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Profiting from Poverty in South Africa

By Christopher Webb

At a rally during the recent local government elections in South Africa, the Secretary General of the African National Congress told a crowd that the party was ‘relieving men’ who couldn’t take care of their children by providing their families with child support grants. The ANC, he told them, was the only party that raised their children because fathers were failing to do so. Currently the state provides families and primary caregivers with R350 per child, per month provided that household income is below a certain threshold.

Every month around 16.8 million social grants are deposited into the accounts of around 10 million South Africans. Of these 11.9 million receive child support grants, 96% of which are women. These grants reach a large swathe of the population, with some 44% of households receiving at least one grant. Delivered by the South African Social Security Agency (SASSA) social grants have been crucial in the government’s fight against extreme poverty. South Africa spends over 4% of its GDP on social welfare, which is higher than countries like Brazil and Egypt but lower than Algeria and Malawi. SASSA is mandated to provide grants to those who are vulnerable to poverty and in need of state support, this includes pensioners, those with disabilities, guardians of foster children and military veterans. Despite warnings that social grants are too costly for government, amounts have been expanded and there is currently discussion of extending the child support grant to 23 due to the high number of child-headed households.

Research has shown that social grants have a great impact on overall levels of household poverty. The child support grant, in particular, has been central to poverty alleviation. Researchers at the University of Stellenbosch have shown that the number of children whose parents reported that their child had gone hungry in the previous year declined from 31% in 2002 to 23% in 2005. Economists at the University of Cape Town have shown that a quarter of those unemployed nationally derive income support exclusively from the grant income of other members of their household. Access to social grants, particularly the child support grant and the old age pension, shift millions of South Africans from the lowest into the lower-middle income deciles.

Social grants have recently been lauded by noted anthropologist James Ferguson as examples of a new distributive politics that provide opportunities for rethinking capitalism and developing new forms of political mobilization. Such an approach, he argues opens up new ways of thinking about labour, unemployment, the family and the meaning of social welfare. For Ferguson, social grants open up intellectual and political space for realizing the redistributive aims of the 1955 Freedom Charter, which states that the ‘people shall share in the country’s wealth.’

What Ferguson misses is that social grants and their delivery have become enmeshed with systems and logics derived from finance capital. While Ferguson hails social grants as a potential chink in the neoliberal edifice allowing citizens to make redistributive claims on the state, the ways in which social grants are delivered and processed has facilitated the emergence of predatory forms of micro-lending that targets the poor.

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A woman holds up her Easy Pay card in Gugulethu Square Mall, 1 June 2016

While social grants are administered by SASSA the mechanics of payment and distribution were outsourced in 2012 to a private company called Cash Paymaster Services (CPS), which is a subsidiary of Net 1. In 2012 Net 1 was granted a R10billion tender for the distribution of social grants nationwide, which involves providing the biometric hardware and personnel for the payment of 16.8million social grants each month. The company is listed on the Johannesburg and New York Stock Exchanges, and specializes in “alternative payment systems” using “biometrically secure real-time electronic transaction processing to unbanked and under-banked populations around the world.”

From its inception the tender was dogged with allegations of corruption. At the 11th hour the tender was changed to include requirements for key biometric security features that only Net 1 could meet. A high court judge ruled that the tender process was invalid but that Net 1 should continue distributing grants as re-issuing the tender would pose a risk to grant holders. Then in 2014 the country’s Constitutional Court ordered SASSA to re-issue the tender after the judge criticized the agency for ‘irregular conduct’. Net 1 still holds the contract until 2017, but has decided not to apply for the new tender, choosing to focus instead on expanding services to “unbanked and under-banked citizens including social grant beneficiaries, but independently and without SASSA’s limitations and constraints.” To this end, Net 1 operates an array of financial entities that specifically target grant holders, including Easy Pay, a company that allows grant holders to access loans, buy airtime and electricity and make store purchases; Moneyline, a company that provides loans to grant recipients; Umoya Manje, a system that allows holders to buy cellphone airtime on credit; and SmartLife Insurance company.

It was not just the tender that was mired in scandal. Shortly after Net 1 got the tender, grant holders began reporting illegal deductions from their monthly payments. SASSA has since received thousands of complaints over illegal deductions for airtime, electricity, funeral plans and loan repayments. In April 2016 alone they received more than 23,000 complaints over illegal deductions. In June 2016 SASSA brought criminal charges against Net 1 and Grindrod Bank, alleging that it was not complying with the amended 2004 Social Assistance Act which makes it illegal to deduct funds from social grant holder’s account. This case has been delayed until October, but in the meantime illegal deductions continue to drain the accounts of the country’s poorest citizens.

Fieldwork conducted in two townships in Cape Town in May and June 2016 reveal some of the dynamics of how these deductions occur. Social grant holders have the choice to go and withdraw their money from a CPS-run (Cash Paymaster Services) pay point or to withdraw their funds directly from an ATM. In the latter case they are charged transaction fees, so many queue in long lines from early in the morning to receive their grants. Shortly after CPS began distributing loans, stories began to emerge of CPS staff offering social grant holders loans at pay points. We confirmed this in a series of workshops conducted with social grant holders from Philippi and Gugulethu, two townships in Cape Town. Social grant holders were told by CPS staff to take their SASSA cards and ID documents to the offices of Moneyline Financial Services were they would be approved for loans. Others had been pre-approved for loans after they received texts from Moneyline asking for their SASSA and ID numbers.

On June 2, 2016 we spoke to people in a hundreds-long line outside the Moneyline offices in Philippi. They were waiting to be approved for short-term loans of anywhere from R410 to R1050 to be paid-off over 3 or 6 months. Technically Moneyline doesn’t charge interest on these loans, just ‘service fees.’ These ‘fees’ are paid back through monthly installments on the principal amount over a six or three-month period. For an unsecured loan of R1050, with a repayment period of six-months, the service fee is R330— a repayment amount of 31%, equivalent to 101% annual interest. On a loan of R410 paid off over three-months the service fee is R100—a repayment amount of 24%, equivalent to 141% annual interest. While Moneyline states they don’t charge interest because their customers are “the poorest of the poor,” high repayment fees often completely drain borrower’s social grant accounts. The justification for high interest rates on micro-loans is that lending to the poor is ‘risky’ because of potential default. Repayment on these loans, however, is guaranteed by borrower’s social grants which are deposited at the beginning of each month.

It is illegal for Moneyline to deduct loan repayments directly from social grants, but they have found ways to get around recent amendments to the Social Assistance Act.  Those we spoke to in the Moneyline queue told us that once they were approved for a loan they were given an EasyPay card, which is a ‘financial switch’ card allowing holders to transfer funds between debit and credit accounts and purchase airtime, electricity and retail goods. In their loan agreement, borrowers give Moneyline permission to transfer funds from their SASSA account to their Easy Pay account in order to service their debt—this is easily done because both accounts are controlled by Grindrod Bank. On transaction statements we were shown loan repayment amounts were deducted in advance of social grants being transferred to Easy Pay accounts. The Easy Pay card is effectively a way for Moneyline to circumvent the amendments to the 2004 Social Assistance Act, that prohibits deductions directly from people’s social grants, and indirectly tap into holder’s grant money.

In May 2016 SASSA claimed they had clamped down on illegal deductions through amendments to the 2004 Social Assistance Act, and that only funeral policy payments to registered insurers could be legally deducted in the future. Research we conducted the following month told a different story. We found multiple instances of illegal deductions and little information about how to challenge them. A pensioner told us he had borrowed R1000 from Money Line in November 2015 with a monthly repayment of R220 over 6 months. It was now June, and his pension payout was only R1160 rather than R1500. There was nothing on his transaction statement to indicate where the money had gone. A woman waiting in a queue at a nearby grocery store to collect her grant money showed us that R300 had been deducted for airtime and electricity from her 2 child grants. Unauthorized deductions for cellphone airtime is the most common complaint received by SASSA. Another pensioner showed us that she had R64 deducted from her child grant for an Emerald Life Insurance plan that she had never signed up for, and this had been ongoing for over 6 months. In 2015 Emerald Life Insurance agents in Paarl and Franschoek were arrested and charged after it emerged that they were deducting funds illegally from people’s social grants.

These are just some of the stories we collected, others documented by Black Sash in their Hands Off Our Grants campaign have revealed how pensioners have struggled to stop thousands-of- Rands of deductions. Grant holders we spoke to had little idea of who to contact if they encountered illegal deductions and they felt relatively powerless to control the flow of their grant money between their SASSA and Easy Pay cards. As the case of 89-year-old pensioner Sipho Bani reveals, grant holders are bounced from office to office, sometimes over a period of months, to have deductions reversed.

Rather than social grants being evidence of a new form of welfarism where citizens claim their rights to a share of national wealth, people encounter social grants as potential consumers or borrowers. People’s engagement on the first of each month is rarely with the state, but with bank tellers, CPS agents, ATMs and grocery store clerks, places where the state is, in effect, absent. In these spaces there is no room to dispute illegal deductions or suggest that credit providers are targeting vulnerable pensioners with low levels of financial literacy. On the one hand social grants can be seen as a new form of social welfare quite different from those forms that arose in Europe in the postwar period—grant holders don’t pay into some national insurance scheme and social grants aren’t merely safety nets for moments of income insecurity, but long-term survival tools in a context of high unemployment. On the other hand, the ways in which this system has been implemented has been profoundly alienating and disempowering. The state has facilitated the entrance of finance capital into systems of social welfare delivery. As a result, those 16.8 million social grant recipients are seen as potential customers by a range of financial institutions. In the same way that international banks entered the world of micro-credit in the 1990s, finance capital in South Africa is looking for ways to cash-in on social grants. It appears that they are succeeding.

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People queue outside the offices of Moneyline Financial Services in Philippi, 2 June 2016

The growth of micro-lending in South Africa has been underpinned by the rapid expansion of finance capital in the post-apartheid period. As Milford Bateman has noted, post-apartheid policies that were intended as ‘pro-poor,’ such as the expansion of credit to poor borrowers, have given rise to a “venal market driven economic system” that has immensely enriched a few CEOs. Finance has been a critical component perpetuating neoliberalism and since 1994 the role of finance in systems of capital accumulation has expanded rapidly. A major area of growth has been in government tenders secured by various Black Economic Empowerment groups. For example, the R10billion tender secured by Net 1 was conditional on them signing a BEE deal. Just days after Net 1 got the tender it announced that it had finalized a major new BEE deal worth R264million with Mosomo Investment Holdings. Mosomo is headed by Brian Mosehla, who was formerly head of finance at the Mvelaphanda group established by businessman and politician Tokyo Sexwale. Mosomo Investment and Sexwale’s Mvelaphanda group had previously worked together to secure a massive Coal of Africa deal. A 2012 Mail and Guardian story pointed out that if Sexwale had a financial interest in Mosomo investments, this would be a major conflict of interest, because when he was Human Settlements minister his director general Thabane Zulu was a member of the SASSA adjudication committee that awarded Net 1 the tender.

At the same time as the state has expanded social welfare to the poorest South Africans it has facilitated the expansion of a predatory form of finance targeting those same people. If, as Ferguson would have it, social grants provide a new modality of distribution which can prefigure a more radical redistributive politics, then we must pay attention to the actual mechanics of distribution and how grant holders themselves use and understand social grants. The number of people receiving social grants has skyrocketed, at the same time increases in social grant spending have not kept pace with high levels of food inflation. For example, this year the child grant increased by 6%, but in June food inflation was 10.8% and has averaged 6.5% from 2009 until 2016. Add to this increasing levels of unemployment, layoffs in mining and manufacturing sectors, and projected economic growth rates of less than 1%, and it seems unlikely that social grants can stave off a deep crisis of social reproduction in millions of households. As a recent Oxfam South Africa report highlights, households experience high levels of food insecurity in the last weeks of each month when wages and social grants have been exhausted. Those queuing for loans told us that the amount they received from the government was never enough to meet monthly household expenses, so they had little option to get loans from places like Moneyline. These institutions were seen as preferable to the informal system of township loans or mashonisas, who are known for sky-high interest rates and the threat of violence for defaulting on payments.

None of this is to suggest that social grants aren’t necessary or that their expansion isn’t important. But, as Ferguson admits, they “partake in the neoliberal spirit of the age.” The distribution of South Africa’s social grants highlights the ways in which neoliberal logics can undermine redistributive projects, and in the process blur boundaries between state and market disempowering citizens in the process. Social grants have also been, as the election-rally comments by the ANC’s Secretary General indicate, an effective way for the ANC to maintain its hegemony among the poor, particularly in rural areas where social grants are often the only source of household income. In this sense social grants are reminiscent of the broader politics of service delivery across the country. The expansion of services to the poor has been marshalled by the ANC as evidence of its pro-poor developmental policies, while many of these projects have been severely undermined by logics of cost-recovery, privatization and outsourcing that have led to anger and discontent among the poor and the enrichment of old and new elites.

Christopher Webb is a PhD Candidate in Human Geography at the University of Toronto and a Research Associate at the International Labour Research and Information Group (ILRIG) in Cape Town. This research has been carried out in collaboration with Nandi Vanqa-Mgijima, Research and Education Officer at ILRIG.

Featured Photograph: 12 February 2013, Valhalla Park, Cape Town

Mozambique News Reports and Clippings

Gary Littlejohn introduces the Mozambique News Reports and Clippings, distributed and collated by Joseph Hanlon. ROAPE will regularly post Hanlon’s reports.

By Gary Littlejohn

The latest issue of Mozambique News Reports and Clippings, No. 335, distributed by Joseph Hanlon, shows that the drought induced by the last El Niño event is by no means Mozambique’s only problem. There are large numbers of food insecure people in Mozambique, as in other parts of Africa.

Firstly, there is the fact (covered in an earlier edition of this newsletter) that negotiations between Frelimo and Renamo are in limbo, with the international mediators having ‘paused’ them owing to apparently irreconcilable positions taken by each side. Neither side was reportedly willing to consider a compromise document drafted by the mediators, who have now left the country. Meanwhile, low level fighting continues between Renamo and government forces, with considerable consequences for movement of traffic in the middle of the country, including rail traffic to export minerals.

Secondly, there is the issue of the various secret loans taken out by state agencies without the knowledge of the National Assembly or the relevant government agencies. These have added to the problem of the already unsustainable public debt. It was known to be over $10 billion, and the secret loans have added roughly another $2 billion.  The government takes the view that these can be investigated by the relevant Mozambican authorities, but the IMF and presumably other donors are not satisfied with this.  The IMF has suspended its latest financial aid package. It is not at all clear that Mozambique has the forensic auditing skills to trace missing funds through various international tax havens, and without donor funding international auditing experts would be hard to find. The insistence on dealing with the secret debts without cooperating with lenders also raises the suspicion that the underlying causes of the debt problems will be avoided, in a situation where future loans to buy time to find a way of restructuring and servicing such debt will very hard to obtain. This implies that the Mozambican economy will face stagnation for a long period.

Although these secret debts are evidently illegal under Mozambican law, it is probable that the loans organised by Credit Suisse and the Russian VTB bank were incurred under contracts subject to the jurisdiction of English courts. That raises the prospect of a long legal struggle over repayment. It is worth recalling that some years ago large Argentinean debts were contracted under US law.  These debts were then bought up by a so-called ‘vulture fund’ that demanded payment in full, as opposed to the deal struck with other creditors who accepted less than the face value of the loans.  The result was a legal and political battle lasting for some years. Although the Argentinean government eventually won, it was an expensive battle that restricted access to international financial markets for years, with detrimental effects on economic growth. The Mozambican economy is already in a very weak position for reasons analysed by Carlos Nuno Castel-Branco in ROAPE in 2015.

Thirdly, for reasons already covered in ROAPE No. 128, and corroborated by subsequent reports in Mozambique News Reports and Clippings and elsewhere since then, large-scale agribusiness projects have not worked well in Mozambique, the most notable example being the ProSavana project that attempted to take advantage of infrastructural investment in transport links for various mineral extraction projects. That embarrassing tale continues, with reports in the newsletter indicating that ProSavana is now thinking of trying to contract cultivation out to local farmers and suggesting other changes.  Yet Issue No 335 shows that there has been yet another attempt at a land grab, this time in the Lurio valley. One of the investigators, Khadija Sharife, has already contributed to ROAPE. Mozambican land law basically treats land as having been nationalised, and usufruct is allotted to those cultivating the land. There has been a long slow process of registering such rights of use with the Ministry of Agriculture, yet it must be said that over the years there has also been a series of mysterious fires in the Ministry of Agriculture, whereby such registered title to use has at times been lost. Hence when international companies declare blithely that the land is empty or not in use, it is sometimes difficult to challenge that rhetoric.

In this situation, the comment in Issue No. 335 that, ‘We continue to spend lots of money importing products that we could grow locally because domestic producers are not protected and cannot obtain credit, according to the president of the Confederation of Mozambican Business Associations’ clearly illustrates how Mozambique has consistently failed adequately to address the issue of agricultural development.  This issue is also addressed in the book Chickens and Beer by Teresa Smart and Joseph Hanlon that is advertised at the beginning of No. 335.

The report from the BBC on the alleged scandal concerning an international NGO known as ADPP strongly suggests that Mozambican oversight of such activities is also sadly lacking. Although in the past some NGOs worked in consultation with Mozambican government agencies, as early as 1983 the Oficina de Historia (History Workshop, part of the Centre of African Studies at Eduardo Mondlane University) found that in Cabo Delgado a French NGO was deliberately raising local expectations in attempt to create a political demand for its services there. Its activities were not being properly scrutinised. Failure to scrutinise such activities leaves Mozambique open not only to fraudulent activities, as alleged here, but to external political manipulation. This problem was especially acute after the General Peace Agreement of October 1992, when the number of international NGOs shot up to over 1,000, and Mozambican NGOs tended to be local protégés of their international counterparts. Such failures of routine state administration vitiate the supposed benefits of parliamentary democracy.

Finally the murder of the prosecutor investigating the death of Giles Cistac should resonate with readers of ROAPE, which published a protest about this assassination at the time. Mozambican lawyers, prosecutors and judges have to operate in a situation where assassination is a real threat, and not always publicly known. I am aware of a now retired Supreme Court judge who courageously conducted a trial in the face of direct death threats. Criminals have occasionally succeeded in making spectacular escapes from prison, allegedly with inside help. There have been well-publicised assassinations of non-judicial investigators as well.  All of this adds up to a fundamental problem with the rule of law.

Without major changes that the government seems unwilling to make, the future for Mozambique does not look at all bright.  It had got away with a failure to reform because the IMF treated it as a development ‘poster boy’ but the high rates of growth were based on poorly conceived mineral projects, and that bubble has now burst.  Mozambique News Reports and Clippings has faithfully documented all these failings over the years. Until recently, ‘conventional wisdom’ looked the other way.

Joseph Hanlon’s Mozambique News Reports and Clippings, can be accessed here: No. 338  No.339  No.440 No.342 No.344 (see also the Mozambique Poverty Supplement for No.344 hereNo.345 No.346 No.347 No.348

Gary Littlejohn was Briefings and Debates editor of the Review of African Political Economy from 2010 to 2015. He is the author of Secret Stockpiles: A review of disarmament efforts in Mozambique, Working Paper 21, Small Arms Survey, Geneva, October 2015.

Featured Picture: Women, children and plastic tanks at the well of Nivali, Nampula, Mozambique (2007).

A Rejoinder to Firoze Manji

By David Seddon

The very title of Firoze’s piece begs a number of questions. It posits a ‘failure’, which intrinsically implies falling short of something that could be identified as a ‘success’, which is an extraordinarily and I think unhelpfully binary approach to the study of class struggle, social movements and political change. It conjures up something he calls ‘left working class movements’, again presumably opposed if only in a rather abstract way to other social and political movements, either not of ‘the left’ (whatever that means) or not of the ‘working class’, and asks why ‘they’ failed to ‘take root’ in ‘most of Africa. The task of the analysis is then to ‘account for’ this ‘failure’.

It is not a good start. It is not even as provocative and ultimately illuminating as the famous reference by Sherlock Holmes, in Conan Doyle’s ‘The Silver Blaze’, to the dog that ‘did nothing in the night-time.’[1] I have elsewhere drawn attention to the shortcomings of criticisms made by leftist analysts of popular protest and class struggle in Africa in terms of the ‘failure’ of these forms of social action, or of particular social groups or classes (i.e. the labour aristocracy’), to bring about the kind of transformation the analysts had hoped for (see Seddon, 2009). But let us not simply dismiss the piece as a misguided exercise in philosophy or teleology and the consideration of the counter-factual.

Manji suggests that ‘the early 1950s witnessed an extraordinary sweep of popular mobilisations across the continent inspired by aspirations for emancipatory freedom – an end to the colonial yoke’ and comments that ‘across the continent, nationalist parties convinced people that the path to freedom was through political independence.’ He does not explore the antecedents of these popular mobilisations in the rising nationalism of the first few decades of the 20th century or the earlier popular protest of workers and peasants in the late 19th century; nor does he directly question whether these nationalist movements were misguided or whether they were indeed emancipatory, bringing about at least a formal political independence that allowed nationalist governments to come to office, even if they often proved unable to break their economic and political ties with their former colonial metropoles. 

But he does suggest that the political strategy of the various left and communist parties that had existed in a number of countries across the continent over many decades, despite the terror of colonial repression,  was to merge with (or accept subordination to) the nationalist parties in the struggle for independence, in line with the prevailing dogma at the time (derived from, but deviating from, the classical Marxist tradition) – the ‘stagist’ view of revolution in which communists were required not only to support the emergence of a national bourgeoisie as part of the ‘national democratic revolution’, but to conceded leadership to the nationalist parties.

The use of the term ‘dogma’ here seems to imply that this strategy was misguided, and a mistake. He gives the example of the South African Communist Party (SACP) yielding to the leadership of the ANC since 1994. He suggests that this strategy effectively allowed the nationalists in most cases not only to take over rather than to transform the colonial – or rather the post-colonial – state, and to embark on a distinctive ‘neo-colonial’ process of capital accumulation and also – although Manji, critically, does not really analyse this aspect of things – to crush the left progressive opposition in the name of national unity. He argues that there were a few who understood the dangers of this collaboration with this form of nationalism – and specifically names Patrice Lumumba, Amilcar Cabral and Thomas Sankara – and who sought to build alternatives to the colonial state; but points out that they were assassinated by their nationalist ‘comrades’ in collaboration with the ‘neo-imperialists.’

He does not, unfortunately, explore the extent to which, during the colonial period, there were active and organised left working class movements. I have tried to document and comment on the significance of early working class movements in Africa, as have many others, and it is clear that even from an early stage in the colonial period, a limited working class had developed in a number of African countries, and had demonstrated its willingness to take action as part of the evolving class struggle in those countries. The history of their role in the extraordinary sweep of popular movements that Manji refers to as taking place in the 1950s, began in fact in the late 19th century and continued apace during the first half of the 20th, although it was during the late 1950s and the 1960s – and in some cases the 1970s – that these movements (which represented a combination of classes) actually achieved independence across the continent.

The political commanding heights of these newly independent states, however, as Manji rightly remarks, were for the most part organised to ‘modernise’ rather than transform the state, the economy and society. Even the regimes that claimed to be ‘socialist’ (whether African, Arab or Islamic) proved sooner or later to be committed to a form of state capitalism rather than to socialism as understood by the communists and leftists familiar with the Marxist tradition. Arguably, even those states that declared themselves to be adherents of ‘Marxism-Leninism’ – like Mengistu’s Ethiopia – were more akin to ‘national socialism’ than to Marxism-Leninism.  Manji quotes Fanon, who says that, under these circumstances, the national bourgeoisie acted, not as an agent of progressive socialist transformation but as an agent of foreign (mainly Western) capitalism.

At the same time, Manji rightly observes, some of those on the left betrayed their comrades and simply abandoned the class struggle to join the ranks of the national bourgeoisie (he cites the example of Cyril Ramaphosa and others in South Africa) or else compromised their principles and allied themselves with the national bourgeoisie in the name of the national democratic revolution (as with the SACP). The result was the systematic repression of progressive elements or radicals (and again Manji cites the assassination of Tom Mboya, Pio Gama Pinto and J M Kariuki in Kenya and that of Chris Hani – and more recently the massacre at Marikani and the assault on NUMSA – in South Africa).

Manji devotes some space to documenting this more recent period and the ways in which nationalist leaders have both collaborated with imperialism and suppressed leftist progressive elements in the name of national development, arguably thereby preventing the independent organisation of left working class organisations. He seems in this whole discussion, however, to ignore the significant development of the working class and of working class movements across Africa over the last few decades. Perhaps this is because the formation of social classes in Africa has not precisely followed the historical precedent of class formation in Europe during the period of early capitalist development. But even in Europe the ‘making of the working class’ was a complex and uneven process as Marxist historians like E P Thompson have showed (in the case of England). It is not surprising if, in Africa, with its very different history, the process of class formation was also somewhat different.

But in reality, I would suggest, the working class has continued to emerge and consolidate itself, and manifest its growing strength in various ways over the long period since those early days of colonial domination, throughout the post-colonial period and up to the present day. The fact that it has not managed yet to seize power in Africa in the manner envisaged by Marx and Engels to form ‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’ is less a failure of the African working class than an indication of the complexity and uneven-ness of the process of class struggle under capitalism in the longue durée. For, after all, the working class has not managed to seize power for more than brief periods in a few countries anywhere since 1840, even in the ‘advanced’ capitalist countries of Europe and North America or in the countries that called themselves ‘socialist’ (from 1917 until the collapse of communism in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union in the late 1980s and early 1990s).    

But Manji also addresses, briefly, the changes that have taken place in the more recent period, suggesting that many of the gains of independence (which he does not in fact identify but presumably relate to the period from the 1950s to the 1970s), were reversed with the rise of neo-liberalism during the 1980s and 1990s. In response to this, he comments, there was a growing discontent across the continent, with spontaneous eruptions and mass uprisings that in some cases resulted in the overthrow of regimes nurtured and nourished by imperialism – selecting as examples, rather strangely, Tunisia, Egypt and Burkina Faso. I have written extensively about these popular protests in various places, including on this website, and shown how they involved a combination of social classes, including usually working class organisations (e.g. trades unions) and movements, and how they were able in many countries to change the political architecture and even overthrow regimes (as Manji admits).

The rise of democracy in the early 1990s, I would argue, was not only a consequence of the ideological and material pressure by external forces for ‘good governance’; it was also a product of class struggle across the African continent. In more recent years, and into the 21st century, popular protest has become more systematically orchestrated and politically focused, at the same time as the regimes that developed in the 1990s have consolidated themselves yet again, with the support of imperialist forces, as elected dictatorships. This represents a deepening of the class struggle, in my opinion, not ‘the failure of the left’ or of working class movements. The history of capitalist development and political transformation in Africa has not come to an end; it continues to be made by the actions of men and women, but not, unfortunately, under the conditions of their own choosing.

Manji does not seem, however, to believe that these uprisings and forms of popular protest, which occurred systematically in the form of more or less spontaneous popular protests during the period from the mid-1970s to the mid-1990s, and have continued and gained even greater momentum through the last two decades, have involved the working class, for he asks: ‘under such circumstances, one would have thought that there would have been fertile grounds for the emergence of strong left working class movements across the continent. But why has this not happened?’ I would respond that his premise is in fact false, for left working class movements have indeed taken root in many parts of Africa, and are manifestly and demonstrably an integral part of the on-going class struggle. The fact that these movements have not yet achieved control of the state in a definitive way, bringing into being a ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ and socialism, is not a ‘failure’ but rather an indication of the unforeseen complexity and lengthy process of capitalist development on a world scale.

We should remember that, when asked, during Richard Nixon’s visit to Bejing in 1972, about the impact of the French Revolution that took place nearly two centuries earlier, the Chinese premier, Zhou Enlai, famously commented that it was ‘too early to say.’

David Seddon is a researcher and scholar who has written extensively on social movements, class struggles and political transitions across the developing world.

Featured Photograph: Transvaal Protest March organized by Gandhi, October-November 1913.

Notes

[1] When Inspector Gregory asks, “Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?” Holmes responds, “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” But, protests the inspector, “The dog did nothing in the night-time.” To which Holmes delivers the punch line: “That was the curious incident.” This turns out to be the clue that leads to the unravelling by the great fictional detective of the mystery facing them.  

 

The Failure of Left Movements in Africa

How do we account for the failure of left working class movements taking root in most of Africa?

By Firoze Manji

The early 1950s witnessed an extraordinary sweep of popular mobilisations across the African continent inspired by aspirations for emancipatory freedom: an end to the colonial yoke. Nationalist parties convinced people that the path to freedom was through political independence. Since then, many of the gains of independence, which cost the blood and lives of millions in Africa, have been reversed with the privatisation of the commons and public utilities, as well as by dispossessions of land, by unemployment, and by the increasing costs of food, rent, and other necessities of life.

In response, discontent has been growing across the continent, with spontaneous eruptions and mass uprisings that have in some cases resulted in the overthrow of regimes nurtured and nourished by imperialism (e.g. in Tunisia, Egypt, and Burkina Faso). In such circumstances, one would have thought that there would have been fertile grounds for the emergence of strong left working class movements across the continent. But why has this not happened?

Left and communist parties of various sizes and influence have arisen in a number of countries across the continent over many decades, despite the terror of colonial repression that they faced. In many cases, the political strategy of these parties was to merge with the nationalist parties in the struggle for independence. This was in line with the prevailing dogma at the time: the ‘stagist’ view of revolution according to which communists were required not only to support the emergence of a national bourgeoisie as part of the ‘national democratic revolution,’ but to concede leadership to the nationalist movements–much as we have seen with the South African Communist Party yielding to the leadership of the ANC since 1994.

On coming to power, most of the nationalist governments, often supported by the left, believed that all that was required to satisfy the demands of the masses was to take control of the state. But what they ignored was that the state was itself a colonial state, and set up to serve, protect and advance the interests of imperial power and its entourage of corporations and banks. That state had a monopoly over the use of violence. It had police forces, armies, and secret police and it used force and, where necessary, violence, to protect the interests of the way in which capitalism operated in the peripheries.

Nkrumah

Russian Stamp: The 80th anniversary of the birth of K. Nkrumah (1909-1972). Source: Soviet Union Stamp Catalogue 1989.

Having occupied the state, independence governments essentially sought to make modest reforms consisting primarily of deracialising the state and modernising it so that the economy could be more fully integrated with the new emerging international order that the US, Europe, and Japan set about creating after the Second World War. The structures of state control, the police, army, and special forces–even the structures and powers of native authority established by colonial powers–all these were left fundamentally intact, albeit dressed up in the colours of the national flag. The structures of the capitalist state were left intact, even where regimes proclaimed an adherence to ‘Marxism-Leninism’, as in Mengistu’s Ethiopia.

Few understood the dangers of occupying, rather than creating alternatives to, the capitalist state. Amongst those must be counted Patrice Lumumba (Congo), Amilcar Cabral (Guinea-Bissau), and Tomas Sankara (Burkina Faso). They had in common their commitment to building alternatives to the colonial state. Cabral was emphatic: “It is our opinion that it is necessary to totally destroy, to break, to reduce to ash all aspects of the colonial state in our country in order to make everything possible for our people.” Tellingly, all three were assassinated by their own comrades, in collaboration with empire.

While the repressive arms of the state may have been dressed in new uniforms, their role–that of protecting the interests of capitalism in the (former) colonies–remained unchanged. And as the emerging middle class and party officials who now occupied the neo-colonial state realised the potential for private accumulation and looting that access to the state provided, so their interest in transforming the state waned.

‘Africanisation’–or in South Africa’s case ‘Black Economic Empowerment’–was the battlecry of the emerging national bourgeoisie that would legitimise their access to sources of private accumulation. The growing presence of transnational corporations and international financial institutions, and the growing interest in ‘investing’ (principally in the extractive industries) provided too many lucrative opportunities for them to even consider making changes to economic power. The state became a honey-pot, and therefore frequently a terrain of conflict between different factions of the emerging class. In some cases, leading members of the left joined the ranks of the national bourgeoisie, just as we have seen in the case of Cyril Ramaphosa and others in South Africa.

As Fanon put it:

The national bourgeoisie discovers its historical mission: that of the intermediary. As we can see, its vocation is not to transform the nation but prosaically serve as a conveyor belt for capitalism, forced to camouflage itself behind the mask of neocolonialism. The national bourgeoisie, with no misgivings and with great pride, revels in the role of agent in its dealings with the Western bourgeoisie. This lucrative role, this function as small-time racketeer, this narrow-mindedness and lack of ambition are symptomatic of the incapacity of the national bourgeoisie to fulfil its historical role as a bourgeoisie.

In fulfilling its function as an agent of the Western bourgeoisie and ‘as a small-time racketeer,’ this class turns upon the left that aided its path to power, and slaughters it, imprisons it, exiles it, or marginalises it. Slaughter was the case with one of the strongest communist parties in Sudan when, in 1971, Gaafar al-Nimiery launched a campaign that resulted in almost the total elimination of the party. Even where the organised left was not strong, the post-independence period witnessed assassinations of radicals: for example in Kenya with the assassinations of Tom Mboya, Pio Gama Pinto, and JM Kariuki, or in South Africa with the assassination of Chris Hani and, more recently, of members of NUMSA and Abahlali base Mjondolo.

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Thomas Sankara was assassinated in 1987 by his comrades in Burkina Faso, after attempting radical pro-poor reform.

‘African Socialism’ was fêted as the answer to the continent’s underdevelopment in the early post -independence years, but in every case, this was combined with the requirement that there be only one legitimate party. Whatever the actual political colour of the regimes, it was not uncommon for nationalists to proclaim an allegiance to socialism, albeit to an ‘African’ version.

Kwame Nkrumah was perhaps the most radical of the nationalists, but even in Ghana, no attempt was made to dismantle the colonial state. As a result, radicalisation spread amongst the population. In 1961, railway workers organised a national strike, but the state became increasingly authoritarian and independent political organisation was repressed, until eventually a one-party state was declared. Nkrumah’s political writings became much more radical after the coup d’état that overthrew him in 1966.

Similarly, Julius Nyerere established his own particular brand of socialism–Ujamaa–in the aftermath of the revolution in Zanzibar, in which he orchestrated the repression of Abdulrahman Babu’s Umma Party. Nyerere’s Arusha Declaration declared a one-party state, preventing the independent organisation of left, working class organisations. A once ardent trade unionist, Ahmed Sékou Touré led Guinea to independence in 1958, and in 1960, declared his party, Parti démocratique de Guinée, the only legitimate party. The combination of repressive one-party states that proclaim themselves ‘socialist,’ the establishment of Stalinism in the Soviet Union with its own form of repression and one-partyism, and its final demise in the collapse of the Berlin Wall; all these have contributed to the discrediting of the idea of ‘socialism’ as a progressive force. In many African countries, the word ‘socialism’ is a dirty word that has been lost in every-day vocabulary.

Another factor that has inhibited the development of the left in Africa needs to be considered. The last thirty years of neoliberal policies have resulted not just in material dispossession, but also in the dispossession of memory. Many people born or raised in the aftermath of the implementation of structural adjustment programmes have lost connection with their own histories in an environment of CNN and MacDonalds culture. As Milan Kundera put it: “The first step in liquidating a people is to erase its memory. Destroy its books, its culture, its history, Then have somebody write new books, manufacture a new culture, invent a new history. Before long the nation will begin to forget what it is and what it was. The world around it will forget even faster.”

The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting. There remains today the challenge of building strong left, working class movements. Whatever the constraints that we may have inherited from our history, the reality is that after independence our national bourgeoisies have failed to deliver on their promises. Thirty years (or some twenty years in the case of South Africa) of neoliberal policies willingly imposed by this class have resulted in conditions for the majority that are in many ways worse than they were at independence. Today discontent is growing, especially among the youth. But there is also a more widespread disenchantment with postcolonial governments that derives from their loss of credibility and legitimacy. Serious questions are increasingly being raised concerning the ability of this class to lead the way to emancipation.

The objective conditions offer, at least potentially, good conditions for building a left movement. But that cannot be done on the basis of the forty-year-old analysis of the nature of capitalism and imperialism to which much of the left has become accustomed. There is work to be done in deepening our understanding of the changes that have occurred in both the nature of today’s financialised capital and its operation in the ‘peripheries.’ Such an analysis is necessary if we are to appreciate the fact that the workplace is not the only site where accumulation by dispossession occurs: it also occurs through the extraction of income and wealth through rents, the privatisation of health and social welfare, education, land, water, power, etc. All of these are subject to speculation.

Firoze Manji is Director of Pan-African Baraza in Nairobi, Kenya. This article was previously published by International Viewpoint.

 

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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