ROAPE Journal
Home Blog Page 89

Reforming Angola’s Honey Pot – Part 2

In the first of this two-part blog post, Liliane Mouan showed that the first signs of the Angolan government’s intention to revamp the oil sector came in 2011. One reform-minded insider recalls that this was a time when ‘the regime was regrouping following the 2008-09 global financial crisis and was thinking strategically about the way ahead’. This implies that the latest economic crisis of the mid-2010s did not act as a trigger, but merely reinforced the need, for structural reform. Mouan now returns to the ongoing restructuring and asks whether these reforms will deliver greater transparency. 

By Liliane Mouan

Today’s Angola is a country of extremes. Besides being Africa’s largest oil producer and fifth largest economy, it is also considered one of the world’s most unequal and corrupt countries.  One ranking puts it as the 6th most corrupt country (out of 168 countries).

Previously reluctant to abide by demands to open its books to international scrutiny on the grounds that such action would infringe upon the country’s national sovereignty, the Angolan government has since the early 2000s implemented a series of home-grown governance reforms. The latest round of these reforms is aimed at both the oil sector and Sonangol, the state oil company dogged by controversy following the appointment of the president’s eldest daughter Isabel dos Santos as chairwoman. A toxic combination of technical challenges, low oil prices, revenue losses, alleged fraud and a huge debt burden has left the state oil firm unable to contribute nearly 60% of oil revenues to the state budget since January.

Besides providing some clarification on the timing of ongoing reforms, the previous blog post outlined the government’s plans and objectives, which includes bringing added transparency to the oil sector. Whether and how the ongoing restructuring would deliver transparency is the subject of this second blog post; so too is the question of dynastic succession in this southern African state.

Transparency: The Name of the Game

As noted previously, Angola’s new oil regime envisages a split of powers between Sonangol and a new agency as well as the transfer of Sonangol’s assets to three different holding companies. This new institutional structure should go a long way to help solve Sonangol’s conflict of interest issues, but it is also dogged by a number of unanswered questions.   

One such question relates to uncertainties in the institutional setting for managing oil revenues. So far, Angola’s oil revenue management system has involved Sonangol, the Ministry of Finance (MINFIN), the central bank  – which hosts three different fiscal institutions – and the US$5 billion sovereign wealth fund (SWF) set up by the government in 2012 to replace the oil-for-infrastructure fund previously managed by the central bank.

Of these four agencies, MINFIN is widely regarded as the one that has spurred efforts to enhance transparency in public affairs. It justified its reputation as chief reformer again last month with the release of its latest budgetary performance and other key performance indicators. Yet MINFIN has always played second fiddle to Sonangol and has often seen its work undermined by policy reversals, changes in its leadership teams, capacity issues, and by Sonangol’s failure to transfer oil revenues due to the treasury on a timely basis.

The SWF, meanwhile, has focused on ‘assessing international best practices for its governance structure, investment strategy and risk management rules’. But even it is proving to be problematic. Headed by José Filomeno ‘Zenu’ dos Santos, one of the president’s sons, the SWF has since its inception faced criticisms of nepotism; concerns about its investment policies, transparency and governance; and allegations of corruption.

When I asked Zenu dos Santos what he made of those allegations surrounding the institution two years ago as part of my doctoral research into oil governance reforms in Angola, he responded that the way to tackle corruption is to ‘invest in having a parliament that works well, in the judiciary system, and ensuring that these different sovereign institutions do work to support the activities of the government.’ The reality however is that apart from challenging its constitutional legitimacy, the Angolan parliament and opposition parties in particular have had no say over the SWF.

With the creation of a new finance holding company and seemingly ill-defined legal and procedural rules governing the administration of oil revenues, the question therefore arises as to how revenues from the government share of the profit oil would be managed under the new oil regime. ‘Under the finance holding company or would they be flowing directly to the national treasury?’ as one industry insider approached in June 2016 for further clarifications on this matter queried, or would it suitable to transfer these revenues to the controversial SWF?

Even when these questions get settled, others remain: just how transparent is this new oil regime likely to be? Who is this transparency really intended for, and for what purpose(s)?

The problem with Angola’s transparency reform agenda is not only that it is mostly driven and shaped by state actors who never really felt the need, and were never under sustained pressure, to incorporate civil society voices. It is also the case that this agenda has so far generated mixed reform outcomes, owing in part to the fact that changes are often introduced that offset the effects of other more positive reforms.

This is most evident in the oil sector where there has been a strong tendency to shift corruption from the upstream offshore sector dominated by international oil companies to the less visible onshore and downstream sectors. But it also runs through other sectors of the economy in which Sonangol operates. In effect, as the leader of Angola’s opposition party CASA-CE, Abel Chivukuvuku, told me during a question and answer session at British think tank Chatham House last week, it is common to see ‘those in power distribute these enterprises [being privatised or transferred by Sonangol] among themselves.’ Bearing in mind this particular track record, he submitted, we should ask: ‘what does transfer [of Sonangol’s assets] mean?’

One way to answer this question is to examine the current reforms in a more systematic and comprehensive way. That includes when questioning what the sheer diversity of actors included in or excluded from the reform process say about whose interests the current reforms may seek to protect. So far, the emphasis has been on the appointment of Isabel dos Santos and the absence of Vice President and former chairman of Sonangol (1999-2012) Manuel Vicente from the reform scene.

Vicente played a critical role in furthering Angola’s international influence through Sonangol’s international expansion and helping the company make its first steps towards improving transparency in bidding procedures for awarding licensing rights and contracts and through the release of its audited accounts from 2009 onwards. Yet although once touted as the likely successor to dos Santos, Vicente has seen his influence wane after being linked to a series of corruption scandals.

Much less has been said about other actors. For example, what should we make of the international ‘experts’ that Isabel hired, including the Boston Consulting Group, Portuguese law firm Vieira de Almeida and a purported contingent of 170 professionals – the majority of Portuguese nationality and some reportedly linked to Isabel’s other business ventures? And why was Vicente’s successor, Francisco de Lemos, sacked?

In sharp contrast to Vicente who had accommodated extra-budgetary activities, de Lemos’s tenure was heralded as a new beginning in terms of shifts in oil sector management and transparency. He was seeking to curb wastage, and according to one industry insider, was proposing to help ease Sonangol’s difficulties by building internal capacity for technical work. That Isabel hired so many external actors after de Lemos and others seemingly advocated for this alternative course of action suggests perhaps that it is a clash of visions that combined with his lack of political clout to ultimately cost him his job.

What, then, do the Sonangol reforms have to do with Isabel and the succession process?

Isabel, Sonangol and the Politics of Succession

How to treat Isabel’s appointment at Sonangol depends almost entirely on one’s starting perspective. So far, there are three main views concerning this matter. Some believe that this signals that the president no longer trusts anybody but his daughter to go about implementing the reforms that are necessary to revitalise the sector and boost profitability. Others posit that this appointment is a politically motivated move and part of dos Santos’ succession plan. A third argument goes that this is a temporary measure designed to protect the interests of the dos Santos family during this transition period.

All three positions are entirely plausible. At times of crisis and in a context where politics are so personalised, it is easy to see why the president would entrust this responsibility to his eldest daughter whose reputation as a ruthless businesswoman, some say, make her more than qualified for the post. All the more so when the reforms needed are of such magnitude.

Likewise, there are reports circulating in Luanda that appear to support the idea of Isabel being groomed for the presidency. Rumour has it that as head of Sonangol, the largest and most significant state-owned enterprise, Isabel could be elected to the Central Committee during the 7th Ordinary Congress convened later this month (17-20 August). The idea then is for her to become a member of the ruling party’s politburo, before subsequently being nominated Vice President by her father just in time for the 2017 elections, only to succeed him when he retires a year later.

It bears recalling that under Angola’s 2010 Constitution, it is the person whose name appears first on the closed list of the party that wins the legislative elections who becomes President. President dos Santos would therefore be legally allowed to choose his successor should the ruling party, the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), win the next elections.

In addition to her status as the president’s daughter and a reputable businesswoman, some commentators imply that Isabel’s charisma, age and gender would also appeal to the youth, many of whom have expressed their frustrations at the high levels of corruption and slow pace of democratic progress in the country.

While there is apparent enthusiasm in some corners for this succession plan, it is also rumoured that there are strong objections to a dynastic tendency especially among senior figures within the party and armed forces. One well-informed source declared: ‘while Dos Santos has undoubtedly centralised power very much in his own hands, and while that has been accepted because he’s kept everybody [in the core power structure] happy, it’s not necessarily the same as saying that powerful people want that to continue.’ How these differences will be managed is still unclear. Still, in the absence of any significant signs of major struggles among elite factions such as in Gabon, for example, this informant opined that it is probable that a ‘compromise’ candidate is found who has a high level of popularity within the party, the ‘right credentials’ and credibility.  

In short, to draw from the Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s analogy on single storyism, the preceding analysis shows that what has been constructed as a simple tale about succession is in actual fact a collection of overlapping ‘stories’ that to understand, one would have to go beyond the headlines. Indeed, these are stories about the prospects of continuity in Angola insofar as they relate to the commingling of public and private interests; the understanding of development as ‘done by the elite and by foreigners’; and as Jesse Ovadia’s book further illustrates, the ongoing shift and increasing complexity in strategies of elite wealth accumulation.  

Would a change of presidency ultimately replace who has power over Sonangol and the oil rents or reshape Angola’s economic structure? The fact is, it may be too soon to provide a definitive answer to this question, not least given the issues raised above and the lack of clarity surrounding the constitution of the newly-created agencies and lines of reporting and accountability. Judging by the ruling party’s tight control over the political, economic and financial systems though, what seems clear is that no major structural changes can be expected in the next few years at least.

Again, arguing that the reforms underway may not alter the structural character of Angola’s political economy anytime soon is not the same as suggesting that the country’s elites are bound to continue with their old ways unfazed and unobserved. On the contrary, while there may not be a shift in ‘who benefits from oil and gas or from …economic structure in general’, Ovadia contends that ‘even those inclined to continue accumulating rent from the sector are recognising the need for international legitimacy.’ This is especially so in the Angolan case where, acting out of self-interest,  foreign governments like China and the U.S. whose companies are extracting oil are showing signs that they would no longer be accommodating of past practices.

In a context of heightened interest and growing regulatory activism in anti-corruption and anti-bribery, it is therefore possible that the current reforms serve a dual purpose: to further strengthen elite control over every aspect of Angolan economy and society while simultaneously portraying Sonangol as a more efficient and more transparent company. The latter is crucial not just for the oil sector. It matters for Angola’s international legitimacy and reputation too. Angola’s rulers are well aware that this international legitimacy requires a restructuring process that retains at least some semblance of integrity, even if it simply means putting the corruption somewhere else.      

Liliane Mouan is a Research Assistant in business and human rights at the British Institute of International and Comparative Law. She will join The Dickson Poon School of Law at King’s College London in September. You can follow her on Twitter @liliane_mouan.

Gendered Navigations: Women in Mining

In reflections on her fieldwork in South Africa, Asanda Benya writes about the difficulties and insights she gained while researching underground female mine-workers. Some of these ideas are expanded upon in her award-winning ROAPE article The Invisible Hands: Women in Marikana (Volume 42, Issue 146, 2015). Roape.net readers can access this prize-winning article online for free until 30 June 2017.

By Asanda Benya

In July 2008 I set out to Rustenburg, a platinum-mining town about 130km north-west of Johannesburg. For almost three months I lived and worked with mine-workers to ‘study’ women who had recently been employed to work underground. To get a broad understanding of the challenges that were facing women in the mines I worked with different teams that had women in their complement. For 7 to 8 hours every-day we lashed ore, installed ventilation and water pipes, cleaned stopes and connected blasting cables. This short research stint aroused my interests into the lives of female mine-workers.

In 2011 and 2012 I returned to study identities in mining. I was interested in how women make sense of themselves against the masculine underground and mining culture. In the months that followed I not only saw the changes and heard about them, but I was also roped in. I had to change how I walked, talked, acted and thought. My co-workers told me that I had to “forget myself” when going underground. Others told me that if I wanted to be safe, productive and to ‘fit-in’ with the underground world I had leave my surface self behind and adopt an underground self. The underground self was fearless, took risks and prioritized meeting production targets. Sometimes women in their underground selves acted more like my male co-workers, very different from their surface selves. Indeed, some women often remarked that they were “men at work, and women at home”. They admitted to changing how they behaved in the multiple spaces they navigated. It is these shifts in women’s gender performances and identities that my study was concerned with. To get at these gender performances and gendered identities I spent almost a year working underground as a winch operator, and a general labourer, pulling blasted rock from the stope face to the tip.

14 Shaft 22 79 071

Asanda Benya and a colleague taking a break after barring down loose rocks and preparing the face for drilling and blasting

Drawing from my field notes (Thursday 30 August 2012) below I take you through a typical day at work, and how we navigated spaces in mining.

My alarm rings, it is 3h30 in the morning. I’ve hardly slept and I’m as tired as I was when I went to bed last night. I get very anxious at night; I worry about being late and missing the cage, I think about accidents, what if something happens while we go down the cage, what if rocks fall while we’re inside the stope, what if we don’t meet production targets and my team does not get bonuses, what if I cause an accident with the winch, what if, what if… I get out of bed, get ready for work and leave my room to the kitchen block… It’s now 4h20 and outside it’s 5 degrees Celsius. I’m supposed to be underground by 5h15, if I don’t leave soon I’m going to miss my cage and be late for work… At least I’m no longer working on the levels that have to be underground by 4h15am as I did in June and July, the coldest months in Rustenburg. I leave the residence and I pass through the town of Rustenburg at 4h40. Around the taxi rank it is buzzing with activities, the women hawkers who target mine workers are already here selling food and warm beverages. After passing town I join a township which links me to the shaft, along the road are a number of men and women mine-workers hitch hiking.

 Just before the shaft, on both sides of the road, in English and fanakalo, are written boards with the different mine rules; the five golden rules of barring, the mining and engineering platinum rules. At the bus stop scores of men hop-off the mine bus and women descend from taxis. As you swirl through the first gate, starring at you are boards declaring the latest statistics; fatality free shifts, accidents, deaths and production targets.

 A long row of hawkers follows, workers are buying fat cakes as they pass, or steamed bread, boiled eggs, or a sephatlo [sephatlo is a hollowed out loaf of bread filled with fried potatoes, archar (pickled spicy vegetables), polony (processed meats) and cheese], a popular cuisine with mine-workers. These usually go with a frozen 500ml fizzy drink, peanuts, sweets and or gum. Facing the workers as they buy are more sign posts about safety, “We believe we can mine without any accidents, please help us achieve this” a few feet down another one reads “We believe we can mine with zero injuries”. On top of some of these signs are small posters advertising traditional healers who can “bring back a lost lover, help those who are bewitched, protect your job, help you win the lottery or promotion at work” and some are advertising good places to do an abortion. There are also funeral notices and details of departure points for buses transporting workers to the funerals.

Before you enter the second gate a mine sign board reminds you of the company slogan, following that is another reminder that no person under the age of 18 is allowed on mine premises and the last one with bold wording “NO HIGH HEEL SHOES OR SANDALS PERMITTED ON PREMISES”.  It is another world now.

The shaft is ringing with energy, people are rushing and running; to the office, to the change houses, to the cage station, to the lamp house. There is a lot of activity, a lot of energy and this is what it looks like every day. Except two weeks back on the 17th of August when the mood was sombre, deafening silence, after the 34 mine-workers were killed in Marikana… I clock in on the second gate, pass the mine offices, pass the manager, and supervisor change houses. I rush quickly and clock into the women’s change house. I am welcomed by a heap of clean overalls on the floor and 3 large dust bins with dirty overalls, and then it’s our lockers, showers and toilets. I find some women from night shift showering, some scrambling through a pile of clean overalls in their row looking for theirs.

I quickly change to my personal protective equipment (PPE) and ‘mgodi (underground) clothes’; my first layer is my mgodi T-shirt, and mgodi leggings for ‘protection’ (or to fit in, or to follow the morning ritual), the second layer is my long socks, my overall, hard hat, gumboots. I finally put on my knee pads and belt and then I exit the change house to go to the lamp house. I hear the announcement on the intercom that it’s the second last cage to my level (level 23), so I quickly run to get my lamp, I test it and put it on, rushing towards another gate that leads towards the cage yard. There are more funeral notices, Union (AMCU) announcements and sign boards about PPE. I swipe in one last time and I am inside the waiting place or should I say the ‘pushing place’ that takes me to the cage yard. I put my card away here because it’s easy to lose it, luckily, the last gates which allow you access to the cage yard are controlled by cage attendants.

 Just as I arrive I find workers from my level screaming at the cage attendant who has just repeated the announcement that this is the second last cage to our level. “How could she do that when there are so many of us to level 23?” they ask. I look around for Tee, the woman I’m working with, all the men start screaming at me, thinking I’m skipping the queue. I don’t see her, or any woman for that matter, there aren’t many of us anyway. I go to the back of the queue and wait for the last cage to my level. Workers are talking about blasts, targets, rocks that need to be supported and unfair shift-bosses. The attendant remotely unlocks the entrance to the cage yard and those in front push through. After about what seems like a hundred workers, she remotely locks the main entrance… they all walk to the different cage decks, top, middle and bottom decks. I’m still at the back, it does not even look like the queue has moved from where I’m standing. She opens the main gate again and this time I run, I skip the queue, embarrassed but I’ve done it before and I know how to ignore their screams when they catch me.

Finally I make it through the main entrance to the cage. A notice stares at me “before you enter the cageS you must wear the following PPE”. When I get to the cage gate, I approach the door of the bottom deck, all the decks look full already, that means I have to push the guy in front in order to fit. As I turn to face the front so that I can use my back to push, a few more workers are also charging towards the same deck and they push as soon as they get to the door. The ones inside the cage tell me to thayiter, it’s fanakalo for holding yourself tight. I try to thayiter but the cold whistling wind at 5h10am in the morning gets the better of me and I start to shiver, even more as I enter the cage not knowing what awaits me underground. In order to thayiter, you have to freeze your whole body, no movement, get a grip of every muscle and pull it in but don’t sense it. When you’ve done proper thayiter, you don’t feel the cold, you stop sensing anything external, and you fight to be still. To thayiter is more than tightening your body or making it still, it goes all the way to your mind, it’s like you physically and instantaneously ‘grab’ your mind, like you want to suffocate it, but without actually suffocating it but through calming it and then instruct it to make still your body. This was the only process I had followed the few times I managed to thayiter. There are what looks like 50 or more of us in my deck, another 100 or so in the two decks above this one.

The cage acts as a bridge between the surface world and the underground world. It takes workers down or up the shaft. Even though the cage is a space that is inhabited temporarily, in passing, it still has its own rules and exists independently of either the surface world or underground world. It is its own space.

From the mouth of the cage I find myself pushed all the way to the back. I wonder if other women ever get used to the cage. After so many months I still get shocked. It’s a rude awakening. Just when you think the cage cannot take any more people, you’re suddenly pushed all the way to the back, somehow, and 15 to 20 other workers make their way in, at that time you are floating, your breasts squeezed between hard hats and your feet dangling in the air, you cannot feel your boots, it’s dark inside and you cannot even see who is standing next to you. You cannot switch on your head lamp, it’s an unwritten cage rule and if you ignore it, the wrath of all the fifty or so workers in your deck will be on you, so you’re safe dangling in the darkness.

This suspended pose becomes your position for the next 2-4 minutes as the cage gate is shut aggressively by the attendant. As the cage violently moves from surface to your level underground, you feel every bump it makes against the wall, the whistling cold wind coming from the ventilation shaft next to you. My lamp is switched off, hands crossed around my breasts because male workers tend to target breasts when they want to touch us (women) in the darkness of the cage.

All this discomfort prepares us for the dungeons that await us. Suddenly the cage motion is slow and light rays slip in, slowly we stop in our level, level 23. We’re underground now. The cage door opens and the first group of workers are pushed out, as my feet drop down, I try to reach for my head lamp to turn it on, but those behind me are already pushing me out. I’m lucky I make it out without tripping and falling. If you fall, everyone shouts at you because you’re taking up their walking space and slowing them down. I then join the scores of workers who walk the haulages to their different work places and stopes.

In the waiting place (male) workers quickly change into their torn overalls and plastic bags, some start eating and as soon as everyone is done changing, in our cliques we leave for the stope, climbing the long and steep staircase and to make it easy I count them, re-starting after every twentieth step. There are 118 of them so I make up for the ‘missing’ two by including my first and second steps into the centre line where the tip is located. From there some workers start assessing the place we blasted last night. It’s called ‘early entry examination’. We complain about the night shift that did not fix the mtiya-tiya (ventilation curtain) after the blast. Tee and I slow down to examine our winch and fill in the check list… we catch up with the rest as they enter the stope where the crew will drill for the next 8 hours. On the right hand side is the madala sites (an old already mined out place) where we are prohibited to enter. The stope, the centre line and the tip is where I will be for the next eight hours or more; toiling, navigating the rocks, lashing, winching or barring them down. It is 5h50am and we start with our daily drill.

In the spaces I mention above, possibilities of death, accidents and injuries, rape, sexual harassment, heat exhaustion were common realities. Also common were conversations or ‘grumbles’ from workers about not getting a share of the wealth they felt they produced.

The discontent of the workers in the platinum sector was brought to bear when workers from different mines organised and went on several strikes in 2012. Workers had very clear demands in these strikes. In some mines they wanted R9500 after deductions and in other mines they wanted R12 500, later it was R16 000.

These strikes shook the industry and brought it to its knees as production stopped in some mines. What followed, however, what we have come to know as the Marikana massacre, shook the very core of the country and the ideals that South Africa had come to define itself by. During the Marikana massacre 34 mine-workers were killed by police while gathering on a hill outside the mine gates, demanding a living wage of R12 500.  About 78 more were seriously injured and about 270 workers were arrested, tortured and, under an apartheid era law, charged with murdering their co-workers. This happened less than 20 kilometres from our shaft, while my team and I were underground, finishing off drilling and charging holes with explosives.

1 Shaft Vids 108

Asanda Benya operating a winch – a machine which scrapes ore from the blasted face to the tip

Some of my co-workers had siblings working at the mine where the strike and the massacre took place. This became more of a reality the following day when some of them did not arrive at work because they had gone to look for their fathers, siblings and homeboys. This was an emotionally raw day in the mine where sadness engulfed the shaft. The cage seemed slower that day, the mood quiet and sombre. Now and again workers asked each other if so-and-so had been seen, or if he went to Marikana to look for his brother. Responses were short and voices low, “he left yesterday as soon as we got to the hostel and hasn’t been back since” or “he was still at the hospital checking if his father was amongst the injured” or “he was told to go to the morgue to identify the body and won’t be coming in today”.

Everyone was affected and rather than bracketing my emotions or keeping an emotional distance from the workers, I had to engage. For Patricia Hill Collins, to have emotions in research indicates validity and credibility. The fact that everyone seemed to know someone in Marikana (or someone who knew someone), except for me, brought home privileges that I had not reflected on until that moment. It also complicated what I had come to believe about myself as one of them (or as close enough) and exposed the limitations around the notion that I was one of them, and the distance that could not be erased by my close relationships at an individual and macro level.

The massacre was a moment of methodological and identity rupture for me (as a ‘citizen’ and as a researcher) and called for a different level, and different way of reflecting about what it really means to be ‘one’ with the workers or to do public sociology in post-apartheid South Africa. Marikana was a turning point on many levels; for the country, for mine-workers, and for myself doing research and how I understood my position and role, whether I would leave and go to a “safer” place (the university), or stay in the mines and make a contribution, no matter how small or insignificant. It was a destabilizing moment. As an ethnographer and as a mineworker, it was essential to be on the ground; and as an actor or participant, both in the mining and South African “public”, I had a responsibility to be present and contribute.

Maintaining a distance, or being detached, as positivists advocate, was not a possible or morally available option. Ethnography, by definition demands that one is fully immersed in the lives of those being studied. It seemed to me that to detach at that moment would have been to work against the very logic of what constitutes participant observation.

The Marikana massacre was indeed a day that turned many lives upside down, more so those of the widows of the slain Marikana workers. Yet, thousands more workers continue to make the journey described above, they continue to navigate underground in the hopes of improving their lives and those of their children.

Asanda Benya works in the Department of Sociology, University of Cape Town and she is a Research Associate of the Society, Work and Development Institute (SWOP) University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg.

Featured photograph: Asanda Benya lashing ore

The Road to Iraq: Tony Blair’s Intervention in Sierra Leone

For years Lionel Cliffe, the founder of ROAPE, was a leading member of the editorial board of the review, ensuring that the quarterly publication produced radical and cutting edge political economy. Often he would write notes for members of the board about developments on the continent or provide analysis on important debates. In May 2010, in one of these notes, he wrote about a paper delivered by the anthropologist Paul Richards on Sierra Leone. Richards had spoken at a conference in Leeds and had systematically demolished Tony Blair’s so-called humanitarian intervention in Sierra Leone in 2000. Heralded as a blueprint for ‘humanitarian intervention’ around the world, the involvement of British forces in the West African state was used to justify military action in Afghanistan and Iraq. Reeling from the damning evidence of the Chilcot report Tony Blair still points to the success of New Labour’s ‘liberation’ of Sierra Leone. Yet as Lionel wrote in 2010, ‘the actual claims made about various dimensions of the strategy systematically mangle and distort the historical record.’ ROAPE’s Tunde Zack-Williams provides a detailed background to the war in Sierra Leone that led to the intervention, he then introduces Lionel’s paper which roape.net publishes for the first time at the end of post. As Zack-Williams concludes, ‘Lionel’s paper … questions: in whose interests do we intervene in conflicts in foreign land? Are we in a position to always tell the good guys from the bad guys?’

On Reading Lionel Cliffe: Paul Richards and the Sierra Leone Civil War

By Tunde Zack-Williams

Introduction

War broke out in Sierra Leone in March 1991, when a rag tag rebel group calling itself the Revolutionary United Front (RUF), led by a former army corporal Foday Sankoh attacked the south-eastern corner of Sierra Leone adjacent to the Liberian border in an attempt to remove from power the corrupt and dictatorial one-party-state regime of the All People’s Congress (APC), a regime that silenced the voice of the people for the best part of 30 years. Externally, Sankoh was aided by Libya Colonel Ghadafi, and Liberian warlord Charles Taylor. Both bore grudges against the Sierra Leonean leadership: the Libyan leader thought he had been duped by Siaka Stevens whom he supported for the position as chair of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU) in 1980, but Stevens failed to reciprocate when required, which meant that the Libyan dictator never had the opportunity of becoming the head of the OAU. As Stevens handed over power to his Force Commander, Major-General Joseph Momoh, the latter was caricatured by Ghadafi as a ‘boy scout’ since soldiers seize power rather than have it bestow on them. Taylor was unhappy that at a point when his troops were about to capture Monrovia, Sierra Leonean authorities allowed Nigerian Alpha jets to  use Freetown airport to bomb his front line positions. He never forgave Sierra Leone and decided to arm Foday Sankoh whom he had met in Benghazi during military training in Libya.

The nature of this insurgency, i.e. its concentration in the rural districts of the South meant that the elite in Freetown denied the existence of the group and its mysterious leader. It was not until the 1992 ‘Captain’s coup’ led by 27 year old Captain Valentine Strasser, and the National Provisional Revolutionary Council (NPRC) which removed the by now totally discredited APC from power that the elites in the capital realised the gravity of the uprising. The instability continued to spiral with the removal of Strasser from office in ‘a palace coup’ to be replaced by his number two, Julius Maada Biu. Furthermore, pressure from domestic activists and the international community led in March 1996 to the NPRC handing over power to Ahmed Tejan Kabba the elected leader of the country’s oldest political party, the Sierra Leone Peoples Party (SLPP) following the first free and fair election in the country for 30 years. However, in May 1997, the legitimate government of Tejan Kabba was removed from office by a faction of the army calling itself the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC), who promptly invited the leader of the RUF to join him to form a ‘peoples’ army’. It was this bloody and costly onslaught on the nation’s capital with the amputation of limbs of innocent children, women and men, by young thugs that brought Sierra Leone to the fore of international news and in particular the attention of the Blair administration.

For Tony Blair, the Sierra Leone crisis posed an opportunity to test his new ethical foreign policy, based on global responsibilities (as demonstrated in the crisis in the former Yugoslavia). These interventions it seems fit in elegantly within the foreign policy structure that produced interventions in Bosnia, later in Iraq and Afghanistan, as the Prime Minister declared that whatever the situation, in the end Britain was backing ‘the good guys against the bad ones’. One additional dimension promulgated by the Sierra Leone governing class is that Tony Blair had a long attachment to Sierra Leone: his father was a university professor in the country’s university and the young Tony had fond memories of visiting the once dynamic capital during his school holidays. There is also a third dimension, which relates to the significant number of diasporic Sierra Leoneans in places like London and Manchester who had worked within the labour movement and who became activists within the Labour Party, who with a sense of despair during the ‘RUF amputation spree’ called on their government to come to the rescue of ‘their beloved, loyal, royal Sierra Leone’. People like Mrs Edith Macauley MBE, former Mayor of Merton in London; late Mrs Yomi Mambu, former Lord Mayor of Manchester; and the late Mrs Fadima Fatmata Zubairu also once a Manchester City councillor. [1]

What is clear from analysing the aetiology of this bloody conflict, is that contrary to a widely held view, the strike at the Sierra Leone state by these young people was not premised on greed as broadcast by some commentators, a point which no doubt together with the humanitarian disaster influenced external intervention in the country. It is clear in the analysis of all serious scholars of this small West African country that the youth who rose up against 30 years of economic and political decadence had a genuine grievance against those corrupt gerontocrats that had made life miserable for them, as they saw no future for themselves under those conditions. Another related myth by the ‘greed not grievance’ brigade is that diamonds were the cause of the war. Indeed, it was only towards the end of the war that the mining of diamonds became a serious issue. For example, Lance Gberie has pointed out that the nature of this reading of the war was designed, ‘with an eye to influencing Western policy towards the largely neglected crisis in Sierra Leone’ (180-81). [2]

Other Western writers such as Robert Kaplan interpreted the activism of the young Sierra Leoneans who stood up against decades of exploitation, oppression and neglect as anarchy and criminal violence. Surprising that after criticising Kaplan’s work, Gberie ended up by accepting the posture of diamond causation, thus depriving young Sierra Leoneans of political agency. This is rather curious, given the fact that he drew attention to Libya’s President Gadhafi financing the activities of the RUF under Foday Sankoh.

This criticism aside, Gberie is right to draw attention to the fact that once the war became associated with ‘blood diamonds’ or ‘dirty pebbles’, pace Naomi Campbell, and the threat to the diamond trade, the war became an important issue for the international community to resolve.  Finally, new wars such as the RUF campaign  was seen as a threat to global peace that needed to be resolved or ‘put down’ promptly, as the Americans tried to do with Somali warlords resulting in what became known as the Black Hawk Down incident. This incident marked the end of an epoch of superpower involvement in African (new) wars. For the US, no more American lives were to be lost on African soil, hence the setting up of Africom with headquarter in Stuttgart, Germany. The fact is that the RUF would not pose a serious threat to as well-armed and well-trained an army as the Royal Marines, who were sent to Sierra Leone to evacuate British and Commonwealth citizens. The Marines presence in Sierra Leone was also designed to save the UN from further embarrassment after a number of its officers and vehicles were seized by rebel forces. It must not be forgotten either, that by the time the Royal Marines arrived to evacuate British or other citizens, the Nigerian-led ECOMOG forces had chiselled the rough edges of the RUF and its ally, the Westside Boys.

Lionel’s commentary on Paul Richards’ lecture in Leeds on the Sierra Leone civil war points to the chasm that prevails between left and right researchers on the aetiology of the war and its solution. I recall a telephone call from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) inviting me to participate at a conference on local governance in Sierra Leone as the war was drawing to an end. I asked the caller what the conference was about, and I was told that it was on local governance, and that the British (Tony Blair’s) Government planned building houses for chiefs, to enable them to lead the internally displaced subjects and former fighters back to their chiefdoms. I was alarmed that the British government was aiding the legitimacy of chiefs who had not been in their chiefdoms in some cases for up to a decade, and whose actions had alienated large numbers of young people leading them to challenge the gerontocracy for state hegemony.  In my anger I said to the caller: ‘What are you after?  Are you trying to modernise feudalism? Are you aware that the actions and behaviours of some of these chiefs were underlying causal factors for the civil war? Are you aware of the role the chiefs played in the first military intervention in the country?’ The official was taken aback, and replied: ‘well, that is why we want you at this meeting; no one has mentioned any of these points to us’, the official retorted. I then went on to ask why clinics were not being built, in place of chiefs’ palaces.

Among factors that triggered off the civil war were the widespread unemployment, marginalisation and alienation of youth; a sense of powerlessness among young people in the country with the assault and exploitation of young people by traditional rulers. Prior to 1991, one could hardly speak of the existence of social citizenship in Sierra Leone: the right of the child, though enshrined in colonial legislation was neglected and violated as the state gradually abandoned any right to social citizenship in the ignominious route to one-party dictatorship. Throughout the 1970 and 1980s the country’s economic performance continued to deteriorate. Child neglect and injustice was the hallmark of childhood in pre-war Sierra Leone as both the formal and informal mechanisms of safeguarding children had collapsed under the strain of booty capitalism. What the war did was to bring the parlous state of children in Sierra Leone to the rest of the world.

Ironically, this helped to politicise the nation’s youth and gave them a sense of empowerment as the two main political parties continue to seek their support at elections, which are always fraught with allegation of corruption by the losing side.  The young people utilised the new found space provided by the return to democratic rule to position themselves for the protection of their interests. Thus as members of the rebel fighting corps they felt empowered over unarmed civilian adults; thus for a while the traditional authorities had to listen to their grievances, and they were extremely concerned about unruly young men who were now challenging traditional authorities by demanding a new order. The young men were not prepared to return to the bad old days of cruel and autocratic rule by the chiefs and their Freetown allies. In short, there was an inter-generational confrontation between the traditional chiefs and the urban elites on the one hand, and the young men and women who were not only victims of the war, but also had played a major part in trying to bring about change to their social conditioning.

Given this reversal of roles the elders refused to accept the status quo and would not forgive the ‘cadets’ for the atrocities they had unleashed on the community: rape, amputation and murder. The cadets retaliated by blaming the elites for loss of educational opportunities, political and economic marginalisation. According to Susan Sheller there was a third force in this encounter, not an impartial observer or judge, one that demands the subjugation of the cadets to ensure business as usual: this force was Western donors, the new definers of African culture and morality, who now argue that the Fanonian reality of ‘the first shall be the last and the last first’ is untenable and un-African. After all, it is this docility of the producers of surplus value that help in warding off the tendency of the rate of profit to fall by cheapening the cost of raw materials. Now it was accepted by the local element of the hegemonic class that without the consent of this revered fraction of the ruling class, it was felt that the liberal peace could not be delivered. Now, as the process of reintegration approached , the gerontocrats (those for whom the Blair Government was building houses) felt very much empowered as their consent was needed if the young people were to be pardoned for their past acts in order to be reintegrated into society. There was strong demand to return to the governance pattern of the pre-war years, with the chiefs as the voice of the people. It appeared as if the cadets were destined to lose out to this alliance of Western governments and their local protégé in the non-governmental communities who decided that it was imperative to return to the governance pattern of the pre-civil war years, with the chiefs as the voice of the people.

At the head of the re-traditionalisation of governance was the British Department for International Development, which failed to build constructive relationships between chiefdoms and local governments, instead as Jackson has put it, they simply reshuffled the agrarian class relationships between chiefdoms and local governments. In no time, the rights of the young people had disappeared as the alliance between external donors, the political elites and the traditional chiefs pushed the people into their role of submissive subjects. It is also important to note the close historical ties between Britain and Sierra Leone: Freetown the country’s capital was founded for freed slaves who had been promised freedom for their role as ‘empire loyalists’ fighting for the Crown in the American Revolution. They were promisedland in Nova Scotia, but having spent a bitter landless winter in Canada they decided to migrate to London, where they became known as the Blacker Moor or Black poor and by the early eighteenth century they constitute 2 per cent of the population of London. As one of the earliest attempt at a Powellite solution to race relations, these unfortunate souls were transported to Sierra Leone as the bridgehead for British imperial design in West Africa.

Finally, Lionel’s paper is of tremendous relevance to contemporary discourse on foreign intervention in Africa and other war-torn areas, as we have seen with the recent revelation by the Chilcot Report. It is true that David Richards and his troops ‘had a good campaign in Sierra Leone’  despite what can be seen as mission creep: they were able to destroy the brutal RUF and its ally the Westside Boys and ensure UN peacekeepers were freed and their weapons returned, thus effecting a face-saving strategy for the UN peacekeeping mission. One wonders if the success of Sierra Leone emboldened Blair for what some see as his illegal adventure in Iraq. In this sense, Lionel’s paper is important in that it reinforces the central question: in whose interests do we intervene in conflicts in foreign land? Are we in a position to always tell the good guys from the bad guys? These are some of the issues that Lionel’s paper invites us to debate.

Tunde Zack-Williams is Emeritus Professor of Sociology at the University of Central Lancashire. He was President of the UK African Studies Association from 2006 to 2008. His books include The Quest for Sustainable Peace: The 2007 Sierra Leone Elections (2008). He is an editor of the Review of African Political Economy and a member of the Africa Panel of the British Academy.

 

‘Humanitarian Intervention’: The Case of Sierra Leone

By Lionel Cliffe

BBC programmes, on radio and TV’s Newsnight, offered two instances underlining why the 1990s intervention by the British Government must not be just put to rest. Both illustrated what has become the official version of history in UK: a ‘success’ where determined military intervention brought conflict to an end, being then followed up by support toward nation-building and recovery that delivered a democratic outcome and sustainable peace and growth. A recent interview with Blair had him celebrating this outcome and pointing to it as a model for humanitarian intervention elsewhere. The only question the programmes raised was whether circumstances, in say Afghanistan, were so different as to make the SL model applicable – thus taking for granted the verdict that it had been a success.

This was not the view that came out a week before in the annual Leeds Africa Lecture 2010 given by Paul Richards. Although intervention was not in the title or the main thrust of a presentation which was concerned more with using the civil war in Sierra Leone to critique current anthropological discourses, implicitly in the lecture and in the subsequent discussion he did, however, offer a thorough-going and outspoken critique of the standard orthodoxy. Rather than the sceptical arguments that have been raised, to the effect that the Sierra Leone circumstances may not allow for the strategy to be replicable or that morally it cannot be justified even if it in some sense ‘worked’, Paul showed more comprehensively than I have seen articulated anywhere else that the actual claims made about various dimensions of the strategy systematically mangle and distort the historical record. Yet the completely mythical nature of these claims are hardly realised by a wider public, even among Africanists, and continue to go unchallenged.

Very succinctly, the main thrust of this critique can be summarised:

  • The decision to deploy South African mercenaries and British troops far from being the decisive and only move to end war, occurred just at the point when a negotiated solution was on the cards
  • What followed was classical counter-insurgency, to intervene just on one side, which did not recognise or in the end allow for dealing with underlying grievances
  • The method used, following measures used in Mozambique and Angola, and KwaZulu by the apartheid regime was to form an irregular, ‘third force’ (the ‘hunters’) allied to government, marked a qualitative step in the brutalisation of the conflict
  • The much-hailed introduction of ‘democratisation’ in fact excluded the opposition from the elections
  • A key and much-lauded dimension of state rebuilding was to incorporate aspects of ‘tradition’ and reinstall chiefs – but they had been the main target of the youth protests which had sparked the rebellions (partly as they were seen as the obstacle to getting land). In general the ‘recovery’ policies reversed the demands and processes that favoured the younger generations
  • The much-heralded demobilisation, through training etc., led to few jobs and was counter-productive in many ways
  • In the aftermath of a diamond-funded civil war, and with no diamond industry surviving, land and agriculture based livelihoods the only option, access to land for young families is blocked, instead there is an elite-led land-grab to hand over big tracts to foreign sovereign funds and corporations.

These profound insights have to become more widely addressed and spread, not only to set the Sierra Leone record straight and provide a more realistic view of the sustainability of what the intervention put in place, but also because the spurious claim that it was a ‘success’ is still being trotted out as justification for global strategies of intervention – as Blair did once again on Newsnight.

I myself must stand indicted, as I never followed through on misgivings I had 2 or 3 years ago, about this image of successful intervention, beyond raising the matter with fellow-editors of ROAPE. But I, like so many, never realised the full degree to which the claims could be and needed to be contested empirically. Paul Richards who brought their mythical nature home to his audience, was apologetic that he had not set out this case in his writings, because the task of taking on the ‘Blair legacy’ has been too demanding up to now for a mere field anthropologist.

It is about time that the ‘success’, the nature of its programmatic component, its questionable justification and its dire long-term consequences, as well as the generalised logic of humanitarian intervention globally, be taken on frontally. I send this round to colleagues at Leeds who may have been equally stirred by Paul’s lecture, to fellow editors of ROAPE and other Africanist friends, in the hope that some of you might meet the challenge.

Lionel Cliffe (May, 2010)

Notes

[1] Conversation with the Late Mrs Zubairu at a reception to mark her award of the Member of the British Empire (MBE).

[2] Gberi, L. 2005, A Dirty War in West Africa: The RUF and the Destruction of Sierra Leone, Hurst & Company, London.

Reforming Angola’s Honey Pot – Part 1

By Liliane Mouan

Part 1: Reforming The Giant with Many Tentacles

Few African countries face perception challenges like oil-rich Angola. Conduct a quick Google search of stories on Angola and you would most likely be left with the impression that this is a country in a state of perpetual crisis.

These stories have no doubt led to a surge of coverage of Angola. Yet by promoting a single narrative of crisis, they have also reduced complex issues to simple tales that appeal to broad audiences for sure, but are nevertheless devoid of context and leave very little space open for a nuanced assessment of what is actually going on in this major African petro-state. Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie put it best in her 2009 TED talk when she declared: ‘The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.’

A case in point is the story about President dos Santos’ appointments of his eldest daughter Isabel, first as head of the commissions in charge of the restructuring of the oil sector and state oil company Sonangol last October, then as chairwoman of the company’s board in early June. These appointments followed numerous reports on the company’s financial woes as well as the president’s surprise announcement in March of his intention to step down in 2018. And they not only revived the old image of Angola as an oil kleptocracy, but also immediately generated talk about the making of a political dynasty, leaving important questions related to the reforms context, content and consequences largely unanswered. For example, why are reforms needed at the state oil firm? What explains the government’s strategies and the timing of this round of reforms? How are the planned reforms likely to be implemented? And lastly, what do these reforms say about political-economic change in Angola?

This two-part blog post seeks to bring some of these issues to the fore in an attempt to provide a fresh perspective to this important story.

A state within a State: Sonangol’s ‘Bankrupt’ Model

In order to understand Sonangol’s woes and the need for reform, one needs to first revisit the company’s history.

Sonangol was created in June 1976 with responsibility for modernising, managing and overseeing the oil sector, but it soon grew to be much more than that. This was not merely a stated objective of the Angolan regime but an imperative imposed by the civil war (1975-2002).

As the most technically and financially capable state organ at a time when the public administration was dysfunctional and the state unable to finance itself on the international markets during the conflict, Sonangol was called upon to carry out numerous non-core functions. This included shadowing and often replacing the state administration ‘first in the fiscal sphere,’ as Ricardo Soares de Oliveira writes in his new book, ‘and then in every other systematically important sphere of Angola’s political economy.’

Critics have long argued that Sonangol’s central positioning in the oil sector gives rise to conflicts of interest; and that rather than being used for developmental purposes, its role as the government’s main financier has mainly served the regime and its rentier ambitions. They point to Sonangol’s secretive borrowing and complex business practices; the resulting ‘missing billions’ that have plagued Angola’s public finances; as well as to the corporation’s tendency to reward political insiders and associates with business opportunities in its sectors of operation (oil, banking, telecoms, real estate) at home and abroad.

Considerable attention has indeed been paid in recent years to the ways and extent to which Sonangol’s ‘strange’ partnerships with Portuguese and Chinese officials allegedly enable Angolan elites to acquire assets in Portugal and several other African countries.

Yet despite concerns over Sonangol’s opaque management, accounting practices and lack of accountability, the Angolan authorities have previously rejected calls for its supervisory, commercial and non-commercial functions to be separated.  One reason for this is that in spite of its ‘faults’, this unconventional model contributed to create a consistent and reliable operating environment that boosted investors’ confidence.

A second reason is that reforming Sonangol was not a government priority, at least not in the first eight years after the end of the civil war. With the country’s infrastructure so badly damaged and human resources lacking as a result of the conflict, the emphasis was on rapid reconstruction and on (re)building human capacity, especially of those other government agencies responsible for managing oil revenues such as the Ministry of Finance (MINFIN).

A third oft-cited reason for the regime’s resistance to reform was the belief that Sonangol’s multiple and conflicting roles constituted ‘a principle problem and not an operational one’ that the company has managed to resolve largely by placing emphasis on efficiency. Despite its governance failures, Patrick Heller of the Natural Resource Governance Institute noted, Sonangol could still be deemed ‘relatively successful’ by virtue of ‘the overall health of the Angolan oil industry, the sizeable government take, the company’s realisation of stated goals, and its increasing skill and professionalism.’

More recently, however, evidence has emerged of growing internal dissatisfaction with Sonangol’s business approach. Last July, former chairman Francisco de Lemos was forced to quash media reports of a leaked internal document in which he appeared to suggest that Sonangol’s model is ‘technically bankrupt’ and in crisis, except for the upstream sector which remains operational because it is run by international oil companies (IOCs). This critique was apparently directed both at Sonangol’s heavy reliance on third-party contracts and outsourcing and at the increasing expansion of the group, which now comprises more than 30 subsidiaries and joint venture companies. Reports of a $50 billion shortfall in its accounts, if confirmed, would certainly put into perspective the scale of the challenges facing this oil giant that once prided itself on being one of Africa’s best-run state companies.

Above all else, sources familiar with the workings of the organisation observed that this was a remarkable admission, by a senior executive, of the fact that the company has simply grown too big and too diversified without there seemingly being a clearly articulated plan for the kind of role it ought to play in Angola’s changing context.

The ‘New Oil Paradigm’

As illustrated above, affirming that the government has resisted past reform attempts does not equate to suggesting that it failed to recognise the problem. But contrary to popular belief, this new-found realisation of the need for the overhaul of the sector and Sonangol did not occur in the last year but rather long before recent changes. 

Senior lawyers at Miranda & Associados actually trace the origins of this ‘new oil paradigm’ back to September 2011, when the government set forth its priorities for the petroleum sector in the National Energy Security Policy and Strategy and the General Strategic Framework for Exploration of Angola’s Pre-salt Play. Among other things, they indicate that the former ‘determined that operations in the upstream sector would remain open to IOCs, and Sonangol would continue to be the entity responsible for the management of these concessions’; while the latter ‘envisioned the creation of an independent regulatory entity for the subsector.’ Put simply, these statements show that the Angolan executive was already thinking about and committed to splitting Sonangol’s powers back in 2011.  

It appears that the increased interest in the pre-salt play combined with high oil prices to put the implementation of this agenda on the back burner, though the impetus for reform eventually regained strength amid a sharp drop in oil prices in mid-2014 and renewed concerns about accounting practices, high production costs and the country’s competitiveness. It is these and other matters that then paved the way for the Model for Readjustment of the Petroleum Sector’s Organisation (approved on 26 May 2016), which sets out details of the new organisational arrangements and outlines the government’s objectives.

What, then, do we know about this new regulatory regime? A document obtained from the aforementioned Portuguese law firm (now available online) suggests that it entails, inter alia,  (i) maintaining Sonangol as the national concessionaire with power to manage and monitor oil contracts; (ii) the creation of an Agency for the Petroleum Sector in charge of organising the sector and running licensing rounds alongside the Ministry of Petroleum (MINPET); (iii) the creation of the High Council for Monitoring the Petroleum Sector responsible for approving investments of strategic importance and managing equity interests in oil blocks previously held by Sonangol.   

What is more, the new regulatory framework envisages splitting up the Sonangol Group into three holding companies, including an operations company controlling core oil & gas assets such as Sonagas, Angola LNG and its exploration and production arm Sonangol P&P. A second company would be in charge of Sonangol’s transport (Sonair), telecoms (MSTelecom), real estate and other services companies; while a third finance holding company would oversee banking assets under the supervision of MINFIN. 

These reforms have two stated goals: to increase efficiency and transparency in the petroleum sector. The focus on efficiency and profitability comes as no surprise, given the current economic circumstances and the state’s dependence on the sector for 75% of its revenues. What remains unclear thus far is whether and how this new regime, lead reform agents such as Isabel dos Santos and government’s strategies would help deliver it. Also, what does it all have to do with the succession question? These topics will form the basis of the second part of this blog post. 

Liliane Mouan is a Research Assistant in business and human rights at the British Institute of International and Comparative Law. She will join The Dickson Poon School of Law at King’s College London in September. You can follow her on Twitter @liliane_mouan. 

Feature Photograph: Maka Angola

Marikana: Rank and File Mobilisation

The most well-known worker committee which was created independently from unions in Marikana, South Africa was forged on a mountain where 34 mine-workers were gunned down by police on 16 August 2012.  Luke Sinwell and Siphiwe Mbatha spent two years (from 2012 to 2014) researching the contemporary mine-workers’ movement in South Africa and learned that this was not the only, nor necessarily most important, committee that workers initiated. In their new book, The Spirit of Marikana: The Rise of Insurgent Trade Unionism in South Africa, they detail the creation of an alternative structure which was intended to hold the ‘new’ union, the Association of Mine-workers and Construction Union (AMCU), accountable to the rank and file. The National Union of Mine-workers (NUM) had led hundreds of thousands of workers on strikes in an earlier period of upheaval, but had since become, in Marikana and elsewhere, viewed as an enemy of the workers.  In this contemporary era, many worker leaders believed that AMCU also needed to be driven from below by the rank and file or else it faced the same fate as its predecessor. Exclusive to roape.net the following is an edited extract from their book which briefly explores a short period of time in relation to these monumental developments in modern South African labour history.

By Luke Sinwell and Siphiwe Mbatha

“Despite its significance, many (perhaps most) of the community of Marikana and Lonmin mine had probably not heard of the last committee at Lonmin discussed in this book, the Greater Lonmin Workers Council (GLWC). It appeared to offer an extension of the Mountain Committee, and to hold the possibility of maintaining the priority of mass workers’ control over decision-making processes in the AMCU, in the wake of the strike at Lonmin which ended on 18 September 2012. The council was intended to meet monthly with the three branches of Lonmin, to discuss issues that had arisen. The idea was that branches would give a report to the council, and the council would advise where necessary. The council and the branches would then collectively ‘combine everything and then plan a way forward’. Zakhele, the chairperson of the council, described the logic behind its formation:

the elderly workers like us met and said since we have left [National Union of Mineworkers] NUM and now joined AMCU on our return [to work] from the mountain, it’s now a worker thing. And we thought perhaps had AMCU been there before, people would not have died in the manner they did. And if older guys like us were in leadership, because we have a great deal of experience on the movements in mines, we would have been able to call people in order to talk and agree as leaders. So we decided that even if we are not in AMCU, there is a need for a structure called the Greater Lonmin Workers’ Council that will deal directly with the leaders [of AMCU] and not depend entirely on the union even though we are affiliated to the union. That was how we will be able to monitor the union and hold them to account, you see?

Members of the council had a vast experience as both informal and formal leaders in the mines, including inside the NUM. Most importantly, the members had their fingers on the pulse of the rank and file. Some had even witnessed the rise and demise of the NUM as it became a tool of management. While it was once an ‘insurgent trade union’ acting as an engine of working-class power, it became defunct. But, why did this happen? Zakhele and other founders of the GLWC suggested that one core reason was that it did not have an independent council to ensure it was accountable to the rank and file:

[the] union died because the branches took over and the members were not in control. Yet we have been there for too long and we know what happened …. When I came to the mines in 1981 the NUM was our thing. We fought for it. We walked with [Cyril] Ramaphosa and them, but today they have turned against us. 

‘When the NUM left,’ he recalled, ‘we were aggrieved with the R14,000 [per month] the leaders were getting paid. That is what made us not progress and [be] unsustainable because it [exorbitant payment] was being used by management [to prevent workers from having their demands addressed]’. The branches in the mines are clearly the focal point – and arguably the core organisers – of any union at the platinum mines. They therefore play a key role in determining the extent to which a union is driven from below, or controlled from the top down. The GLWC was a response to many years of shortcomings of the NUM branches, which became disconnected from their members, particularly following the transition to democracy.

Unlike the situation at Amplats, the branch committees at Lonmin were elected in 2013 in an extremely hostile environment. Workers and their families were traumatised by the infliction of state violence on 16 August 2012, and with the continuation of violence in the area, levels of fear and distrust undoubtedly reached a plateau. Some of the negotiators following the massacre were already leaders of the AMCU, while other leaders died, were injured and went to hospital, or were accused of murder by the South African state. Based on his communication and involvement with a wide range of worker leaders (both informal and informal), Bheki summarised the process through which the branch committees at Lonmin were elected:

 Those comrades after the 22 per cent [was given to the workers], they called a mass meeting in different shaft[s]. Those who are vocal enough, they would come with a list in those mass meetings and say… ‘Here is a list of the people. Here is the chairperson in the shaft committee.’ And call them [the mass of workers and ask], ‘who oppose[s] this’? Tell me at that time who [is] going to oppose this because everyone is afraid? … So all the office [bearing members of AMCU], it was not democratic, it was imposed and even AMCU [NEC] has got no time [to deal with this issue].

Bheki, who attended their meetings and worked directly with the GLWC in an attempt to ensure that it was sustained and empowered to achieve its objectives, further pointed out that there was a strong tension created by what he called the ‘opportunist’ AMCU branch leaders and the GLWC. While the GLWC appeared to undertake a programme which meant they would act as genuine representatives of the workers, the branch officials were not historic leaders of the 2012 strike and were arguably ‘bribed’ by their salaries and prone to taking orders from the AMCU NEC or from management, either of which would serve to undermine and eventually eclipse independent voices.

According to Bheki, the defining feature of the council was its dedication to the workers who had fought and died on the mountain. When the strike ended, workers at Lonmin had heard about the workers’ committee at Amplats, which was independent from union affiliation and more structured than the somewhat elusive committee(s) at Lonmin. When workers decided to end their strike, these older leaders committed themselves to ‘continue and serve the legacy of … all those leader[s] who have fallen. We want justice to be done until the end.’ Bheki who was part of the initiative, further resolved the spirit with which the GLWC sought to move forward:

We want to counsel our [branch] leaders who are in the union [AMCU] now. To understand that they don’t abandon … the thing that happened in the mountain. As much as they will be serving in the union, but they must know that the union was brought here by the blood [of the workers]. So that blood; it need[s] to be take[n] care of.

‘The blood’ here is referring to the spirit of independent militancy which was spilled on the day of the massacre – 16 August 2012. The council viewed the 34, and also those who stood firm on the mountain, as heroic figures who had fought for their rights. It is this spirit which many from outside of Marikana in particular had hoped would become a vanguard of South Africa’s working class…”

This is an extract from The Spirit of Marikana: The Rise of Insurgent Trade Unionism in South Africa (London: Pluto Books, 2016).

Luke Sinwell is a Senior Researcher at the University of Johannesburg.  He is a co-author of Marikana: A View from the Mountain and a Case to Answer, co-editor of Contesting Transformation: Popular Resistance in Twenty-First-Century South Africa and the General Secretary of the South African Sociological Association (SASA).

Siphiwe Mbatha is a co-ordinator of a socialist civic organisation in South Africa called the Thembelihle Crisis Committee (TCC).  He first went to Marikana one day after the massacre in order to provide solidarity to the slain mineworkers.

Feature photograph: Church on Green Market Square in Cape Town, South Africa with a banner commemorating the Marikana massacre.

Setting Forth at Dawn: A Workshop

By Amber Murrey, Maimuna Islam, and Odomaro Mubangizi

Reflections on Setting Forth At Dawn: A Workshop on the Geopolitics and Practices of Academic Writing,  Jimma University (Ethiopia)

During our workshop, particular dilemmas and nuanced opportunities for the decolonization of knowledge were revealed and they are expounded at length here. It is our hope that this detailed reflection can serve as a rubric of important lessons and examples for readers of ROAPE, who have long demonstrated commitments to radical and critical scholarship of and from the continent and who are likewise immersed in decolonizing projects in their respective spaces and institutions. 

Hosted by Jimma University’s young and enthusiastic College of Law and Governance along with the Vice President’s Office of Research and Community Relations, this 5-day writing workshop brought 36 scholars from nine countries to Jimma, Ethiopia. Our group constituted of seven conveners from Bangladesh, Ethiopia, Egypt, Canada, Somalia, Uganda, Jamaica, the UK, and the US. Our 30 participants joined us from across Ethiopia, Malawi, Tanzania, Nigeria, South Africa, and the UK. More than half of the participants were affiliated with institutions outside of Jimma, including Addis Ababa University, Gondar University, and Wolkite University. All of our participants were faculty at universities on the continent.

In one week, we set out with an ambitious agenda. The main objectives of the workshop were threefold: a) to share theories and praxis on decolonizing knowledge production in the global South; b) to generate discussions about the realities that African-based scholars face as they seek to publish their work as well as about the ways in which nonwestern scholars might craft out their own intellectual spaces and research agendas; and c) to offer workshop time for scholars to discuss their works-in-progress, as a way to create transnational community and solidarity and to cultivate practical publication know-how. The workshop opened up fruitful spaces for exchanges on a vast array of topics relevant to unequal opportunities for knowledge production, academic publication, and transnational nonwestern collaboration and action.

Context of the workshop: Decolonizing knowledge

The workshop came to fruition within a context of mounting critique against and self-awareness of the so-called “university in crisis.”[1] Although the university has probably always been in “crisis” in some form,[2] our present is a multiform and global “crisis” evidenced through the slashing of university budgets (particularly in the humanities) alongside the swelling prominence of STEM (science, technology, economic mathematics), and a focus on social scientific knowledge for corporate and military strategies.[3] We have witnessed the restructuring of our universities to resemble corporate configurations of power at the same time that universities are increasingly using ranking and rating systems to determine faculty value,[4] which has led to the rise of the so-called “publish or perish” model (but which might more aptly be called “publish or stagnate” in contexts like Ethiopia).[5] The rising salary inequalities between faculty and administration and the subcontracting of teaching labor have resulted in rising academic precarities;[6] this, at the same time that students are often paying more for their educations.

DSC_2948  

Mr. Sintayheu Demeke, Dean of The College of Law and Governance at Jimma University, welcomes the workshop participants and conveners to Jimma.

In Ethiopia, for example, students attend university with government grants that are then repaid when the state garnishes worker wages, a payment system that can be fiscally challenging for government employees, academic faculty included. These trends highlight the neoliberalization of higher education institutions and are further compounded by a long-existing global history of marginalization and Orientalization of nonwestern voices.[7]

Yet, there have been powerful global movements and sustained conversations against institutionalized forms of racism and other discriminations embedded within and perpetrated through the makings and circulations of knowledge.[8] Open access movements call for a democratization of knowledge and information at the same time that research indicates that the Internet has not provided the channel through which knowledge and information is equally available or, more acutely, equally created—what has been termed the “digital divide.”[9] An analysis of 9,500 journals included in the Web of Knowledge Journal Citation Reports (JCR) database reveals a striking global publication gap. The US and the UK publish more indexed journals than the rest of the world combined.[10] Switzerland publishes more than three times the entire African continent.[11] Simultaneously, African people, places, and knowledges constitute the primary data for hundreds of thousands of articles published annually by social scientists. V. Y. Mudimbe (1988) explained, “Africa” is first invented and subsequently colonized as a subject for theory.

Despite important counter-movements, a global knowledge hierarchy persists. Africa-based scholars experience manifold forms of exclusion and oppression, from outright linguistic, epistemic, geographic, cultural, and spatial exclusions to psychological and political oppressions.[12] Our workshop was attentive to the issues faced by practitioners who are already, in their own creative and unique ways, combating and countering systemic disadvantages of working within the global South in a global higher education system that is dominated by the North. These issues include limited access to high-speed Internet, exclusion from academic publication databases and other daily issues (such as routine load shedding of power and water). These are quotidian difficulties that most scholars based in the global North do not experience.

Our workshop arose within this challenging context, elicited by years of substantive conversations between the conveners about academic inequalities. Drawing upon an important foundation of previous scholarship and efforts, our intentions at the 5-day workshop were to collectively identify and critique epistemic annihilations and appropriations effected by global neo/colonialism as well as local institutional cultures that do not adequately support writing and reading cultures.

Generating discussions about the realities that African-based scholars face when publishing

In her introductory discussion of the impetus for the workshop, Dr. Amber Murrey (Development Studies, Jimma University, Ethiopia) addressed the pitfalls of predatory publishing. Ethiopian institutions, like many across the so-called “Global South,” link faculty salary and promotion to numbers of publications. The rapid growth of departments and institutions (in Ethiopia, the student population has more than tripled in the last fifteen years), a university structure that favors administrative posts over teaching positions[13] and lack of clarity about varying quality and reliability of different publication venues (among other factors) has meant that faculty are increasingly pressured to publish or stagnate, Dr. Amber[14] explained. At the same time the soundness of particular publications venue are not yet effectively assessed by promotional boards across the continent (although important efforts are being made in this direction, including the identification of predatory journals by academic institutions and the circulation of lists of venues to avoid). As a result, faculty too often submit their work to sub-par, non-peer-reviewed predatory journals.[15] Payment for publication in such journals runs anywhere from $100 to $300 USD for one article, often the equivalent of a month’s salary for a university lecturer in Ethiopia.

EthiopiaWorkshop

 

The participants, organizers, and conveners of the workshop gather before JU’s President’s Building.

During our conversations on the subject (which seemed to keep reappearing), one participant noted that the Ethiopian and other African university systems inadvertently encourage predatory publication: those faculty members who have been promoted, the participant speculated, have too often been promoted precisely due to their own predatory publications. How can we restructure our promotional policies to effect change when decision-makers themselves might have been promoted by amassing publications in predatory journals? Participants expressed resentment and frustration at the normalization of predatory publishing. Faculty members watch their colleagues and peers promote with predatory publications. One common refrain during our discussions was, “Well my friend suggested that I publish in this journal because he got one of his articles published there… but the journal is predatory.”

Another participant asked about protocols for retracting articles that have already been published in predatory journals, revealing another downside of this system: Scholars put in enormous time and energy to produce articles that will be summarily dismissed on funding and job applications. Most of them will never be cited and very few will be read. When the scholar realizes that the publication is predatory and the article has been published, it is often too late to have the article retracted and the editor will be unresponsive to appeals to retract. Rather than submit to predatory outlets, the emphasis at the workshop was on identifying strategies for scholars to publish in peer-reviewed academic journals of merit. We do not want our publications to be dismissed outright as non-scholarly or lacking scientific rigor or merit simply because of the publication venue. If we are committed to decolonizing knowledge, we must combat predatory publishers (and predatory conferences). Some strategies for readily identifying predatory journals were highlighted, including: Obvious grammatical errors in the journal, the quality of editorial team, an easy acceptance of submitted article without peer review comments, and requests for payment before an article can be published.

Dr. Patricia Daley (Geography and the Environment, University of Oxford) embarked on an exploration of mental decolonization, narrowing in on methodology as a space in need of decolonizing. She spoke of the present dominance of quantitative frameworks, which problematically propose to render social life quantifiable and, in so doing, simplify complex realities: lives become quantifiable, pain becomes quantifiable, and conflict becomes quantifiable. The calculation of suffering implies that there is a numerical threshold up to which pain, conflict, war, disease, etc. might venture but not surpass, often in the pursuit of profit. In such frameworks, knowledge becomes a commodity.

In his discussion of the wisdom of African proverbs as a qualitative knowledge creation approach, Dr. Odomaro Mubangizi (Political Philosophy, Capuchin Franciscan Institute of Philosophy and Theology, Addis Ababa) similarly stressed the need to rethink our methodologies. “Little attempt has been made to study African proverbs as a tool in knowledge production,” he asserted. Yet, “African proverbs are a concise expression of African ontology, epistemology, moral, social and political philosophy.” The exclusion of African proverbs from mainstream academia is a clear demonstration of how knowledge production in Africa is still a colonial project. Ms. Safia Aidid (History Department, Harvard University) spoke to such dilemmas from another perspective: Africans educated in the diaspora likewise often learn to replicate mainstream models. During our open discussions, Africa-based scholars echoed these sentiments, stating that in the universities on the continent, western theories, methodologies, and concepts tend to govern the research of African students and faculty.

There was some agreement from the participants and the conveners that a follow-up workshop on developing pertinent methodologies for our varying contexts would be fruitful. It was further stressed that we do not need to seek legitimation from mainstream models and conceptual frameworks. Africa-based scholars must continue to boldly embark upon creative models that reflect the realities on the African continent, we reminded ourselves as we worked to identify international scholarly journals and publication venues more encouraging to and accepting of expressions of alternative modes of knowing.

Sharing theories and praxis for decolonizing knowledge

Decolonizing knowledge requires multi-pronged efforts: decolonizing publications, decolonizing research and decolonizing curriculums. We focused on the first two and touched upon the third, while maintaining an awareness that much of discussions around the geopolitics of “voice”–whose is heard and how to “give voice” to marginalized communities—continues to take place in the institutions of the North. This was our effort—(building on important discussions occurring across the continent, including in Senegal, Tanzania, Uganda, Nigeria, South Africa)—to move the critical dialogue South. We built upon ongoing energies and momentums to create opportunity for faculty development and scholarship while making concrete efforts to foster interdisciplinary discussion, share research and sustain writing cultures in Ethiopia and on the continent.

The workshop brought a diverse group of interdisciplinary scholars to Ethiopia to act as conveners.[16] Our conveners included scholars with vast international experience, most as non-white faculty who spoke of the experiences of minority and marginalized scholars in the white dominated universities and publishing circuits of the North. Dr. Maimuna Islam (English Literature, The College of Idaho, US) spoke about how radical nonwhite voices remain persistently absent in the US higher education and publishing, thus demystifying a commonplace idealized notion of the American academy as diverse. She connected the ongoing decolonial struggle in the Global South to the almost 50-year ethnic studies movement for racial parity in representation in the US. In America, she informed us, 82 percent of book editors and 89 percent of book reviewers are white,[17] while in higher education, 84 percent of full professors are white.[18] “The knowledge production world is a closed circuit in the North,” she affirmed. As scholars, when we work to get our material published, we should be attentive to the ways in western narratives make our absence invisible or appear normal. She argued that despite these silencings, waves of minorities in the US have performed persistent and diligent radical work to carve out spaces for non-white, non-dominant perspectives and narratives. Dr. Maimuna drew upon the 1857 Indian Sepoy Mutiny and the 1915 Singapore Mutiny as examples to argue how in order to counter colonial myth-making, we would need to embrace alternative approaches to research and sources and radical reshaping of disciplines such as history, literary studies, political theory, to better speak to our experiences.

Further discussion of the silences and suppressions of “voice” was evidenced in Ms. Safia’s discussion of #CadaanStudies. The emergence of the first Somali Studies academic journal with an editorial team and board absent of any scholars of Somali dissent triggered debate on social media. The racist reactions by some European scholars to conversations of these absences led Ms. Safia to create a hash tag (#CadaanStudies) in effort to bring the discussion of these absences to the fore. (The pressures, the politics and the complexities of these discussions cannot be captured here; we urge you to read her own reflections of the conversation and its aftermath here.)

Following her discussion, we embarked on an animated inquiry. How could #CadaanStudies move beyond criticism and discussion to more action-oriented approaches? One audience member asked. Ms. Safia spoke about a subsequent conference that she co-organized at Harvard. Her presentation triggered a discussion of work in the US to create critical, radical Black, Latino/a, Asian, LGBTQ, and Women Studies departments. The culmination of the presence of these departments has helped to transform spaces within the American academy, particularly Area Studies. Our sometimes-tense discussion revealed promising avenues for critical perspectives at the same time that it exposed ongoing paternalistic relationships and attitudes from Europe in regards to Africa.

Our discussion might have been, in some ways, a microcosm of the larger #CadaanStudies conversation, which likewise revealed the significance of place, identity, and power in global knowledge making and knowledge dominations. Importantly, the workshop was the first occasion in which the #CadaanStudies conversation was publically discussed in the horn of Africa. While we celebrate the occasion as a victory, it simultaneously reinforces the continued need of academic decolonization and the need to continue opening up space on the continent for critical debate and discussion about race, coloniality, power, and knowledge.

In another praxis-sharing discussion, Dr. Odomaro discussed an emerging educational collective: the Great Lakes Open University (GLOU). Merging the technological promise of open universities for knowledge democratization with issues of access and quality of education in the region, GLOU is an attempt to address the critical challenge of high cost of higher education in Africa amid massive ongoing brain drain.[19]

Cultivating practical publication know-how and reviewing works-in-progress

Building upon preceding and ongoing energies to move beyond “armchair decolonizing”[20]—that is to say, to do more than talk conceptually and theoretically about decolonizing—this experimental workshop was about identifying and discussing concrete steps to create and sustain dynamic and vital writing and reading cultures in the humanities and the social sciences.

Our efforts were both individual and collective as we worked through some of the challenges and tedium of the craft of writing (formatting, time management, brainstorming) as well as the difficulties and the obstacles of submitting and publishing (targeting journals, remarking linguistic and technical particularities, identifying publication venues, avoiding predatory publishers). A considerable amount of time was devoted to having open and semi-structured conversations, either in small group or large group format. Each participant was placed with a convener who read one of their articles and provided feedback and suggestions for reflection, revision, and publication. Groups of four to five scholars discussed their work, talked about particular challenges that Ethiopia- and Africa-based scholars face, noted past achievements, and made suggestions for colleagues. In this setting, participants were able to address individual concerns comfortably, candidly, in detail, and at length.

P1110390

A workshop participant creates a personal force field analysis to identify potential strengths and limitations in setting and achieving writing goals

Prior to their arrival in Jimma, participants had submitted drafts of academic articles, which had been circulated to a convener in their discipline or with similar research interests. Articles reflected the broad and rich research that is occurring across the continent, from the status of the humanities in Malawi… to large-scale development projects in Addis Ababa… to traditional conflict resolution in the Gondar… to psychosocial challenges of Ethiopian women migrants returning from the Gulf States… to evaluations of “ethnic federalism” in Ethiopia. Participants were enthusiastic about receiving feedback on their drafts and the time devoted to discussing and working on their writing generated an energy among the group—an energy that one convener characterized by saying, “The workshop had some logic and dynamics to it that are hard to even express—it was an intellectual feast of sorts.”  

Over the course of the week and through the peer editing process, we discovered that the draft-articles relied on standard academic methodology and drew from Western sources—even though our discussions demonstrated the thirst for more regional perspectives and a commitment to foregrounding African voices. This practice made sense: After all, journal editors and peer reviewers of western journals would most likely respond to article submissions with questions about why has the authors not cited leading scholars from Northern institutions. In order to get published in western journals, one has to follow established rules and repertoires set by the global North, and the blind review process (where the reviewers are overwhelmingly from and located in Europe and the US), especially, is exclusionary and exclusive. In the workshop we acknowledged that western journals often privilege those trained in the west; however, there also radical journals with editors who welcome alternate, creative, and audacious expressions and interpretations of our social worlds.

Each participant peer reviewed a colleague’s drafted article and received a review from a peer. Most of the participants reported that this was their first time reviewing a peer’s work within a collaborative context (in the past, many had reviewed colleagues’ research reports and applications as part of their faculty roles). As conveners, we suggested that peer review could be a powerful tool for education as well and could be employed in the classroom to encourage students to think about their writing in new and different ways.

Time was devoted to freewriting, most often under the direction of Ms. Diana Van Bogaert (Law Department, the American University in Cairo). Ms. Diana led the group in discussions of practical writing and thinking tools, including concept mapping, listing, looping, word play, force field analysis, assumption reversal, and concept matrices. She encouraged us to identify our own writing and thinking styles—How do we generate ideas? How do we view different perspectives? How willing are we to explore different approaches?

Dr. Tesfaye Gebeyhu (English Department, Jimma University and editor-in-chief of the Ethiopian Journal of Social Sciences and Language Studies) led the group through a peer review activity, in which the nuances and idiosyncrasies of reviewing were demystified and rendered approachable. Receiving peer reviews can be discouraging and hurtful—he shared real examples of hurtful reviews to illustrate the point. Knowing this, Dr. Tesfaye suggested that we take time to reflect upon comments before responding and revising. At the same time, we should work to ensure that our own reviews of our peers’ work are meaningful and constructive. He introduced a technique called “the 3 k’s” that is useful when delivering criticism: “kiss, kick, kiss.” That is to say, criticism (i.e., a “kick”) is best delivered when sandwiched between complements (i.e., “kisses”). Again, our emphasis is that decolonization of the university must be holistic and multiform; we want to co-create writing spaces and cultures in which we recognize each other’s humanity and attachments to our work.

Building transnational community and solidarity

As we discussed and considered ways to incorporate, cultivate and encourage writing across disciplines, Dr. Maimuna spoke particularly to faculty burdened with heavy teaching loads about ways to cultivate writing communities through writing pedagogy. As educators (all of the participants of the workshop were faculty at African universities), we were committed to nurturing writers in our classrooms, and Dr. Maimuna recommended that we extend our commitment to our departments and hold informal discussions as faculty-writers about writing processes and struggles, frustrations, and breakthroughs in both teaching writing and our own writing.

Dr. Maimuna also encouraged us to “first and foremost, love the inherent beauty of language.” This was important as most of the participants speak English as second, third and fourth languages. She emphasized the importance of “making language ours.” Later, Dr. Patricia Daley reiterated this point, giving the example of the term “glocal” as arising precisely from bi- and multi-lingual scholarship. Dr. Daley encouraged participants to feel comfortable interspersing their own language into their essays written in English for a western publication. Although small, these concrete steps are important to effecting large-scale decolonization. Dr. Patricia spoke about the need to engage in mental decolonization(s) and our concerted efforts to recognize the value of local people and places was a form of practicing precisely one such mental decolonization.

While we have framed our engagements as “decolonizing,” our emphasis is not on large-scale decolonization per se, but rather on small-scale, slow, collaborative interventions as we set out to learn together. Such small-scale decolonization has a wide reach—encompassing land, place, food, music, art, history, architecture, thought. We consciously work together to excavate our pasts, to create and recreate our present and to imagine our futures.

Finally, in an effort to engage in practical and concrete decolonization(s), we felt that it was important to learn about not only Jimma’s history, culture, and geography, but also how the histories and peoples of the Global South intersect. As such, part of our workshop activities included visits to Abba Jifar Palace and Jimma University’s historical agricultural campus. Dr. Ketebo Shumba, historian and author of a biography of Moti (King) Abba Jifar II, led the group on a tour of the Palace. Biologists at JU showed the expansive agricultural campus, where JU began in 1952. This was a means of offering glimpses of life in Jimma for those scholars joining us from Malawi, Nigeria, Tanzania, or other cities in Ethiopia. These excursions were significant for local, Jimma-based faculty as well, many of whom had never visited these sites and found much to appreciate and discover.

Participants’ reflections and moving forward

In the concluding and reflecting sessions of the workshop, there were enthusiastic calls for subsequent events and collectives to be held and formed in Ethiopia. Participant feedback emphasized a sense of academic isolation at the same time that our commentary reasserted the necessity of critical, radical exchanges in Ethiopia and on the continent, many saying that the workshop was the very first event of its kind that they had participated in. It was a rewarding opportunity, they reflected, but bittersweet. We had an honest conversation about how the workshop came to fruition, in part, due to collaboration with Northerners, who are presumed competent in Ethiopia.[21] How can we ensure that (local) academics from Ethiopia have been endowed with the opportunity to pursue such a workshop independent of external involvement?

Our workshop highlighted many commonalities between scholars in Africa and nonwhite scholars in the North and important opportunities for creating transnational and trans-institutional reading and writing communities. At the same time, one participant importantly reminded us of the need to be realistic: While we had ambitiously wanted participants to have submission-ready articles by the conclusion of the workshop (and, indeed, the workshop provided spaces for critical, one-on-one discussions and collaborations; one participant has had his article accepted for publication and we applaud his achievement), most of the participants needed to continue working and reworking their articles. This recognition for the need for time is important for future writing workshops designed for unpublished faculty: Slow scholarship has an important role to play in knowledge decolonization.[22]

As with the organization of any academic workshop or event, there were financial and logistical obstacles. In our case, some of these obstacles further reveal inequalities in academic settings. Most recognizably was the difficulty of intra-Africa travel for Africans. Perhaps nothing demonstrates the need for decolonization more than the difficulties that Africans face when traveling to other African countries, while Europeans and North Americans enter easily, often on tourist visas on-arrival. So that while academics in the North decry the perils of “fortress Europe,”[23] structural and economic inequalities extend beyond the geography of Europe, creating exclusions in the South that we continue to address.

Our workshop had an obvious gender imbalance, one that is reflective of a larger gender inequality in Ethiopian higher education: nearly 90 percent of the participants were male and 100 percent of the participants from Ethiopia were men, despite significant women-targeted recruiting efforts by the organizing committee (unfortunately two Ethiopian women scholars had to withdraw participation due to scheduling conflicts). As scholars working towards decolonization, we recognize the continued need to create opportunities specifically directed at women faculty.

There was a suggestion that, as a way forward, participants keep in touch and continue our conversations, even through informal channels like social media and email listservs, or more formally through widely read and accessible electronic publications (such as Pambazuka News) that could be good starting points for young scholars who were still navigating their path through the highly competitive terrain of international academic publishing.

Through our discussions, we determined that very real limitations—including absences of institutional support for writing cultures and lack of access to resources, among others—impede scholars’ ability to research and produce publishable-quality work. An additional dilemma was a gap between spoken and written scholarship: While our participants were familiar with and conversant on topics of decolonization and the needs for alternate and more radical modes of knowing, in practice and in written scholarship these radical perspectives were too often overshadowed by a tendency to replicate limited models of writing and research methods situated around western theories and prerogatives. The recognition of the value of African scholarship and voices was present throughout our discussions, but seemed to get lost in the actual practice of writing.

Part of this disconnect is a reflection of the nature of higher education in Africa, where often national ministries of education dictate to universities curricula and pedagogy replicated from European and North American programs. Well-meaning attempts to ensure a quality education have the unfortunate side effect of constricting faculty into imitating rather than innovating disciplines, while also leaving them without the extensive institutional support and resources enjoyed by scholars located in Europe and North America. Another side effect is a constrained understanding of what constitutes authentic, important, or worthwhile research and writing method, and we discovered as a group that alternate modes of communication (including narrative writing) were underrepresented or disregarded all together. Consequently, in the workshop, we encouraged scholars to excavate their own stories and to cultivate new ways of telling their stories (such as through new media or interdisciplinary collaborations) and to redefine and reshape their disciplines anchored within their own histories, traditions, and aspirations—and to also persuade institutional heads to recognize the value of such innovative writing and content. For example, we discussed how the dramatic transformation of the English Department in the US after the 1980s/90s “canon wars” highlighted not only the fluidity and arbitrary nature of disciplines but also how transformation was grounded in the unique intersecting histories of the western world.

That is, although there are very real limitations faced by African scholars, the limitations are also surmountable without the need for extensive investment, restructuring, and funds. Because this workshop, conceptually, was not bound by Northern-based scholars coming to “train” people or by a large development group loaning funds and infrastructure, this model is highly replicable. The core agenda was not bound by geography, discipline, or personality. Rather, the agenda was philosophical: We wanted to help to nurture an exploration of decolonization of knowledge through small pivots that would inherently include visionary approaches to and transformations of existing disciplines as well as institutional writing and reading cultures. This centering of the writer as teacher-researcher-citizen in practice in her community is part of what was exciting and thrilling about what we undertook in Jimma.

The Jimma University writing workshop was collaboratively organized by: Amber Murrey, Sintayehu Demeke, Bisrat Gebru, Anteneh Tesfahun, Eline Joor, Addisu Tegegne, Tadele Assefa, Isaac Abotebuno, and Kassahun Molla. We would like to give special thanks to Ermyas Admassu for assistance in obtaining visas.

Dr. Amber Murrey researches and writes about the transformations of life and place amid colonial violence(s). Her research on oil politics and resistance in Cameroon as well as her collaborative work on the Pan-African legacy of Thomas Sankara is shaped by a decolonial impetus and conviction that scholarship be actively collaborative, attentive, accessible, and decolonized. Dr. Amber obtained her doctorate at the School of Geography and the Environment at the University of Oxford. She teaches courses in qualitative research methodologies, critical development studies, and gender and development at Jimma University and is currently working to coordinate a follow-up decolonizing workshop in Jimma for graduate students. She welcomes ideas and appeals for collaborations via email at ambermurrey@gmail.com.

Dr. Maimuna Islam is an associate professor of English at The College of Idaho, where she teaches postcolonial and immigrant literatures, fiction writing, and first year seminar. She has written, presented, and taught on Islamophobia, the war on terror, encounters between the Western and the Muslim worlds, American immigrant experiences post-1967, and minority pedagogy. An intrepid traveler, Dr. Maimuna has visited over twenty different countries throughout Asia, North Africa, and the Middle East. A first-generation Bangladeshi-American with roots in both countries, Dr. Maimuna is currently working on a novel as well as a series of articles on solidarity movements.

Dr. Odomaro Mubangizi writes on social ethics and social philosophy in the context of globalization. He is the Editor of The Justice, Peace and Environment Journal and is the founding Editor of Chiedza, Journal of Arrupe College, School of Philosophy and Humanities in Harare. Dr. Odomaro regularly writes for Pambazuka News and teaches Social and Political Philosophy at the Institute of Philosophy and Theology at Addis Ababa. He completed his PhD at Boston College, where he wrote Linking Development and Peace: Towards a Normative Theory of International Relations for the Great Lakes Regions of Africa. Currently, Dr. Odomaro is working on an online distance learning university, Great Lakes Open University (GLOU), as well as a course on Pan-Africanism with Fahamu. 

Notes

[1] See, for example, L. D. Berg, 2012, “Knowledge Enclosure, Accumulation by Dispossession, and the Academic Publishing Industry.” Political Geography 31(5):260–62. See also M. Olssen and M. A. Peters, 2005, “Neoliberalism, Higher Education and the Knowledge Economy: From the Free Market to Knowledge Capitalism.” Journal of Education Policy 20(3): 313–45. See also H. A. Giroux, 2000, “Cultural Politics and the Crisis of the University.” Culture Machine 2, n.p.

[2] One need only briefly peruse the pages of The Chronicle of Higher Education, for example, to discern the instability and perpetual fluctuations of academic institutions.

[3] See D. Wiley, 2012, “Militarizing Africa and African Studies and the US Africanist Response.” African Studies Review, 24(2):147-161. See also H. Campbell and A. Murrey, 2014, “Culture-Centric Pre-Emptive Counterinsurgency and US Africa Command: Assessing the Role of the US Social Sciences in US Military Engagements in Africa.” Third World Quarterly 35(8):1457-1475.

[4] See C. Lorenz, 2014, “On Fixing the Facts. The Rise of Neo-Liberalism, the Metrification of ‘quality’ and the Fall of the Professions.” Moving the Social. Journal of Social History and the History of Social Movements 51(4):5–27.

[5] The “publish or perish” (or publish and perish) structure of academic influence and goal setting is manifested differently across space. While much has been written on the increasingly entrepreneurial and precarious nature of academia in North America and Europe, the pervasiveness of predatory publishers and predatory conferences has been given less global attention.

[6] See K. Peters and J. Turner, 2014, “Fixed-Term and Temporary: Teaching Fellows, Tactics, and the Negotiation of Contingent Labour in the UK Higher Education System.” Environment and Planning A 46 (10):2317–31.

[7] See F. Nyamnjoh, 2004, “A Relevant Education for African Development—Some Epistemological Considerations.” African Development XXIX(1):161-184. See also S. J. Ndlovu-Gatsheni and S. Zondi, 2016, Decolonizing the University, Knowledge Systems and Disciplines. Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press.

[8] See F. Nyamnjoh, 2016, #Rhodesmustfall. Nibbling at Resilient Colonialism in South Africa. Bamenda, Cameroon: Langaa RPCID.

[9] See M. Ragnedda and G. W. Muschert, 2013, The Digital Divide: The Internet and Social Inequality in International Perspective. London: Routledge.

[10] Against a global information hierarchy in which Africans under-produce knowledge online (recall the “global divide”), Dr. Amber suggested an alternate activity: Organizing as a collective to revise and rewrite the Jimma Wikipedia page to reflect and honor our knowledge of the city.

[11] M. Graham, 2012, “The Knowledge Based Economy and Digital Divisions of Labor.” In Companion to Development Studies, V. Desai and R. Potter (eds). Hodder.

[12] There is an enormously important body of scholarship tracing and condemning this coloniality of knowledge; see various works by Claude Ake, Francis Nyamnjoh, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, V. Y. Mudimbe, Archie Mafeje, Mahmood Mamdani, Patricia McFadden, Sabelo Ndlovu-Gatsheni, Ama Biney, Issa Shivji, Horace Campbell, among others.

[13] See E. Sall and I. Oanda, 2016, “Framing Paper on Higher Education Governance and Leadership in Africa.” CODESRIA.

[14] We respect the Ethiopian manner of naming here by referring to participants by their title and first names.

[15] Jeffrey Beall maintains a comprehensive list of such publication outlets.

[16] Those conveners and participants that are faculty of Ethiopian institutions recognize the pervasiveness of a training culture, so much so that our colleagues sometimes wonder aloud at the dilemma of implementation. Often such trainings are designed by external agencies and institutions (although some are conducted collaboratively with extensive consultation with internally-based scholars), regularly attempting to replicate or transplant efforts elsewhere, most often in the US, Canada, and Western Europe. Sometimes this results in patronizing and disappointing exchanges, during which Africa-based scholars feel spoken down to. In our organizing and convening of this event, we remained cognizant of the participants as our colleagues and peers with years of teaching and research experience. We worked to foster mutual learning experiences.

[17] JASONTLOW, 2016, “Where Is the Diversity in Publishing? The 2015 Diversity Baseline Survey Results.” The open book: A blog on race, diversity, education, and children’s books. 29 January.

[18]Characteristics of Postsecondary Faculty.”  2015. National Center for Education

Statistics.

[19] Questions that participants raised during this session, included: How do we ensure quality? How do we give room for the traditional face-to-face encounter, as this is essential to pedagogy? How to avoid the neoliberal agenda highjacking such a noble project? While the project is named after the Great Lakes Region of Africa (incompassing Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of Congo) it is open to all of Africa and beyond thorugh an open, online platform.  The questions and suggestions from, participants helped to enrich the concept of GLOU. For more information on the project, contact Dr. Odomaro.

[20] G. Mohan, 1998, “Radicalism, Relevance & the Future of ROAPE.” Reivew of African Political Economy 78:643-648.

[21] In using this term, we are partially drawing inspiration from Presumed Incompetnent, an edited volume that identifies the ways in which minority women of color are presumed to be incompetent in American academia. Our reversal of the term here is meant to highlight entrenched global inequalities in higher education.

[22] For discussions of “slow scholarship,” see M. Berg and B. Seeber, 2016, The Slow Professor: Challenging the Culture of Speed in the Academy. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. See also Y. Hartman and S. Darab, 2012, “A Call for Slow Scholarship: A Case Study on the Intensification of Academic Life and Its Implications for Pedagogy.” Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies 34(1–2):49–60.

[23] See, for example, A. Murrey, 2014, “Going to the UK? On the Pain, Separation and Dehumanisation of Student Families from ‘High Risk’ Countries.” Politics in Spires: Oxford-Cambridge Blog, n.p.

South Africa’s Rebellion of the Poor

By Carin Runciman

On 30 June to 1 July the Human Sciences Research Council (HSRC) and the University of Johannesburg held a two day seminar in Pretoria examining community protests in South Africa and comparatively between Egypt, Turkey and the Ukraine. The seminar was attended by scholars, students, officials from local municipalities as well as high-ranking South African Police Service (SAPS) officers and the Deputy Minister for Cooperative Governance and Traditional Affairs, Andries Nel. Information and presentations of the two day proceedings can be found on the HSRC website. This blog post shares some of the key findings from the ‘Rebellion of the Poor’ project based at the South African Research Chair in Social Change, University of Johannesburg led by Peter Alexander, Trevor Ngwane and myself. It then goes on to situate this analysis within the current political context to understand the connections between protest in South Africa and elsewhere in the world. Finally, this post considers the prospects for a new progressive social movement to emerge.

Analysing the rebellion

In 2010 Peter Alexander published the article ‘South Africa’s Rebellion of the Poor – a preliminary analysis’ (log-in or register here to read the article). This article was a first attempt at trying to understand and grapple with the wave of community protests that had been growing since 2004. At the time, Alexander described the protests as ‘widespread and intense, reaching insurrectionary proportions in some cases’ and directed towards ‘uncaring, self-serving, and corrupt leaders of municipalities’ about issues of service delivery. This article has now been viewed over 3,700 times and cited in 269 academic papers, setting the tone for debate and analysis of the ‘rebellion’.

Since the publication of this article, a research team based at the South African Research Chair in Social Change, University of Johannesburg, have been working to develop the analysis of community protests in South Africa further. This has involved both quantitative and qualitative research methodologies, compiling the largest community protest event database in the country, containing over 2,500 media-reported protests from 2004 onwards, and undertaking over 300 interviews with protesters and non-protesters across the country.

In addition to this, through the use of the Promotion of Access to Information Act (PAIA) the research team, with assistance from the South African History Archive (SAHA),  gained access to 156,230 records of crowd management incidents recorded in the Incident Registration and Information System (IRIS) maintained by the Public Order Police.

This was a significant breakthrough in our research as IRIS data has been commonly used by academics, politicians and the media alike as a proxy for the numbers of protests. Through close analysis of the data we were able to provide clarity on what IRIS data is, and is not, as well as using this data to estimate numbers of protests.

 Our first research report, demonstrated that crowd management incidents are not protests, although protests may be incidents, and that the categories of ‘peaceful’ and ‘unrest’ used to classify incidents did not refer to incidents of violence but the presence or absence of police intervention. Where the category unrest (on average only 10% of incidents a year) means police intervened in some way in an incident, whether that be making an arrest, pushing back or the use of tear gas, for example. Furthermore, we were able to demonstrate how IRIS data has been publicly misrepresented by a number of government officials, including the Minister of Police, and by a Lt. General in SAPS as part of a motivation for a R3.3 billion additional expenditure on Public Order Policing. Co-author of the first report, Boituemlo Maruping, summarises our arguments in this article.

Having clarified the purpose of IRIS and the nature of the incidents recorded therein it was then possible to work with the data to provide an estimate of the numbers of protests recorded by the police between 1997- 2013, the years for which we were able to access data for.   

The second research report, findings from which were presented at the seminar, provided a perspective on protests spanning nearly the whole of the democratic period. It found,

  • Nearly half (46%) of all police-recorded protests (PRPs) were labour protests.
  • Nearly a quarter (22%) were community protests.
  • That community protests had been declining between 1997 and 2004 and then increasing from 2005 onwards, with a peak in 2012.
  • That the vast majority (80%) of protests are orderly in nature, but there has been an increasing trend towards disruptive and violent protest action since 2008.

This kind of empirical work is essential if we are to build a comprehensive picture of protest activity that goes beyond the impressionistic media accounts that often dominant the public (and often the scholarly) imagination. However, such figures tell us little about the politics of such protests.

The Politics of Community Protest in South Africa

Grappling with the politics of this protest wave is complex given its fragmented and often transitory nature. In South Africa community protest is generally located within the ‘militant particularisms’ of a specific geographical community, most frequently disconnected to other nearby struggles and despite the similarities in demands have not cohered around a central target or demand as happened in Tahir Square, Gezi Park or the Maidan protests. This has led scholars such as Shauna Mottair and Patrick Bond to characterise such protests as ‘popcorn’ protests, reflecting the way in which they rapidly spring up but often equally as rapidly subside. Drawing out the analogy further, Bond has also argued that the popcorn nature also illustrates the ease by which protests can press for progressive demands but just as easily be blown towards reactionary tendencies, such as xenophobia.

But the use of this term is, I argue, deeply problematic. It dismisses the political content of these protests, with all their fragmentations, simply because they have not, as yet, coalesced into a movement. While, at the same time, it fails to critically unpack and engage with the political and structural issues that shape the protest wave and arguably inhibit the emergence of a new movement. It also neglects an appreciation of the disruptive power and the political impact this protest wave has had, as I will explain in more depth later.

Another analysis that is commonly made is to locate the community politics of protest as a reflection of local entanglements with the governing African National Congress (ANC), sometimes referred to as ‘patronage politics from below’. In this reading, by Karl Von Holdt and others, protests have a dual nature, combining internal power struggles with the ANC with popular struggles for service delivery and municipal accountability. Within our own research, we too have often found how these dynamics where strategically in the interests of an ousted councillor, for example, may come together with that of the community. However, in both our quantitative and qualitative data we find this to be a minority tendency.

Another approach seeks to situate the struggles in South Africa as part of a global countermovement. Michael Burawoy (2015) argues that in the current period of neoliberal capitalism, forces of marketization are generating contemporary forms of resistance and in so doing produce common political repertoires, which although national in their specificities are globally connected. One of the global repertoires that Burawoy argues unites disparate struggles across the world is the generalised critique that ‘electoral democracy has been hijacked by capitalism’. Indeed, it is perhaps this critique, reflected in many of our interviews, that ‘democracy is only for the rich’, that unites all the thousands of fragmented protests happening across South Africa.

Drawing connections between South Africa and Egypt, Sameh Naquib, highlighted that the 2011 Egyptian revolution did not come from nowhere but was proceeded by at least a decade long protest movement located in a number of different sections of society: from anti-war protests, pro-democracy protests and strikes by workers. Naguib, however, posed the question, how do protests move from quantity to quality? In other words where might a new movement emerge?

A new movement?

The 2016 Local Government Elections are due to be held on 3 August and the results will be interpreted as a test of the ANC’s strength and durability. These elections come against a backdrop of escalating protests, such as those seen in Vuwani and Tshwane. Polls by Ipsos-Mori have highlighted the likelihood that the ANC may lose three key metropolitan municipalities, Johannesburg, Tshwane and Nelson Mandela Bay. While the ANC may continue its trajectory of fragmenting hegemony it is not clear, as yet, what forces may arise in its place.

An increase in the support for the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) is one possible avenue. The party has sought to capture popular frustrations and has actively supported community protests. While critics have highlighted the elitist, authoritarian and possibly even fascist tendencies of the party, it has been the first split to the left of the ANC. However, current polling figures do not put the EFF higher than 10% of the vote in the key municipalities of Johannesburg, Tshwane and Nelson Mandela Bay.

Another possibility, much debated in left circles, is the role of the National Union of Metalworkers South Africa (NUMSA) and the United Front. The resolutions at the December 2013 Special National Congress to withdraw support for the ANC and to establish a United Front opened new potential avenue for a movement to be built and many social movement organisations, like the Democratic Left Front (DLF), have rallied behind it. But the birth of the United Front has been fitful. The official launch has frequently been delayed. It has not, as yet, made substantial connections to community struggles and its most substantial campaign has been around a centrist anti-corruption platform. Trevor Ngwane, in an interview published on this site, drew attention to the bureaucratic, top-down politics NUMSA brings to the United Front which is at odds with the community-based organisations it seeks to link up with. Whether the United Front can overcome these challenges remains to be seen.

The student movement that emerged in 2015 (see Heike Becker’s blog), that also made important connections to the struggles of outsourced workers, may provide another channel through which struggles can even unite but the road ahead looks difficult. There has been, as yet, little connection between student and community struggles, despite the fact that many students may come from these very same communities. But the scale of the class and political divide between these struggles was apparent at the International Labour Information Research Group 2016 April conference held in Athlone, Cape Town. The conference brought together community and student activists to discuss their struggles. Political tensions emerged between the Black Consciousness ideology used by student activists and the politics of non-racialism, which most community activists held. The debates were passionate but each left in almost incomprehension at the others politics. For the unemployed activists present this seemed to underscore the divide between themselves and their potential ‘future bosses’, in the words of one activist.

At present, there seems to be no clear or single trajectory through which a new movement may emerge. Nonetheless, community protests are generally increasing and becoming diffuse across the country, from urban to rural areas, with a higher proportion of them tending towards disruptive or violent acts. The major question would appear to be, to what extent can these protests break from the politics of the ANC and form a progressive movement for social change? A question that can only ultimately be answered through the process of struggle itself.

Dr Carin Runciman is a Senior Researcher at the South African Research Chair in Social Change. Carin’s research specialises in the politics of protest and social movements in post-apartheid South Africa. 

 

 

 

Popular Protest & Social Movements – Part 4

In the latest installment of the Popular Protest and Social Movements project for ROAPE David Seddon profiles Equatorial Guinea, the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic and Cameroon, to look at those already long in power who have sought to extend their term of office, either successfully or not, either through the ballot box or by other means. Seddon examines the political response to these moves, and attempts to draw some general conclusions.

By David Seddon

Our introductory piece in this series (1) ended with a comparison of three countries – the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Burundi and Burkina Faso – in which the president had recently tried to extend his period of office and there had been significant popular protest against this move from democracy towards dictatorship.

In our second piece (2), we examined recent events in those three countries in particular and then began to consider the wider implications of the erosion of democracy where elected presidents have extended – or attempted to extend – their term of office beyond the limits defined by the Constitution, as is the case in all too many African countries, drawing attention to the large number of African heads of state who have remained in power for far longer than anticipated, often by authoritarian and repressive measures

In the third (3) piece in the series, we returned again to the three countries initially considered, to examine the very different trajectories followed by them over the last six months, and extended the comparison to include two others – Congo (Brazzaville) and Rwanda – also in Central Africa.

In this piece (no. 4), we extend the comparison still further to three more of those Africa countries or territories in which the head of state has exceeded two decades, and consider the political dynamics that have allowed this to occur. I am particularly interested to examine the popular response to what might be seen as a gradual slide towards de facto and often (where supine or acquiescent legislatures have agreed to change national constitutions) de jure one party states and dictatorships in these countries, even if many of them retain a notional multi-party regime.

Introduction

As we remarked at the end of the second piece in this series (no. 2): ‘these three cases (DRC, Burundi and Burkina Faso) reveal three very different processes in the way in which attempts by African presidents have sought in recent years to extend their period in office and thus their power, and in the way popular protest at this has emerged and evolved, and three very different outcomes. It would be premature … to try to draw too many conclusions from these three cases, although two things are clear: first, that there has been in recent years a general tendency for presidents and prime ministers in African countries, whether elected or not in the first place, to attempt to over-ride or change their country’s constitution if necessary, to enable them to extend their period in office and so in power; and second, that there will be popular protest, in a variety of forms, by various sections of the population in opposition to these efforts to move from democracy to effective dictatorship.’

We drew attention (at the end of no. 2) to the large number of African countries whose rulers have been in office for more than ten years, many of them with questionable legitimacy. We did not include in this list a number of other African rulers of shorter duration but who have attempted to extend their period of office beyond what is permitted by the constitution of the country concerned. These include President Nkurunziza of Burundi, who has recently attempted to extend his period of office beyond the two terms allowed by the constitution of Burundi, with the consequences we have described in previous pieces in this series; and President Blaise Compaoré of Burkina Faso, who also tried to extend his period in office, again with the consequences described above and in previous pieces in this series.

Other rulers of Central African countries who have attempted recently to extend their periods of office, include President Denis Sassou Nguesso of the Republic of Congo (Brazzaville), who received the go-ahead, from a political forum on the future of the country’s institutions held in July 2015, to run for president in elections to be held in 2016, and President Paul Kagame of Rwanda, who, in the same month as Sassou Nguesso was able to gain the support of virtually all of the members of the Rwandan parliament for a further term in office. In the third piece (no. 3) in this series, we considered recent political events in these two countries – Congo Brazzaville and Rwanda – and concluded with a quotation from The Economist (12 December 2015) which said, of the DRC, that ‘Congo’s problems are a grander, more dangerous version of what is happening in neighbouring countries’ and referred to both Congo Brazzaville and Burundi.

The Economist failed – strikingly – to mention Rwanda, or indeed any of the other countries where we believe a broadly similar process is occurring albeit with different trajectories and outcomes. We now turn, therefore, to a broader consideration of other African states in which those already long in power have sought to extend their term of office, either successfully or not, either through the ballot box or by other means, examine the political response to these moves, and attempt to draw some general conclusions.

Long Serving Heads of State

The list of long-serving heads of state is indeed itself remarkably long. In this issue of the ‘popular protest’ project we will consider the cases of Mohamed Abdel Aziz of the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic (SADR), who assumed office as President in 1976, remained President until his recent death at the end of May 2016;  Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea (who assumed office in 1979 as Chairman first of the Revolutionary Military Council and then of the Supreme Military Council before becoming president in 1982) has been in power for 37 years; and Paul Biya of Cameroon (who is 83) has been in office (first as Prime Minster from 1975 to 1982 and then as President since 1982) for more than 40 years.

Mohamed Abdel Aziz of the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic

Mohamed Abdelaziz, who died on 31 May 2016 at the age of 68, was for 40 years – effectively without challenge – president of the self-declared Saharan Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) and leader (secretary-general) of the POLISARIO (Popular Front for the Liberation of Western Sahara and Rio de Oro). The POLISARIO has now fought – unsuccessfully as yet – for Saharawi independence for 43 years since its formation in 1973, during the Spanish colonial occupation, when the territory was known as ‘the Spanish Sahara’.

Born in 1948 in the town of Smara, which currently lies in the Moroccan-occupied part of Western Sahara, Abdelaziz joined the POLISARIO Front movement as a student and was elected to its political bureau at its founding congress in 1973. After 1975, when Spain abandoned its colony, independence was declared and the SADR was established in 1976. Almost at once, however, Morocco invaded the territory and attacked the POLISARIO, forcing many Saharawis to flee east across the desert to set up refugee camps near Tindouf in Algeria.  The POLISARIO continued to resist, through its People’s Liberation Army (PLA), interventions by Mauritania (from 1976 until 1978) and Morocco (from 1976 until the present day).  Abdelaziz was selected as its secretary general in 1976, after the death in combat of the front’s founder and military leader, Al Ouali Mustapha Erraqibi. Later that year, he was elected president of the self-declared Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic.

Backed by Algeria and with support from Cuba, and at one point up to 70 other developing countries, the POLISARIO and the PLA continued to fight for Saharawi independence over a period of nearly 15 years until 1991, when a ceasefire was agreed between Morocco and the POLISARIO after the UN promised a referendum on the issue of independence. In 1982, the SADR became a member of the African Union, at which point Morocco withdrew from that organisation. By the 1980s, however, Morocco – which claimed Western Sahara as an extension of its national territory – had already effectively occupied a significant area in the west and constructed a fortified wall across the desert to protect its occupation. (The similarities with the case of Israel and Palestine are intriguing and little discussed).

The Saharawis were now divided geographically between the Moroccan-occupied territory in the west and the area to the east along the borders with Algeria and Mauritania that the POLISARIO claimed to be ‘liberated’.  The Saharawis in the east were obliged to live in tented camps in the vicinity of Tindouf in Algeria after they were forced out of the western territory in 1976 by Moroccan armed forces. Their economic life was of the most basic, relying on international and foreign aid to supplement pastoralism and the very limited cultivation that was possible in the central Saharan desert. They have now lived there, under the most inhospitable conditions and with limited support from the outside, for 40 years.

The POLISARIO was – and still is – the only political organisation of the SADR, making SADR, in effect a one-party state. Early POLISARIO propaganda portrayed it as a secular modernist movement along the lines of Algeria’s early democratic-socialist nationalism, with aspects of 1950s pan-Arabism, not unlike the original PLO, and some similarities to Qaddhafi’s unique brand of ‘socialism’. Many sympathetic commentators compared POLISARIO with the early FRELIMO under Eduardo Mondlane or with Amilcar Cabral’s PAIGC. Significantly, POLISARIO’s founder, El-Ouali Mustapha Sayed, was influenced while studying in Morocco by the writings of Frantz Fanon.

The political, diplomatic and material support provided by Algeria and a number of other radical/socialist states, including Libya, Cuba and Vietnam, tended to alienate the West and the more conservative Third World countries. POLISARIO never identified itself as ‘Marxist’ or indeed anything of the kind, and preferred to argue simply that as a national liberation movement it had to be unified – as a broad church but one which did not allow the kinds of political division that the leadership, including Abdel Aziz believed would develop under a multi-party regime. Democratic representation has been assured by elections to the 53-seat Saharawi National Council and by the regular General Popular Congress, which is held every four years, and by a structure which reaches down to people’s cells at the grass-roots.

This structure has been largely maintained over the entire life-time of the SADR, although a political crisis in the top leadership and discontent in the camps in the late 1980s generated a concerted effort at the 8th General Congress in 1991 to reduce the ‘distance’ between the grass-roots and the executive. This Congress also, significantly, was the first to include representatives from the Moroccan-occupied territory. It adopted a new Constitution, replacing the Executive Committee, the Political Bureau (politburo) and the Council for the Command of the Revolution (CMR) – which often included the same personnel – with an elected National Secretariat. It also called for a multi-party democracy and free market economy after independence.

The internal political crisis was weathered in part it must be said by new hopes aroused by the UN, which managed to achieve a ceasefire in 1991, based on the promise of a referendum. Successive Congresses, however, continued to elect Abdel Aziz as leader of POLISARIO and President of the SADR. Externally, President Mohamed Abdelaziz was seen as a ‘moderate’ voice, who generally managed to reconcile differing tendencies within the POLISARIO, supported efforts by the UN to find a peaceful resolution to the dispute with Morocco, and overruled military hard-liners in the movement who pushed for a continuation of war. With the promise of a referendum, it seemed at the beginning of the 1990s that this strategy might prove effective.

But as the years have passed, with little progress achieved, there has been a decline in support from outside (apart from Algeria, which remains a key ally of the POLISARIO) and increasing concern among the Saharawi people with regard to the effectiveness of a diplomatic approach and the viability of the camp-based aid-dependent economy. There have also been indications of growing tensions along generational lines, as those who have lived all their lives in the camps begin to challenge the authority of their ‘elders’. The creation of a new body, the Consultative Council of Shaykhs, at the General Congress in 1999, reflecting the key role played by the shaykhs (traditional tribal elders) in the voter-identification process that was supposed to define the electorate for a referendum, had introduced a new bi-cameral structure, which some found problematic.

In mid-2004, a reform movement within POLISARIO, Khatt al Shahid (Line of the Martyr), became the first identifiable faction within POLISARIO. It was popular among young Saharawi militants in the camps, in the occupied territory and among the diaspora in Europe. There was evident frustration at the lack of progress in negotiations and towards a referendum. Khatt al Shahid called for a return to basic principles (‘all the homeland or martyrdom’), new faces in the political leadership and a complete separation of the POLISARIO (party) from the SADR (state).

It accused the leadership of ‘propagating corruption, clientelism, tribalism, and for bargaining with the sufferings of the Sahrawi people and the martyrs‘ blood’, of having ‘no strategies to respond to international developments’, of being ‘unable to implement internal reforms’, of having ‘insufficient contact with the Saharawis in the Moroccan-controlled part of Western Sahara’, and with simply exploiting their “intifada“’ and finally, for ‘refusing to hold the national congress demanded by Khatt al-Shahid, where the POLISARIO leadership would be held to account for its policy, seeing this as a sign of the undemocratic leadership of the POLISARIO Front’.

But despite these indications of internal dissent, Khatt Abdelaziz has always presented itself as a movement within and not opposed to the POLISARIO, and Abdelaziz has been re-elected by successive General Congresses (in 2003, 2007, 2011 and 2015 respectively). The influence of Khatt al Shahid remains limited, particularly as it suffered a major defection in 2006, by its former leader Mahjoub Salek, who in 2011 called for a boycott of the 13th General Congress, an expression of support for the ‘Libyan revolution’ and acceptance of the Moroccan proposals for autonomy rather than independence.

On 18 August 2015, however, the Sahara News online bluntly asked: ‘Will the 14th (General) congress, scheduled for the end of this year, be the last one to be attended by Mohamed Abdelaziz as the leader of the separatist front?’ It went on to report that ‘Abdelaziz, who is suffering from lung cancer, had called, according to a Sahrawi website, for “the election of a new leader and a new leadership” during the 14th Congress. In fact, despite his illness, he was, once again, elected as president. The death of President Abdelaziz on 31 May 2016 came at a time of renewed friction between Morocco and Algeria over the disputed region after the secretary general of the United Nations, Ban Ki-moon, visited a Saharawi refugee camp in Algeria and rightly described Morocco’s presence in Western Sahara as ‘an occupation’. Morocco reacted by expelling 84 civilian members of the United Nations peacekeeping mission from its territory, and some Saharawi leaders have warned of a possible return to armed conflict.

The President of Algeria declared a week of mourning and the POLISARIO Front announced that Khatri Abdouh, president of the National Council, and one of Abdelaziz’s closest friends, would serve as interim leader. After a 40-day mourning period for the former President, a new secretary general will be elected at a special congress. The death of Mohamed Abdel Aziz comes at a critical time, when the people of Western Sahara wait for the restoration of MINURSO (the UN Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara) and attempt to gauge the degree of commitment of the UN and the international community.  There is a growing sense of frustration, particularly among the younger generation, with diplomatic negotiation – which they feel has brought little progress and obliged them wait a further 15 years for the promised referendum – and apparently a willingness to entertain a return to armed conflict.

At this point, the future of the POLISARIO and the SADR, and indeed of the Saharawi people, still remains unclear. A full assessment of Abdelaziz’s presidency – his successes and his failures – remains to be made. The relative lack of popular dissent and resistance to the highly centralised and arguably authoritarian structure of the SADR under his presidency is explicable in large part by the very particular and extremely demanding circumstances of the struggle for Saharawi independence, and the fact that he lived among his people – in a tent like them – in the harsh and demanding conditions of the refugee camps. Whether the new president manages to command the same degree of respect among the Saharawis and the international community remains to be seen.

Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Cameroon

Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo (born 5 June 1942) has been President of Equatorial Guinea since 1979. He joined the military during Equatorial Guinea’s colonial period and attended the Military Academy in Zaragoza, Spain. He achieved the rank of lieutenant after his uncle, Francisco Macías Nguema, was elected the country’s first president. Under Macías, Obiang held various jobs, including governor of Bioko and leader of the National Guard. He was also head of Black Beach Prison, notorious for the severe torture of its inmates. After Macías ordered the murders of several members of the family they shared, including Obiang’s brother, Obiang and others in Macías’ inner circle feared the president had become insane.

Obiang overthrew his uncle on 3 August 1979 in a bloody coup d’état, and placed him on trial for his actions, including the genocide of the Bubi people, over the previous decade. Macías was sentenced to death and executed on 29 September 1979 by the new Moroccan presidential guard (required to form the firing squad, because local soldiers feared his alleged magical powers). Obiang declared that the new government would be very different from Macías’ brutal and repressive regime. He granted amnesty to political prisoners, re-opened all closed places of worship, and ended the previous régime’s system of forced labour. His own role in the atrocities committed under his uncle’s regime was not mentioned.

The country returned officially to civilian rule in 1982, with the enactment of a slightly less authoritarian constitution, but with only a single party – the Democratic Party of Equatorial Guinea (PDGE). Obiang was elected to a seven-year term as president; he was the only candidate. He was re-elected in 1989, again as the only candidate. After other parties were nominally allowed to organize in 1992, he was re-elected in 1996 and 2002 with 98 per cent of the vote in elections condemned as fraudulent by international observers. In 2002, for instance, one precinct was recorded as giving Obiang 103 percent of the vote. He was re-elected for a fourth term in 2009 with 97 per cent of the vote, again amid accusations of voter fraud and intimidation, beating opposition leader Plácido Micó Abogo.

Aside from the ruling PDGE, political parties in Equatorial Guinea fall into three categories: those aligned with the government to provide a façade of democracy; the Convergence for Social Democracy (CPDS), which is allowed to operate openly but is still repressed; and those parties which are not registered with the government and are therefore illegal. Genuine opposition is barely tolerated; indeed, a 2006 article in Der Spiegel quoted Obiang as asking, “What right does the opposition have to criticize the actions of a government?” The opposition is severely hampered by the lack of a free press as a vehicle for their views; there are no newspapers and all broadcast media are either owned outright by the government or controlled by its allies.

Although opposition parties were legalized in 1992, the legislature continued to be dominated by the PDGE, and there was almost no opposition to Obiang’s decisions within that body. There have never been more than eight opposition deputies in the chamber; at present, all of the deputies but one either belongs to the PDGE or is allied with it. The constitution grants Obiang sweeping powers, including the power to rule by decree. Most domestic and international observers consider his regime to be one of the most corrupt, ethnocentric, oppressive and undemocratic in the world. In 2008, American journalist Peter Maass identified Obiang as ‘Africa’s worst dictator’, worse than Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe.

Like his predecessor Macías, and other African dictators such as Idi Amin and Mobutu Sese Seko, Obiang has assigned to himself several creative titles. Among them are ‘gentleman of the great island of Bioko, Annobón and Río Muni’; he also refers to himself as El Jefe (the boss). Obiang has encouraged his cult of personality by ensuring that public speeches end in well-wishing for himself rather than for the republic. Many important buildings have a presidential lodge, many towns and cities have streets commemorating Obiang’s coup against Macías, and many people wear clothes with his face printed on them.

In an interview on CNN, Christiane Amanpour asked Obiang in October 2012 whether he would step down at the end of the then-current term (2009–2016), since he had been re-elected at least four times in his reign of over thirty years. In his response, Obiang said he categorically refused to step down at the end of the term, despite the term limits in the country’s 2011 constitution.

Equatorial Guinea is made up of a mainland territory called Rio Muni, and five islands including Bioko, where the capital Malabo is located. An oil producing country since 1995, the country has a per capita gross domestic product of $37,478.85 – the highest wealth ranking of any African country and one of the highest in the world. GDP growth between 1996 and 2006 averaged almost 40 per cent a year; but little of this wealth trickled down. Equatorial Guinea ranks 144 out of 187 countries in the Human Development Index that measures social and economic development. As a result, it has by far the world’s largest gap of all countries between its per capita wealth and its human development score. Unemployment has hovered around 20 per cent for years and the World Bank estimates that some 78 per cent of the population lives below the poverty line on less than $2 a day, with many living on less than $1 a day (see The World Factbook).

Despite its resources and exceptional national wealth, government spending on health and education lags far behind most other African countries, with less than a quarter of public investment going on education, health and social services combined. Consequently a large portion of the population lacks access to quality healthcare, decent schools, or even reliable electricity. Net enrolment in primary education was only 61 percent in 2012. About half of the population lacks access to clean water and basic sanitation facilities, according to official 2012 statistics. Childhood malnutrition, as seen in the percentage of children whose growth is stunted, stands at 35 percent, according to the United Nations Children’s Fund, UNICEF. Equatorial Guinea also has very low vaccination rates, including the worst polio vaccination rate in the world – 39 per cent, according to the World Health Organization. As of mid-2014, five cases of polio were confirmed there, prompting a belated vaccination campaign.

Obiang and his large family, however, have managed to accumulate enormous private wealth. In 2003, Obiang told his citizenry that he felt compelled to take full control of the national treasury in order to prevent civil servants from being tempted to engage in corrupt practices. To avoid this ‘corruption’, Obiang deposited more than half a billion dollars into accounts controlled by himself and his family at Riggs Bank in Washington, D.C., leading a U.S. federal court to fine the bank $16 million dollars for allowing him to do so. Later scrutiny by a United States Senate investigation in 2004 found that the Bank took $300 million on behalf of Obiang from Exxon Mobil and Hess Corporation. Publicity regarding this relationship would later contribute to the downfall of Riggs.

Beginning in 2007, Obiang, along with several other African heads of state, came under investigation for corruption and fraudulent use of funds. He was suspected of using public funds to finance his private mansions and luxuries for both himself and his family. He and his son, in particular, owned several properties and supercars in France. In addition, several complaints were filed in US courts against Obiang’s son, Teodorín. Their attorneys stressed that the funds appropriated by both Obiangs were taken quite legally under national laws, even though these laws might not conform to international standards. In 2008, the country became a candidate for the Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative – an international project meant to promote openness about government oil revenues – but never qualified and missed the April 2010 deadline. It has since re-applied.

According to Human Rights Watch, the ”dictatorship under President Obiang has used an oil boom to entrench and enrich itself further at the expense of the country’s people”. The corruption watchdog Transparency International has put Equatorial Guinea in the top 12 of its list of most corrupt states. The US Department of Justice has alleged that Obiang and his son have appropriated hundreds of millions of dollars through corruption. In 2011 and early 2012, many assets were seized from Obiang and his son by the French and American governments, including mansions, wine collections, and supercars. Obiang, his cabinet and his family are alleged to receive billions in undisclosed oil revenue each year from the nation’s oil production.

This has declined significantly in recent years (and slumped in the last three years) as oil prices have collapsed, but still enables the Obiang family to live relatively well. In 2013, Forbes estimated that, despite the Riggs Bank fiasco, Obiang retains some $700M of the money earned from his country’s oil wealth in American banks. In 2014, the US Department of Justice forced his son, Teodorín, to sell off a Ferrari, his $30 million residence in Malibu and six life-size Michael Jackson statues in a money-laundering settlement.

Despite all this, Obiang continues to enjoy the support of the USA. In 2006, Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice hailed President Obiang as a “good friend” despite repeated criticism of his human rights and civil liberties record by her own department. More recently President Barack Obama posed for an official photograph with President Obiang at a New York reception. There is also relatively little criticism from other African heads of state, and Equatorial Guinea hosted the African Cup of Nations football championships in 2012. There is little scope for opposition within the country, which is heavily repressed; but Obiang faces a separatist movement and a ‘government in exile’.

Paul Biya, President of Cameroon

Paul Barthélemy Biya’a bi Mvondo, born 13 February 1933, has been the President of Cameroon since 6 November 1982. He rose rapidly as a bureaucrat under President Ahmadou Ahidjo in the 1960s, serving as Secretary-General of the Presidency from 1968 to 1975 and then as Prime Minister of Cameroon from 1975 to 1982. In June 1979, a law designated the Prime Minister as the President’s constitutional successor and, when Ahidjo unexpectedly announced his resignation on 4 November 1982, Biya accordingly succeeded him as President of Cameroon on 6 November. After Biya became President, Ahidjo initially remained head of the ruling Cameroon National Union (CNU). Biya was brought into the CNU Central Committee and Political Bureau and was elected as the Vice-President of the CNU. On 11 December 1982, he was placed in charge of managing party affairs in Ahidjo’s absence.

During the first months after Biya’s succession, he continued to show loyalty to Ahidjo, and Ahidjo continued to show support for Biya, but in 1983 a rift developed between the two. Ahidjo went into exile in France, and from there he publicly accused Biya of abuse of power and paranoia about plots against him. The two could not be reconciled despite efforts by several foreign leaders. After Ahidjo resigned as CNU leader, Biya took the helm of the party at an “extraordinary session” of the CNU, held on 14 September 1983. In November 1983, he announced that the next presidential election would be held on 14 January 1984; it had been previously scheduled for 1985. He was the sole candidate in this election and won with 99.98 per cent of the vote.

In February 1984, Ahidjo was put on trial in absentia for alleged involvement in a 1983 coup plot, along with two others; they were all sentenced to death, although Biya commuted their sentences to life in prison. Biya survived a military coup attempt on 6 April 1984, following his decision the previous day to disband the Republican Guard and disperse its members across the military. Ahidjo was widely believed to have orchestrated the coup attempt, and Biya is thought to have learned of a plot in advance and to have disbanded the Republican Guard as a reaction, forcing the plotters to act earlier than they intended, which may have been a crucial factor in the coup’s failure. Northern Muslims were the primary participants in this coup attempt, which was seen by many as an attempt to restore that group’s supremacy; Biya, however, chose to emphasize national unity and did not focus blame on northern Muslims. Estimates of the death toll ranged from 71 (according to the government) to about 1,000.

In 1985, the CNU was transformed into the Cameroon People’s Democratic Movement/Rally (RDPC) in Bamenda, the political capital of the north-west region, and Biya was elected as its President. He was also re-elected as President of Cameroon on 24 April 1988. He initially took some steps to open up the regime, culminating in the decision to legalize opposition parties in 1990. According to official results, Biya won the first multi-party presidential election, held on 11 October 1992, with about 40 per cent of the vote; the second placed candidate, John Fru Ndi of the opposition Social Democratic Front (SDF), officially received about 36 per cent. The results were strongly disputed by the opposition, which alleged fraud. In the October 1997 presidential election, which was boycotted by the main opposition parties, Biya was re-elected with 93 per cent of the vote; he was sworn in on 3 November.

Biya won another seven-year term in the 11 October 2004 presidential election, officially taking 71 per cent of the vote, although the opposition alleged widespread fraud; Biya was sworn in on 3 November. Elected National President of the RDPC in 1996, he was re-elected at the party’s second extraordinary congress on 7 July 2001 and its third extraordinary congress on 21 July 2006. In 2004, at the time of the presidential elections, annoyed by the criticisms of international vote-monitoring groups, he paid for his own set of international observers, six ex-U.S. congressmen, who certified his election as free and fair. After being re-elected in 2004, Biya was barred by a two-term limit in the 1996 Constitution from running for President again in 2011, but he sought to revise this to allow him to run again. In his 2008 New Year’s message, Biya expressed support for revising the Constitution, saying that it was undemocratic to limit the people’s choice. The proposed removal of term limits was among the grievances expressed during the demonstrations and violent protests that took place in Cameroon’s largest towns and cities between 25 and 28 February 2008.

The government claimed that it had learned in January 2008 that the Social Democratic Front (SDF), the main opposition party, had formulated a plan they dubbed “Operation Kenya” to bring instability to Douala, Cameroon’s biggest city and chief port. In response, the government indefinitely banned street demonstrations in the Littoral Province, where Douala is located. Undeterred, by this, it was claimed, SDF leaders met at the Bamenda home of party chairman John Fru Ndi in late January, with the aim of organising street demonstrations across the country, with party members from both the government and civil sectors participating in the protests. Meanwhile, the SDF allegedly offered training to young people in how to stage an effective street demonstration. Fru Ndi and the SDF rejected the government’s claims, citing several peaceful SDF-led protests in the past. Fru Ndi told the government to look at their own policies as the cause of the unrest and said that he had information that implicated government officials in ‘[manipulating] the State apparatus and its information system’ in a bid to deflect attention from their own corruption.

On 23 February 2008, an unauthorised protest by several hundred demonstrators in the Douala suburb of Newtown, opposing Biya’s proposed constitutional reforms, was broken up by police who allegedly turned tear gas and water cannons on the demonstrators, killing at least one person. Conditions in Douala were peaceful the following day until that evening, when gunfire was heard near Douala International Airport. Two days later, a strike by the urban transport union, which consisted of bus, taxi, and lorry drivers, angered over the rise in fuel prices and poor working conditions in Cameroon, took place as scheduled on 25 February 2008 and in the days that followed, large groups of mainly young men took to the streets of Douala, Yaoundé, Bamenda, and other major cities, looting and vandalising property.

The mass protests began on 25 February 2008 in Douala. Because of the transport strike scheduled for that day the streets were empty of all traffic but the transport used by government forces. Heavy gunfire was reported that morning, and youths burnt cars, tires, and vegetation to block off major roads and bridges; the city was filled with plumes of smoke. Meanwhile, groups of young people looted and vandalised property, including petrol stations and a retail store. Reports on national radio said that a finance ministry building, a town hall, and other government structures were aflame. IRIN reported seeing a firefight between protesters and police at the airport and witnessing victims of gunshot wounds in the city. Police responded with widespread arrests.

On 26 February, the government agreed to a reduction in petrol prices of 6 francs CFA (less than 1 US¢) per litre, and the transport union called off its strike that night. The head of the taxi union, Jean Collins Ndefossokeng, told Radio France International that ‘it is no longer a good time for the strike with the current vandalism’. On 27 February, the government reduced fuel costs. By then, however, the protests had spread to 31 municipal areas in five of Cameroon’s ten provinces: the Centre, Littoral, Northwest, Southwest, and West. The government claimed that the SDF collected and transported youths between hot spots, including Bafoussam, Bamenda, Douala, and Yaoundé. Government forces allegedly stopped such convoys outside major cities between 25 and 27 February.

The government flooded the streets of the capital with soldiers. In Douala, demonstrators threw stones and erected flaming barricades. Government forces responded with tear gas. Troops were stationed throughout the city and at petrol stations, and barricades were set up. Similar methods were used in other cities, and troops in Douala used water cannons. Meanwhile, looting and burning continued, and witnesses reported victims of gunshot wounds lining the streets. According to a BBC reporter, troops confronted about 2,000 demonstrators on a bridge in Douala, and some 20 individuals fell into the river.

Witnesses reported heavy gunfire in Yaoundé on 27 February. One resident reported rioters looting and burning a market. In Kumba, demonstrators marched with posters demanding Biya’s resignation and for the government to reduce the cost of fuel and petroleum products. In Bamenda, some protesters reportedly targeted boarding schools, where the nation’s elite send their children; allegedly armed with bottles of petrol, rocks, and sticks, they threatened to burn the school down unless the students came with them, possibly for use as human shields against government forces. One boarding school reported that 200 teenage boys were taken by the protesters but the rest of the children were allowed to stay. Reports indicate that similar scenarios took place at other schools. Most of the children managed to escape back to the school or their parents’ home. The government accused the mayor of the Njombe-Penja Council of leading a group of demonstrators in an attack on a gendarme station in his town. The mayor was later suspended for this act and for alleged mismanagement of council funds.

The government sent in troops to crack down on the unrest, and both protesters and troops were killed in the clashes that followed. The official government tally was 40 people killed, but human rights groups claimed that the total was closer to 100. Government figures place damage to property at tens of billions of francs CFA (15.2 million euros or US$23.4 million). Government forces also claimed to have arrested more than 1,600 people, including government officials, and to have prosecuted 200. Human rights groups and defense attorneys, on the other hand, claimed that more than 2,000 people had been arrested in Douala alone and decried the trials as overly swift, secretive, and severe. The government also cracked down on artists, media outlets and journalists it accuses of threatening national stability.

On 7 March 2008, in response to the protests, Biya suspended duties paid on basic commodities such as cooking oil, fish, and rice. He also declared a rise in pay of 15 percent for civil service employees to take effect from 1 April and raised the pay of military personnel. The government reduced the custom duty paid on cement from 20 percent to 10 percent to address a shortage of building materials. It also announced plans to look at bank and telephone charges. The political turmoil had been made worse, however, many argued, by President Paul Biya‘s announcement that he wanted the constitution to be amended to remove term limits; without such an amendment, he would have had to leave office at the end of his term in 2011. Nevertheless, on 10 April 2008, the National Assembly voted to change the Constitution to remove term limits.

Given the RDPC’s control of the National Assembly, the change was overwhelmingly approved, with 157 votes in favour and five opposed; the 15 deputies of the SDF chose to boycott the vote in protest. The change also provided for the President to enjoy immunity from prosecution for his actions as President after leaving office.

After this upsurge in protest in 2008, things went relatively quiet over the next year or so, although real GDP growth and income from remittances both declined, in part because inflation also decreased and earlier proposals to reduce subsidies on basic goods were not implemented, so that the cost of living remained fairly stable. Even so, the IMF noted in 2010 that ‘social discontent could re-emerge as in 2008, ahead of the presidential elections in 2011.’

In the October 2011 presidential election, Biya secured a sixth term in office, polling 78 per cent of votes cast. John Fru Ndi, his main rival, polled 10 per cent. The opposition alleged wide-scale fraud in the election and procedural irregularities were noted by the French and US governments. In his victory speech, Biya promised to stimulate growth and create jobs with a programme of public works which would ‘transform our country into a vast construction site’. On 3 November 2011, he was sworn in for another term as President – his sixth.

In his book ‘Tyrants, the World’s 20 Worst Living Dictators’, David Wallechinsky named Biya,  together with Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea and King Mswati of Swaziland, as one of the ‘top 20’. He describes Cameroon’s electoral process in these terms: ‘Every few years, Biya stages an election to justify his continuing reign, but these elections have no credibility’. As Augusta Conchiglia remarked (in the New Left Review, no. 77, Sept.-Oct. 2012, p. 134), ‘in fifty two years, Cameroon has had only two presidents, who have held this country of 19 million in an iron grip: behind a fraudulent electoral façade stands a highly repressive regime which has imprisoned or killed its opponents, muzzled the press and salted away trillions of dollars in oil revenue. The balance sheet is catastrophic. Corruption is pervasive, from the apparatchiks of the ruling Rassemblement Democratique du Peuple Camerounais – until 1990 the only legal party – down to local traffic cops.’

David Seddon (criticalfaculty1@hotmail.co.uk) is a researcher and scholar who has written extensively on social movements, class struggles and political transitions across the developing world.

 

 

 

 

Fraud, Corruption and Neoliberalism in Africa

By Jörg Wiegratz 

Fraud and corruption are widespread in the contemporary world, in Africa and elsewhere. Also, as we know neoliberalism is widespread. Yet, we have relatively little scholarly analysis concerning how these two phenomena are interlinked, that is, how neoliberal reform and transformations have affected the levels and forms as well as the political-economic and socio-cultural underpinning of fraud and corruption in various countries. While we have sparse empirical data and analysis about ‘neoliberal fraud’ in general, we know even less about the moral economy of fraud in a neoliberalised societal context, not only but especially in Africa. Globally, there are not many scientists who can offer a data-based analysis on this sort of topic. And yet for various reasons, having a more advanced understanding and discussion about fraudulent practices and the norms, values, beliefs, attitudes and material structures that underpin them in our current world of neoliberal capitalism is important. Together with David Whyte I have worked for two years with a group of nearly 20 scholars to produce an edited collection that for the first time sheds more light on exactly this topic: Neoliberalism and the Moral Economy of Fraud.

The book shows how neoliberal policies, reforms, ideas, social relations and practices have engendered a type of socio-cultural change across the globe which is facilitating widespread fraud. It investigates the moral worlds of fraud in different social and geographical settings, and illustrates how contemporary fraud is not the outcome of just a few ‘bad apples’. Notably, the book is interdisciplinary and almost entirely case study based. Our contributors are from a range of disciplines including sociology, anthropology and political science, social policy and economics. There are three Africa specific chapters: ‘Entrepreneurialism, Corruption and Moral Order in the Criminal Justice System of the Democratic Republic of Congo’, by Maritza Felices-Luna (Ottawa); ‘Murder for gain: Commercial insurance and moralities in South Africa’, by Erik Bähre (Leiden), and ‘Seeking God’s Blessings: Pentecostal Religious Discourses, Pyramidal Schemes and Money Scams in the Southeast of Benin Republic’, by Sitna Quiroz (Durham). Other chapters have country case studies from Latin America, Western and Eastern Europe and Central Asia. No matter the country or region studied, each chapter offers useful insights into the phenomenon of concern that are then summed up in the conclusion ‘The Moral Economy of Neoliberal Fraud.’

That said, regarding Africa in particular, tracing the socio-cultural including moral repercussions of neoliberal restructuring – pushed by the IFIs and other donors, NGOs, companies and other international and local actors – is a topic in its own right. But here as well, to understand how this neoliberal push has affected matters of honesty and deception, or fairness and callousness in the human pursuit of income, survival, wealth, and power provides crucial insights into the operation and consequences of contemporary capitalist societal order across the continent. In the context of the scarcity of critical scholarly analysis on this issue (donors and governments in Africa seem to have hardly commissioned any research into neoliberal moral change!), this edited book contributes to  various global and continent-specific debates on neoliberalism, moral change, fraud and corruption, in the same way as my own forthcoming and detailed study on neoliberal moral economy and fraud in Uganda

That said, the collection has received notable reviews from a range of senior scholars across disciplines. Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan for instance notes: ‘Three very stimulating arguments are at the core of this book and open the door for productive debates and fresh investigations: (a) Fraud is a structural feature of neoliberalism (not only on the margins), and must be explored empirically; (b) Fraudulent practices are neither value-free nor in a desert of norms, but they have their own set of moral and practical norms; (c) Capitalist normative structures not only come from a top-down process,  but also from bottom-up dynamics.’ For interested readers: the introduction of the book ‘Neoliberalism, Moral economy and Fraud’ is available for free access on the book website (see Look Inside function). Routledge has also offered a 20% discount up to the end of the year for individuals purchasing print copies via the publisher’s website. For review copies please contact cara.trevor@tandf.co.uk.

Finally, to mark the publication of the book, as editors, we have produced an opinion article titled ‘How neoliberalism’s moral order feeds fraud and corruption’. This article is reproduced below from the website The Conversation. For any questions, comments and suggestions regarding these publications please email J.Wiegratz@leeds.ac.uk. 

How neoliberalism’s moral order feeds fraud and corruption

By Jörg Wiegratz and David Whyte

Corporate fraud is not just present, but is widespread in many neoliberalised economies of both income-rich and income-poor countries. Volkswagen’s emissions cheating scandal is perhaps the most recent and most startling example, but the automobile industry is only one of many sectors, including banking and the arms industry, where scandals have become commonplace. Certain practices and norms that many people in the global North considered shocking only a while ago have become routine in public life.

The financial industry, whether in the US, UK, or Germany, has become characterised for years now by extensive and escalating fraud. Arguably, bankers have never been as unpopular as they are right now. It is not difficult to see why. The most vulnerable in society have suffered the most as a result of public sector cuts in western Europe. You can draw a straight line between these cuts and the post-2008 bank bailouts and market-saving interventionism of governments.

One interesting indicator of the strength of popular censure aimed at the bankers can be found on the front pages of some traditionally right-wing newspapers; newspapers that hardly have a track record of critiquing capitalism.

Symbol crash

These headlines are not, however, a fundamental threat to the actual status of the bankers. They, and other powerful elites, can withstand such criticism without lasting impact because the system of power that sustains them is not vulnerable to this kind of symbolic moral criticism. It provides an extensive set of moral claims that is much more complex (and difficult to detect and untangle) than questions of whether bankers earn too much or not, or whether they are immoral or not.

We argue that bankers have a very clear and highly sophisticated moral compass that guides them in their daily work. This can apply more broadly too, and pulls in other controversial professions: property speculators, landlords, politicians, top CEOs, or bosses of sports associations.

This sounds counter-intuitive (how can bankers be moral?). But it is not useful to explain away deception and criminality in our economy with glib muttering about a weakening of morals or an absence of morals. This position typically suggests that people who harm others through fraudulent practices, have either lost their values or have no morals at all. In some of the least sophisticated analyses, it is assumed that in a battle between good and evil, corruption is simply “bad”, or a pathological flaw, or a symptom that something has gone wrong in the management of a state.

Order, order

Notably, each of the last three British Prime Ministers have at different time issued appeals for a more moral capitalism (Tony Blair and Gordon Brown), or more moral business sector (David Cameron) in response to a range of problems including bribery, high risk financial activities, interest-rate fixing and rising executive pay. That idea of simply needing more morality, or less immorality is deeply flawed.

Economic practices (including the use of deception, intimidation or violence while earning a living) are already supported by a set of specific moral views, understandings, priorities and claims. In other words, our current neoliberal economy does constitute a moral order whether we like the dominant morals or not.

We can define neoliberalism here as a means to promote the rule of the market, and drive the transfer of economic power from the public to the private sector. And in pursuing neoliberal models of growth, a huge amount of government energy is spent. We are told that support to big business is needed to secure the future, and that what is good for business is good for society. That rhetoric emphasises the social importance of free markets, flexible workers, freedom, open societies, and, more recently, fairness. All this adds up to a moral grammar of everyday life. In short, neoliberalism is underpinned by particular social values, norms and beliefs.

So how is this “common good” projected? Well, first of all, neoliberals make major claims in defence of what they call economic freedom. This claim is generally made from an anti-state and anti-collectivist position and stresses the economic freedom of individuals. Collective trade union freedoms and social rights are, from this perspective, constructed as the enemies of freedom as are state interventions in markets on behalf of the broader social or public interest.

Claims like this are normative, since they seek to position neoliberal policies as being in the public interest (driving competitiveness, growth, exports), and making a contribution to a “good” society. Thus, neoliberal constructions of market freedom simply tie the public interest to that of the market and of the private sector.

These ideas seek to infiltrate our entire moral view of the world. Neoliberal restructuring is therefore a political-economic and moral project that targets not just the economy, but also society and culture, in its ambition to re-create societies as ever more crass capitalist market societies. As Margaret Thatcher once rather chillingly said in an interview with the Sunday Times: “Economics are the method, but the object is to change the soul”.

And what kind of soul was it Thatcher wanted us to have? One based upon materialistic individualism and a self-interested outlook of course. So, if we want to understand why conditions for fraud are now ripe across all capitalist countries and across all levels of society, we must recognise that it is not because of the lack of soul or the absence of morals, but because at the heart of the neoliberal project, there exists a very clear set of norms, values and attitudes that have been actively encouraged, that we voted for, and which now we find so hard to rationalise or understand.

Jörg Wiegratz is lecturer in Political Economy of Global Development, University of Leeds and David Whyte is Professor of Socio-legal Studies, University of Liverpool.

To the Rhythm of Militancy and Freedom: Shahenda Maklad

Shahenda Maklad (1938 – 2016), was an Egyptian activist, defending the rights of farmers and taking up many grassroots causes. She was the founder of the independent Peasants Union, and under her helm, Kamshish – a village located in the heart of the Nile Delta – became a symbol of struggle against oppression, and also a source of guidance and inspiration for other villages. On June 3, 2016, Maklad passed away after a battle with cancer.

Widowed at the age of 27 in 1966 Shahenda Maklad had been married to Salah Hussein, who was assassinated on 30 April by members of a feudalist family in Kamshish. An educated son of the village, Hussein had been engaged in leftist politics and in nationalist anti-colonial struggles before 1952. He later switched the focus of his activity to a family of landlords that had long subjected the village to a rule of terror and oppression. It was during this struggle that he was shot dead.

We republish an interview conducted by Yasmine Moataz and Reem Saad which first appeared in ROAPE in 2011.

So, tell us the story of Kamshish and its significance in the farmers’ struggle in Egypt. You could use 30 April 1966 as an entry point.

On 30 April 1966, martyr Salah Hussein was assassinated by the feudalists. His funeral was transformed into a demonstration that called for a trial against feudalists. In the following years, April 30th became a day of remembrance and commemoration, where Kamshish farmers and activists meet and discuss pertinent farmers’ issues in Egypt, as well as drafting an agenda for action.

Who is Salah Hussein?

Salah Hussein is my husband. We got married in 1957. He was the local leader for farmers’ struggle in Kamshish, and led them through various battles against feudalism. Kamshish is a village dating back to the times of the pharaohs, and you can find this in reference books. It has a land area of around 2000 feddans.

Historically, Kamshish had small land ownerships, and consisted of small and medium farmers’ households. It was relatively recently that Kamshish saw large ownerships and witnessed the emergence of feudalism. One of Kamshish’s men betrayed the ’Orabi Revolution in the late nineteenth century, which resulted in his moving from being a small farmer to a large landlord, seizing lands and forcing people to give their lands away, including members of his own family. And this was when farmers’ struggle and resistance started to emerge in Kamshish.

In 1951, martyr Salah Hussein, my husband, and one of the village sons, joined armed resistance groups against the British in the Suez Canal area. There, he met with Wasseem Khaled and Hussein Tawfiq, an armed resistance group that was involved in the assassination of Amin Osman.

Together with his fellows, Salah Hussein decided to fight feudalism in Kamshish, with the belief that the first step towards the liberation of Palestine is to liberate Egypt and to get rid of feudalism first. Between 1951 and 1952, they made a plan of how to achieve their goal in Kamshish. Armed resistance was common at the time. So, the first step was to form an armed resistance group from the village, and for this, they needed to recruit people. Salah and his fellows started to carry out small tests, through which they could identify potential fellows for their resistance plan. The first thing they did was to ask school pupils to take off the hats that were imposed on them by the feudalist, and to pray by the side of, rather than behind, the feudalist. It was through these small acts of rebellion that Salah and his fellows were able to form a small group of activists, who were commonly called in the village ‘al-talaba’ or the students.

As the revolution took place in 1952, the idea of armed resistance became irrelevant; however, the political cause itself remained active.

Just before the passing of the 1952 agrarian reform law, Salah Hussein started using mosques, wedding ceremonies and funerals as occasions to call people to claim their rights, their land, to refuse obedience, and to end existing inequities and inequalities. New forms of passive resistance emerged. Kamshish farmers started to respond to Hussein by disobeying the feudalist; they refused to work as corvée labour, to which they had been subjected for a long time. This was followed by a series of small battles. One of the things they did, for example, was to sabotage a canal route dug by the feudalist in the middle of their lands to ensure that his land was well irrigated. The feudalists knew, so they shot at the farmers, injuring 17 of them, and of course, the canal route remained in the middle of the lands. After this event, the feudalist remained in power, and nothing has changed, so Kamshish people felt that the revolution did not help them in any way. Salah and his fellows knew that they had to introduce the taste of victory among Kamshish people. So they decided to break a dam built by the feudalist that ensured that his land was irrigated before the Kamshish farmers. They went armed and broke the dam, and when the feudalist came to check what was going on, they pointed the weapons at him, so he got scared and left. This incident stimulated resistance among Kamshish people.

To counter the farmers’ resistance, the feudalist recruited outlaws to threaten the farmers; they were armed and used to stand in the middle of the road to control Kamshish streets and to threaten its people.

One day, Kamshish people decided to get rid of the outlaws, so they left them shooting until they felt that they ran out of bullets, and then all the village attacked them, killing all four of them. That was in 1953. As a result, a curfew was imposed on the village, and Salah was banned from travelling outside Alexandria Governorate.

So Anwar El Sadat came to try to bring about a reconciliation between the Kamshish people and the al-Fekky family. At the time, he was a member of the Revolutionary Council. He made several attempts to reconcile both parties, but it did not work out. There was a split in the village between those who wanted reconciliation, and those who did not. Sadat went to the village, and met with Kamshish representatives and al-Fekky. He tried to talk to witnesses in Kamshish, but couldn’t find any, so he got upset and threw 25 farmers in prison, believing that this would get rid of a ‘deviant’ minority. He went to the house of Sheikh al-Balad [a local leader], and when Kamshish people knew that he was there, they held a demonstration, and burned the house where he was staying. So he realised that reconciliation had not been achieved.

So my father stepped in. At the time, he was the chief of police in Beni Soueif. He called Sadat, and asked him to release the prisoners. So they both went to Kamshish, and Sadat gave a speech and promised to release the prisoners.

A series of fights then began, all about land. The 1952 first agrarian reform law was not implemented in Kamshish because the feudalists managed to evade the expropriation of their land. Al-Fekki had seized people’s lands, however, on paper, the lands were registered under the name of small farmers, so that they could not claim for lands that, according to the papers, they already held. Only 50 feddans were distributed to the farmers. So we had to fight for the lands. In 1958 I ran for a seat in the local council, and I won. So I and other local leaders in the village became involved with the Committee to take the seized lands back. We did field visits to verify land ownership. This was a big fight; [the Al-Fekkis] were giving bribes and we were sending telegraphs to Gamal Abdel Nasser. This fight lasted from 1958 to 1962. So after the separation of Egypt and Syria, Nasser started to pay more attention to our cause. The lands were sequestrated, and then distributed to 199 beneficiaries. We followed our own rules in land distribution and not the Committee’s; we established a local committee whose members were knowledgeable about the real situation, like who actually worked on the land, who had six children and who did not, and so forth.

Then we started to discuss the issue of access to land and poverty. The question was: ‘Did we solve the problem of poverty by gaining accessing to the land?’ The answer was no. So we thought of developing the movement by investing in new crops, and it was then that the idea of establishing a cooperative began, meaning that we would cultivate the land together. People started to join the cooperative, and a developed political mobilisation movement emerged in the village. We wanted to transform the feudalists’ houses and lands into service centres for the village, and this was a step further in the movement. So [the Al-Fekkis] found no alternative but to kill Salah. They made several attempts, and eventually killed him on 30 April 1966. I often say that before Salah’s killing, our enemies were Kamshish feudalists, and after Salah’s killing, our enemies became all the feudalists who escaped the agrarian reform. That’s why the campaign against us was intensified later on. In 1967, many people were arrested, that’s why we didn’t commemorate the anniversary that year.

We did the first commemoration for Salah on 30 April 1968. Everybody came to Kamshish; Abdel Rahman al-Sharkawy, Loutfy al-Khouly, Zaky Mourad, Nabil al-Helaly, Youssef Hegab, al-Abnoudy, members of all social, intellectual and political forces in Egypt. The Kamshish cause started to attract media attention. It became a focal point for activists from all over Egypt. We used to hand-write the invitation, and send it from various post offices across governorates. We did not send all the invitations from one place for fear it would be easily tracked by the government.

I received numerous invitations to speak in different governorates, and the groups of Kamshish supporters became so numerous that the security officers wanted to remove me from Kamshish. The purpose of the commemoration was twofold – first to talk about problems that farmers face, and, second to solve these problems.

Read the full interview on the ROAPE page of the Taylor and Francis website.

Yasmine Moataz, a social anthropologist who recently completed her PhD at the University of Cambridge and Reem Saad is Associate Professor of anthropology at the American University in Cairo.

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