authoritarian regime to promote ‘neo-liberalism’ will re-assert itself, remains open to question.

David Seddon is a researcher and political activist who has written extensively on social movements, class struggles and political transitions across the developing world. He studied ‘food riots’ and protest in a ground-breaking study on North Africa and the Middle East Free Markets and Food Riots: the politics of global adjustment with his co-editor John Walton. Seddon also coordinates the roape.net series on Popular Protest and Class Struggle in Africa.

Featured Photograph: Demonstrators in Tunis on 1 May, 2012.

Is Imperialism still Imperialist? A Response to Patrick Bond

An American cartoonist in 1888 depicted John Bull (England) as the octopus of imperialism, grabbing land on every continent. HWC925

By Walter Daum

In Towards a Broader Theory of Imperialism Patrick Bond joins in the debate between John Smith and David Harvey on roape.net over the direction of imperialism today. He criticizes both debaters for overlooking the category of sub-imperialism, a concept that can indeed help clarify some issues. But in stressing this and other important matters like environmental destruction and gender oppression, Bond sidesteps the major issue over which Smith challenges Harvey: what is the reality of imperialism today? Is it so different from the system described and analyzed by Lenin, Luxemburg and other Marxists a century ago that the traditional imperialist powers no longer drain value from the resources and labor of most of the world?

Bond is more critical of Smith than of Harvey, since he disparages Smith’s ‘old fashioned binary of oppressed and oppressor nations,’ just as Harvey rejects Smith’s ‘fixed, rigid theory of imperialism.’ But in avoiding the key issue Bond is in effect covering for Harvey: focusing on the theory of sub-imperialism serves to obscure the untenability of Harvey’s position on imperialism itself.

Has the drain of wealth reversed?

Let’s begin at the beginning. Smith opened the debate by challenging an assertion by Harvey:

Those of us who think the old categories of imperialism do not work too well in these times do not deny at all the complex flows of value that expand the accumulation of wealth and power in one part of the world at the expense of another. We simply think the flows are more complicated and constantly changing direction. The historical draining of wealth from East to West for more than two centuries, for example, has largely been reversed over the last thirty years (Harvey, 2016: 169).

As Smith says, this is an astonishing claim. If the flows of wealth and power are changing direction and have even been reversed in recent years suggests that the centuries-long drain of value from African, Asian and Latin American countries to the imperialist centers of Western Europe and North America has ended: apparently now the historically oppressed countries of the South (or the ‘East’) are exploiting the imperialist powers!

But Harvey does not quite say this. He uses the designations West and East rather than the now common metaphors Global North and Global South, shorthand for the imperialist powers and those they exploit. Harvey’s East and West, in contrast, are purely geographical terms and therefore analytically not very useful. His East includes a wealthy imperialist country, Japan, along with many poor and oppressed countries like Vietnam and Bangladesh. It also includes China, a country that achieved its independence from imperialism through revolution and has in recent years set record rates of economic growth by making its huge labor force available for imperialist super-exploitation – but which remains poor on any per capita basis. So, Harvey’s ‘East’ is at best confusing.

Harvey responded to Smith by claiming that Smith had badly misinterpreted his intent: he did not mean his East/West opposition to stand for South/North. If so, what then is Harvey’s point? He appears to be criticizing ‘the old categories of imperialism,’ but then he backs off and says that’s not what East/West means. Indeed, he doubles down on his East category. Two Eastern countries, China and Japan, he points out, accurately enough, now have the second and third largest economies in the world; and ‘the Chinese and the Japanese now own large chunks of a spiraling US government debt.’

As Smith notes, his argument appeared previously in the book The Empire of Capital. There, after quoting a U.S. State Department document that observes that ‘the unprecedented shift in relative wealth and economic power roughly from west to east now underway, Harvey added:

This ‘unprecedented shift’ has reversed the long-standing drain of wealth from east, south-east and south Asia to Europe and North America that has been occurring since the eighteenth century. The rise of Japan in the 1960s, followed by South Korea, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong in the 1970s, and then the rapid growth of China after 1980, later accompanied by industrialisation spurts in Indonesia, India, Vietnam, Thailand and Malaysia during the 1990s, has altered the centre of gravity of capitalist development, although it has not done so smoothly (2011: 35).

This makes the East/West opposition even more confusing. Japanese militarism and imperialism dominated and exploited parts of East Asia from the late 19th century through World War II, and Japan does so again today through its economic might. So, Japan cannot be part of any shift in the way value drains between East and West: it itself is in the East and it drains value from the East (now as in the past) as well as from many other countries around the world.

The role of China

China, of course, is the East’s heavyweight, and because of its economic heft the center of gravity of the global economy has indeed shifted eastward. Something like 80 percent of the world’s industrial workers are now in the South, most of those in China (an eye-opening fact brought to attention by Smith and an almost exact reversal of the ratio that obtained in the middle of the last century). China’s new role means that a lot of surplus-value is produced there; but it doesn’t by itself determine whose pockets the new value flows into.

Smith responded to Harvey by demonstrating, once again, that capitalist profits are still primarily collected in the imperialist countries of the ‘West’ (more properly the Global North, which includes Australia as well as Japan). The drain of wealth from South to North continues, and so (despite Japan’s imperialist presence in the East) does its distorted variant from East to West.

Nevertheless, a second important question arises: if the old categories of imperialism do not work, is that because China has crossed the divide and become transformed from one of the world’s most exploited countries into one of the exploiters? In particular, since China has accumulated a huge fund of capital which it invests all over the world, does this mean that surplus-value now flows into China? And if that is true, is China now imperialist in its own right?

Yes, some surplus-value does flow to China, mostly from the South. But China’s remarkable economic growth rests on the super-exploitation of its own proletariat, above all the hundreds of millions of displaced rural workers driven away from the land and into coastal cities where they work extra-long weeks, live often in cubicles or dormitories and are legally barred from the fundamental rights of health care and education for their children. That extreme super-exploitation (not just extracting an extraordinarily high rate of exploitation but even paying wages under what is necessary to reproduce the labor power of the working class) has created a great deal of surplus-value, much of which goes to imperialist investors. That flow still goes from East to West.

And yes, Chinese capital pockets some of the surplus-value produced there, and some of that is invested abroad, both in poor countries in Southeast Asia and Africa where workers can be paid even less than in China – and in enterprises, stocks and bonds in the West. But despite a net surplus in its foreign assets, ‘China remains a net interest payer to the world due to lower rates of return on its overseas assets.’ China owns nearly $2 trillion in U.S. Treasury bonds, which yield rates of interest of a few percent at best – close to zero, as Larry Summers has gloated. In contrast, imperialist investors in China currently earn twenty or thirty times that rate.[1] How this looks from the imperialist side was pointed out by Tony Norfield: ‘A key point is that interest costs on US foreign borrowing have been far less than the returns on US foreign investments. This has enabled the US to maintain a positive net investment income, despite the persistent, large deficit on its foreign investment position’ (Norfield, 2016: 169). All this powerfully suggests that the surplus-value flow from the U.S. to China does not match that extracted from China by the West.            

To sum up on Harvey’s claim, there is a difference between the shifting balance of wealth between East and West, on the one hand, and the flow or drain of wealth between those nebulously defined regions, on the other. There is no question that the ‘East’ has gained relatively in wealth, mainly because of energy production in the Middle East and Russia and manufacturing in Japan, the Tigers and China. But that does not mean that there has been an epochal shift in the flow of value; it is extremely dubious that the directional flows of centuries have reversed and that the East, including China, is draining value from the West. Of course, some countries in the East, including China are also draining value from the South. But that is not what Harvey said.

Sub-imperialism

Now back to Bond. The purpose of bringing the theory of sub-imperialism into the argument is apparently to show that the South-to-North drain of value, Smith’s ‘unconvincing’ as well as old-fashioned binary, has to be supplemented by more complex and nuanced relations among states. It is certainly true that the Lenin’s ‘division of nations into oppressor and oppressed …[which] forms the essence of imperialism’ cannot simply be transferred from a century ago to the present; it has to be built on to account for the appearance of nations that exhibit aspects of both, that are both exploiters and exploited. Toward that end, Ruy Mauro Marini introduced the concept of sub-imperialism in the 1970s’s. Bond, quoting from a previous work by Smith, reminds us of Marini’s contribution:

Marini focused on the elaboration of sub-imperial power wielded by states that are incorporated into the Western system as regional agents of imperialism, in which, Smith agrees, ‘dependent economies like Brazil seek to compensate for the drain of wealth to the imperialist centres by developing their own exploitative relationships with even more underdeveloped and peripheral neighbouring economies.’

Marini spelled out his theory in many works. As I read him, Marini regards a state as sub-imperialist if is not imperialist overall (its economy is ‘dependent’) but it plays an imperialist-like role locally. Bond would seem to agree, since he refers to sub-imperial power as ‘wielded by states that are incorporated into the Western system as regional agents of imperialism,’ and he shares Marini’s interpretation that the sub-imperialist economies are dependent. Moreover, Bond has done valuable work in demonstrating that the BRICS states are not stalwart opponents of neo-liberal imperialism but rather accomplices with it; his studies of South Africa in particular extend the analysis beyond Marini’s original example of Brazil.

In responding to Smith, however, Bond undermines his own understanding of sub-imperialism by favorably referring to Alex Callinicos’s version of it, which (as he quotes) embraces ‘a broad category that includes Vietnam, Greece, Turkey, India, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, and South Africa.’   Vietnam does not belong in this company: since it has near-bottom labor costs with wages one-third of those in coastal China, Chinese capital moves there rather than the other way around; nor is it militarily the regional power in a neighborhood that includes China. Callinicos is also off-target at the other end of his broad sub-imperialist spectrum: he includes Australia, as if it were a country fundamentally exploited by imperialism rather than a second-level but fully imperialist power itself (1994: 45, 51).

I also do not agree that the sub-imperialist category should include all the BRICS. Russia, for one, stands out as a full-fledged imperialist power in its own right, even though its economy cannot match those of the major Western powers. In that sense there are parallels between Putin’s Russia and Tsarist Russia a century ago; recall that the classical Marxist theorists all regarded Russia as imperialist, of a non-standard form, because of its military and political weight. As for China, since it remains more exploited than exploiting, in that respect it fits the sub-imperialist model. But it wields global rather than regional power and influence. If it is sub-imperialist it stretches beyond Marini’s (and Bond’s) definition: it would be a global sub-imperialist sui generis.

Putting aside the question of how to characterize China in theory, to see how it affects the Smith-Harvey debate it is useful to look more closely at its global economic status.  Even if it eludes the ‘old-fashioned binary,’ does its role justify the claim that ‘the historical draining of wealth from East to West … has largely been reversed.’

Bond presents evidence that ‘BRICS firms became some of the most super-exploitative corporations engaged in accumulation not only on their home turf but also in Africa.’ This, he argues, buttresses Harvey’s recognition in general of ‘complex spatial, interterritorial and place-specific forms of production, realisation and distribution’ and in particular that in Africa ‘Chinese companies and wealth funds are way ahead of everyone else’s in their acquisitions.’ That suggests that China is draining more wealth from Africa than is the West, so that even if the East-to-West flow of wealth has not been reversed, at least the South-to-East flow has outpaced the South-to-West flow; in that case much of the West’s potential draining of Africa would have been superseded by China’s.

But even that reversal is not happening. While China engages in the traditional imperialist trade policy of obtaining raw materials from states in Africa and Latin America and selling back manufactured goods, in the process often undermining local industries, nevertheless ‘China is not the largest investor in any part of the world: it is the fourth largest investor in Africa, third in Latin America, and third even in its own backyard, Southeast Asia.’ The U.K. and France, followed by the U.S., are still the largest investors in Africa.[2]  In 2016, the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (ECLAC) said that Chinese investment in the region constitutes a mere 1 percent of total inflows from all investor countries. [3] So, China is far from supplanting the traditional imperialist powers of the West in exploiting the resources and labor of Africa.

Bond criticizes Smith for not mentioning the role of the BRICS in exacerbating both super-exploitation and environmental devastation. But the plentiful evidence Bond supplies about the BRICS’ depredations does not address the issue that Smith raises against Harvey, namely that the East-to-West flow of wealth and value has not just been modified by the rise of China especially but has been reversed. Bond does not even mention the East-West issue in his response.

Bond is correct that Smith’s analysis of China is theoretically inadequate, but that was not Smith’s purpose here. I share Smith’s view that the rate of exploitation of China’s workers is far higher than that in the West, and that ‘there is a huge difference between an “emerging nation” whose leaders dream of becoming a new imperialist hegemon and the actually-existing imperialist powers who cannot tolerate such insubordination.’ Harvey, in contrast, seems to believe that China is already a rising imperialist power: he doesn’t say so explicitly, but that is a reasonable deduction from his disdain for the ‘crude and rigid theory of imperialism that John Smith espouses’ and his preference for a ‘more open and fluid analysis of shifting hegemonies within the world system.’

In any case, I agree with Patrick Bond that the analysis of sub-imperialism can enrich the debate. It helps disabuse readers of the notion that China and its fellow BRICS are an alternative to imperialism by showing that they too are exploiting the South. It also shows, however, that the BRICS are not exploiting the West – and so it counters Harvey’s contention, not Smith’s.

Walter Daum is the author of The Life and Death of Stalinism: a Resurrection of Marxist Theory (1990) and articles on Marxist economic analysis. He taught mathematics at the City College of New York for 35 years.

Featured Photograph: American cartoon of England as an Imperial beast controlling and occupying various regions (1888).

References

Alex Callinicos, ‘Imperialism Today,’ in Marxism and the New Imperialism (Bookmarks, 1994).

David Harvey, in Prabhat Patnaik and Utsa Patnaik, A Theory of Imperialism (Columbia University Press, 2016).

David Harvey, The Enigma of Capital (Profile Books, 2011).

Tony Norfield, The City: London and the Global Power of Finance (Verso, 2016).

Notes

[1] ‘According to the Conference Board, American multinationals’ average investment return in China was 33 percent in 2008. In the same time period, a World Bank team found that the average investment return for multinationals in general in China was 22 percent. In contrast, in 2008, the 10-year US Treasury yield returned less than 3 percent.’ (Yu Yongding, ‘Imbalances in China’s International Payments System,’ Institute for New Economic Thinking, July 13, 2017; www.ineteconomics.org/perspectives/blog/imbalances-in-chinas-international-payments-system.)

[2] United Nations Conference on Trade and Investment (UNCTAD) World Investment Report 2015 lists Chinese FDI to Africa (2013-2014) as 4.4% of total foreign investment.

[3] In 2015 China was the ninth largest investor in Africa, making up 3 percent of global investment inflows behind Italy (7.4 percent), the United States (6.8 percent), and France (5.7 percent). Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), ‘Does China dominate global investment?’ (2018); https://chinapower.csis.org/china-foreign-direct-investment/.

 

 

 

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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