Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 220

Trade unions as schools of democracy

At the heart of the protest movement in Sudan is a trade union. It points, once again, that democratic influence and change require collective participation and organization.





Image credit Miguel Angel G��mez via Flickr (CC).

It is telling that it was the work of a��trade union, the newly established Sudan Professionals Association (SPA),��rather than war, sanctions��or��charges��by the International Criminal Court��against President Omar al-Bashir, that ended his regime after 30 years. Proving once again that strong, mass and independent trade unions are schools of democracy and have been crucial in democracy building, from the workplace to the national level in Africa.

The��SPA, a professional association of independent trade unions, was formed in 2016. The SPA is a��reigniting the historically important role of trade unions in Sudanese politics, according to Sudanese-American journalist��Isma’il Kushkush. Sudan���s��trade union movement was crucial��in revolutions against military regimes in 1964 and 1985.��Wary of the power of��trade unions��� power, when��then-General��al-Bashir took power in 1989, he not only dissolved the government and political parties, but also the trade unions.��Then, in 1993, when Bashir introduced a nominally civilian regime, he set up his trade union federation he could control:��the��Sudanese Workers’ Trade Union Federation (SWTUF).

In its reporting of the ongoing protests in Sudan,��The New York Times��and��Al Jazeera��also emphasize the role of SPA as the leader of the protests. As the Times reports, ���Led by doctors and engineers, the [SPA] harnessed the wave of fury that erupted during a protest over the soaring price of bread in December, and shaped it into a sustained mass movement.���

The SPA is now��conducting negotiations��with the military on the transition to a civilian, democratic regime. Although the outcome is uncertain, the ongoing protests���which have lasted for four months���have already had a greater impact than previous protests for democracy in 2011, 2012 and 2013.��Those protests did show the potential for mass politics. In 2011, protests were driven by youth and student movements��led��by the middle classes, and 2012���s protests, via party youth organizations, gave protesters access to mosques.��Nevertheless, these protesters were brutally��repressed��by the regime,��followed by��arrests and torture.

This time around, the repression did not manage to quell protests. AIAC���s Caitlin Chandler��writes in Dissent Magazine��how��SPA��mobilized��people from different��backgrounds��to create a��protest movement��that is��inclusive and rooted in working-class struggles.

There are several reasons why the ongoing protests have��had��greater impact��than in the past:��Anthropologist��Nisrin Elamin and��political scientist��Zachariah Mampilly��point to��four��key��factors: First,��they have reached��outside the capital Khartoum; second,��opposition parties participate; third,��the regime was already fragmented;��and ��������Finally, there is the broader regional context. The ongoing protests are the latest in��Africa���s third wave, which has been ongoing for more than a decade now and has claimed significant victories in Senegal, Burkina Faso, Tunisia and, most recently, in neighboring Ethiopia.�����In addition: In 2018,��an��increase in bread and petrol prices added an economic dimension to democratic demands, and made ordinary people take to the streets.

National structure and democratic culture

Trade unions have helped fight colonialism, and authoritarian and racist regimes, and to deepen democracy worldwide. In Africa,��in recent decades, we have seen this from Niger and��Tunisia, to��South Africa��and Zambia. The trade union movement has characteristics that make them particularly well-placed for this role, and especially feared by authoritarian regimes.

In most African countries, the largest and most representative organizations are religious��institutions,��farmers�����organizations and trade unions.��The trade��union movement represents grassroots based��social structures for mobilization that contrast to top-down, populist parties driven by “strong men” (or big men). Trade unions have representative structures from the workplace to the national level, and across geographical, ethnic, religious and historical divisions. Teachers��� unions are��usually��the largest in all countries, and often the most radical. In Nigeria, the National Union of Teachers has representation in all Nigeria���s 36 states, from the northeast where Boko Haram ravages, the cosmopolitan democracy bastion Lagos and to the oil-rich Niger Delta characterized by resource conflicts and violence. The nation-wide structures make them well-placed organizationally to mobilize broadly, and union leaders are responsible to members through democratic structures. It does not mean that the trade union movement in Nigeria does not relate to regional and ethnic divisions, but that they have learned to find compromise and build solidarity and community across these. In Sudan, we can imagine that the SPA, which brings together teachers, doctors and lawyers, has the opportunity for broad mobilization and joins heavy and relevant expertise.

The trade union movement targets issues that concern the popular masses, combining demands for economic, civic and political rights: It fights for wages��in��workplaces��and��for��economic��and social��welfare benefits from the state, such as subsidies, education and health; Unionists exercise and claim active citizenship and the right to participate, in the form of voting and organizational rights,��and demand to be represented��in public��bodies��and at the workplace. In addition, many trade unions���from Nigeria, Zimbabwe and Ghana���have been at the forefront in the struggle against corruption, with demands for political accountability and transparency. In Africa, the trade union movement is not just about class mobilization, but trade unions are carriers of democratic and urban culture��and radical ideology in contrast to ethno-populist parties, as Nic Cheesman and Miles Larmer��have argued.

Schools of democracy and co-determination���during and outside elections��

Trade unions are at their core about co-determination and democracy between elections.��Trade union work provides knowledge and experience about rights and organization, from local elections of shop-stewards, development of common workers��� demands and of representative, collective bargaining. The opportunity to have a voice and influence of one���s own life at the workplace, is not least important when extensive privatization means that politicians have renounced���or have been deprived of direct control by ever-larger parts of the economy. Popular influence through elections is limited. This is especially true in African states that often rely on development aid. The Malawian economist,��Thandika��Mkandawire calls such states “choiceless democracies.”

The experiences of organized workers are directly transferable to the role of democratic citizens, with rights and obligations. US researcher Ann��Karreth��shows��that trade union members participate more than others in elections and other democratic processes. They contact politicians and participate in protests more often. She calls this ���participatory spillover effects.��� As an African advisor in the Norwegian Confederation of Trade Unions (LO-Norway), I��have��met many union representatives in a number of African countries who told me how experiences as shop-stewards��provided them��with a political��awakening and confidence to actively participate in other forums, or even run for political��office.

The negotiation skills from the workplace, based on compromise, and the balance between rights and duties as an employee, is transferable to social relations between state and citizen.��Not surprisingly,��trade unions often act as mediators between political elites and��ordinary people, and as negotiators of political change. We have seen this in Nigeria through a series of��protests against increased petrol prices��between 1986 and 2012, and in the��Tunisian��revolution.��Now we see it in Sudan.

The trade union movement represents a unique combination of expertise and power. In Nigeria, organized academics have contributed ideological and professional expertise to the larger trade union movement, while the oil and transport workers have decisive strike power and public sector federations��can shut down governments. We can��only��imagine how the combined expertise of the SPA, which organizes, among other things, doctors, teachers and lawyers,��positions them to play a mobilizing and mediating role.

Several trade unions in Africa run voter education��programs, as the Trade Union Congress in��Ghana��does, and election observation,��in the case of��the��Nigeria Labor Congress��in Nigeria and Zimbabwe Confederation of Trade Unions (ZCTU).

There is no a clear pattern on how��African trade unions relate to party politics. Typically, in many post-independent countries, the trade union movement allied with liberation movements, such as the ANC in South Africa and ZANU-PF in Zimbabwe. While the ZCTU in Zimbabwe detached from ZANU-PF and formed the opposition party MDC in��1999, the trade union movement in South Africa is torn over its relationship with the ANC. (COSATU endorsed the ANC in the May 2019 elections��and the current President, Cyril Ramaphosa, was once general secretary of the black mineworkers��� union; some unions that broke away from COSATU, most notably metalworkers union, NUMSA, will contest the election as the Socialist Workers Revolutionary Party.) The Nigerian Labor Party was formed by the trade union movement, but has not been able to transfer popular support to the trade union movement��into votes. Problematic historical experiences with party co-operation, have led��TUC��Ghana and ZCTU Zambia, to decide not to support any party or allow its union representatives to run for political office.

International solidarity

The trade union movement must be strong, united, democratic and independent in order to play an effective democratic role, argue Jon Kraus and his co-authors in the��new��book,��Trade unions and the coming of democracy in Africa. Trade unions��� institutional capacity is weakened by neoliberal economic policy, and by limitations on democratic and labor rights. The���International Trade Union Confederation���s��annual��Global Rights Index, which surveys the worst countries for workers shows that trade unions worldwide are the first in line for attacks on their rights by governments and employers. Many countries in Africa are sadly ranked at the top of the index. Many unions are led by undemocratic union leaders, and in many��countries��unions are under government control (Mozambique, Angola, Ethiopia, Eritrea and Sudan, under until recently Bashir). Nevertheless, even state-controlled unions may have some of the democratic functions mentioned above. In a number of other countries, governments are trying to manipulate trade union divisions (Uganda and Zimbabwe) to break their unity. Elsewhere, internal conflicts lead to division.

Cheesman and Larmer fear that the weakening of the trade union movement since the 1980s has created a democratic vacuum and left room for populism and demands for charismatic leaders who can give a voice to the poor. This vacuum is sometimes also filled by former trade union leaders.��My own research��suggests that deregulation, and ever-increasing use of subcontractors and contract staff in the Nigerian oil industry, has not only weakened the trade union movement, but also opened up for informal, closed and��clientelistic��employment relationships rather than the formal and merit-based employment and negotiated employment contracts promoted by unions.

Finally, this May Day let us remind ourselves that while individuals are important as a symbol��and inspiration���as the iconic ���woman in white,��� Alaa Salah���or��as leaders, democratic influence and change require collective participation and organization.

The African Lion

Labor challenges and the industrialization of Ethiopia's manufacturing sector.





Image credit Simon Davis for UK DFID via Flickr (CC).

Ethiopia is��going through��an economic transformation. Having been the world���s fastest growing economy in the last 15 years, it���s��often��dubbed the African��Lion���a nickname��to��draw a��contrast, yet indicate similarities,��between Ethiopia and��the Asian��Tigers,��a reference to four countries��(Hong Kong, Singapore, South Korea and Taiwan)��that��industrialized more rapidly than��any country��in the��history of capitalism.

The Asian��Tigers��industrialized through a��distinctive��model:��conjoining private ownership with heavy state intervention��and giving policy priority to economic development planning (industrialization being its central pillar).��Ethiopia���s development model is similar, and people are��now��comparing��the two.

But little attention has been paid to the role of labor in this��comparison.��In East Asia, the private sector and the state generally aimed to curb the power of labor.��Does Ethiopia have to follow a similar model to be as successful��in the long term? More generally,��is rapid industrialization necessarily incompatible with the interests of labor in the short term, or are certain compromises possible?��And how do the actions of workers affect the performance of private sector firms?

In��a paper��recently published in African Affairs, we��investigated these��questions��on the basis of��a study of the fastest-growing manufacturing industries in Ethiopia;��the��textile and leather industries.��We interviewed managers and owners from��33 firms in the two industries��(both��foreign and locally owned), as well as representatives from trade and business associations and the government. We also interviewed 16 workers in two firms that allowed us to speak with their employees.

Here���s what we found:

Labor turnover is high.��Workers in the textile and leather industries don���t hold their jobs��for very long.��This is quite normal for industries that rely on cheap, unskilled��labor, but in Ethiopia��the rate is��alarmingly high.

There are��many reasons for this. One is that the wages��in these industries in Ethiopia��are very low. At between $35 and $50 US dollars per month for unskilled workers on the factory floor, they are��currently the lowest in the world.��This means that even in a country like Ethiopia, where living costs are��relatively��low,��workers are struggling to make ends meet on a factory salary. Part of the explanation behind the low��wages��is that opportunities for collective voice are limited. For example,��the national trade union organization, the Confederation of Ethiopian��Trade Unions,��has��little influence��in��wage-setting.

Another reason for the high turnover is��the��easy access to��other��employment opportunities, at least for factory workers in and around Addis Ababa.��With investments and economic growth��mostly��concentrated��in��the capital city, informal work in construction and��the service��sector��is��easy to find.

The high labor turnover is hurting potential growth of the manufacturing sector. The Ethiopian government is facing a difficult task: how can��it��ensure decent wages for workers but at the same time be successful in attracting foreign firms?��Potential investors��demand low wages because of the razor-thin profit margins��in��the global��textile and leather��industries.��This challenge��is��one faced��by most developing countries��whose economic growth is��based on��production for consumer markets in higher-income countries.��As more and more countries have joined the global labor force, the international competition in��industries like��textile��and leather��manufacturing��has��become incredibly fierce.

Together with firms in these��industries, the Ethiopian government��has��done a few things in an attempt to reduce labor turnover, introducing��non-wage benefits like subsidized lunches, free transport��to and from the workplace, health care services, and annual leave.��But more��can be done. Among other things,��the government and the private sector��could allow��for more union activity and other collective voice mechanisms. This��has the potential to improve working conditions and productivity.

Ethiopia is facing a tricky balancing act in this respect, and we have yet to see how things play out. Will��potential��concessions to workers lead��to��the��loss of international competitiveness?��Recent��ethnic-based protests and��the��resignation of��Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn illustrate that the Ethiopian government should not ignore the political and socio-economic dimension of��its development plans.��Expectations are high for the new administration of Abiy Ahmed, and the manner in which Ethiopia���s ruling party addresses problems around the distribution of power between labor, capital, and state elites will be crucial for the��country���s future development trajectory.

The energy that never dies

On the eve of Baaba Maal's first New York City concert in 8 years, Oumar Ba interviews him, asking about protest movements, the music business and Senegal.





Baaba Maal Live at The Royal Festival Hall (2016). Image credit Adrian Boot.

I first saw Baaba��Maal��in 1987 when he came to perform in my hometown,��Galoya, in northern Senegal. I was 10 years old. Back then, there was no electricity in the region and concerts were held outdoors, in the early evening, and wrapped up by the time it got dark. Baaba and his band spent the night and performed again the following day.��You may have heard��his soaring vocals��in the film, Black Panther, but even today, you are also very likely to run into his performances in the Fouta���s remote towns���on��a��soccer field or in someone���s living room.��Since he started touring the villages along the river Senegal with his friend Mansour��Seck��in the 1970s, Baaba��Maal��has remained true to his origins. As he is preparing to return to New York City��on May 4th for a performance with the Town Hall Ensemble,��we caught up with him over the phone.��We also asked him about the current political protests that are sweeping across the African continent. This conversation has been slightly edited for clarity.

Oumar Ba

You are coming back to the United States to perform, for the first time in the��past��8 years. You will be performing with the Town Hall Ensemble, a group��of��prominent jazz musicians in New York City. What does this kind of collaboration mean to you and what should the audience expect at this concert?

Baaba��Maal

The audience should expect to see something really great because these past four years, I was exploring different combinations of music. Last year I did a project��that we��called Traveling��Light and I was touring with��Cheikh Ndoye, one of the best��ngoni��players. He will be with us again in New York City on May 4th. This time we will revisit all the repertoire that everybody knows about Baaba��Maal, but we will bring it up to another level, with an ensemble of classical and jazz musicians. From my band, the��Daande��Le��ol, we will also have Mansour��Seck��on the vocals, and��Massamba��Diop, who was phenomenal in the film score of��Black Panther. We will also have another musician from my band who will be playing percussions and drums. We will play all the different songs from the past, such as��Suka��Naayo,��Koni, African Woman,��Gorel, but all in a different way. So, we will not just come and play something people already know. So, it’s a challenge for me and for the musicians, but at the same time, it’s very exciting to do this. I think that’s what I’m looking for, on May��4th.

Oumar Ba

Last year, you collaborated with��Ludwig G��ransson on Black Panther��and it was a huge success. Can you tell us what that was like?

Baaba��Maal

I am of course a musician,��and every time a musician works on a project, the experience is unique. I worked with Ludwig��G��ransson��after having also done film music for other movies. For example, I did it with��Sembene Ousmane in��Guelwaar, I did it��with Ridley Scott��for��Black Hawk Down, with Peter Gabriel in Martin Scorsese���s film The Last Temptation of the Christ. But working with Ludwig��G��ransson��on Black Panther was a really unique experience for me. I didn’t even expect to put��my own voice��in it;��the idea was just to help Ludwig to record all the percussions that can magnify all the wrestling in the movie.

Oumar Ba

Baaba, you are part of a generation of African musicians like Ali��Farka��Toure,��Salif��Keita, Angelique��Kidjo, Manu��Dibango, etcetera. who really brought African music to the world’s��stage. Where do you think African music is going now?

Baaba��Maal

I was recently in a workshop in Dakar to think about the business of music that we have been successful at, but we failed to do well to help the musicians here in Africa to find their way in the industry. At the end of the day we’re talking about music, and music is an industry. The music needs planning, the music industry has to be organized in a way that allows the musicians to get something back, so they can be even more creative and to help with the African continent. ���Very talented young Africans are��coming into the music industry. While they do not have the time to go into all this research that I did with Mansour��Seck��all around West Africa in the 1970s for example, the young musicians are into what is happening to them right now in the moment. That is why I think it is really important for them to understand the music industry, the business. The talent is here. When you listen to all the instruments, all the percussionists here in Senegal for example, the musicians are very talented, they are very creative, but at the same time, most of them don’t know how to find their way into the industry, they don’t know exactly who is the producer, who is the record label, the agents, and this is something they must know how to navigate. ���These are a different set of challenges that my generation faced. They have to be clever to navigate the industry, to use their talent to move African music forward.

Oumar Ba

You are world star now. And this year, if I���m not mistaken, you are celebrating the 35th anniversary of your band, the��Daande��Le��ol, the voice of the people. And you are still very much the pride for the Fulani people, a pillar in your community. Is that where you take your energy from? Is that what keeps you going?

Baaba��Maal

Yes, because I think what was good for Mansour��Seck��and me, is that we always come back to the place that made us who we are. We were playing music but at one point in��time, we told ourselves, yes, we come from a community, and these are Fulani communities. At the beginning, we were just trying to promote Fulani music, and its culture. And since then, whatever we do, that is still along those lines. Of course, we are musicians, and music is universal but at the same time we know that we come from Africa, and we come from a community, and that is why we chose to call our band the��Daande��Le��ol, the voice of the people. That refers to the people who speak our language, but also all the peoples who find themselves sharing the same ideals with us, the same philosophy that we want to promote in our music. And I���m very grateful that people really accept Baaba��Maal��and his attempt to be the voice of the people, the ambassador of the Fulani��culture, while opening himself��to other peoples who are connected to the Fulani, to other Africans, even some people from the West and the whole world who share our ideals, which are peace, love, people coming together, thinking about the future generations, and building a world of peace. And I think this is a legacy that comes from the old generations that inspired us.

Oumar Ba

In the past you, you have spoken on issues related to Africa and its development. For instance, you wrote songs supporting the anti-apartheid struggle. Can you tell us a little about your experiences meeting Nelson Mandela many times��and what’s your view about the current political leadership in��the��African continent?

Baaba��Maal

I think the lesson��I really retained from Nelson Mandela��is the fact that he said to us:�����you musicians,��your work, your voices can reach places where the politicians can never get the chance to be heard, in kitchens and living rooms, in schools and in soldiers camps, everywhere. So, you should use that power to bring people together and to remind this generation of their responsibility.��� That’s an important lesson from Mandela and when��he says this to you in front of��other musicians, you never forget that. And I think that is a lesson that is very important now for African musicians. They should be using their leadership, their voices, to take Africa from where it is, to the next level. That is something that is always in my mind. This is why I have created the social movement��NANN-K��(the acronym in Fulani for farming, fishing, pastoralism, culture, and technology). This program is to work with communities and organize them along all these socio-economic sectors, to improve their daily lives.

 

Oumar Ba

It���s widely known that you are a Goodwill Ambassador for some UN agencies and international NGOs. But also, at the local level, in the Fouta (northern Senegal and southern Mauritania) you are very involved in local programs of socio-economic development.

Baaba��Maal

Yes, I have to.���I was helping most of these organizations and agencies on their programs about climate change and all these challenges to development. So, why not start something myself that will be between myself and my community, between myself and Africans.���We don’t need all the time people coming from elsewhere telling us what to do and how to do it. We already know what we have to do and to make it happen, we have to organize��ourselves, create our own structures, that can help us move forward. This is what I have tried to do with NANN-K and it���s getting there. In Podor we have started a project that covers 125 acres. We will multiply that all along the river Senegal on both sides, Mauritania and Senegal, and then maybe to the rest of Senegal.��And in my mind, this is how it starts, someone believing that their voice is power, and start making change at the local level.

Oumar Ba

I want to speak a little about what is happening on the African continent. Across the continent right now, we see a lot of energy coming from the youth, protesting, and demanding change in the leadership, and in the politics of their country. What are your views on these protests?

Baaba��Maal

I’m so happy to see these protests. ���This makes me very optimistic about Africa. Why? ���Because when I travel in Africa, I know that we are passing through many turbulences, we have a lot of problems to solve but at the same time the most important actors in Africa are its youth and women. When we look closely, we see that women are coming up with all this energy to lead in the economy and culture, in politics, in development. Women are coming more and more at the front line and leading this. At the same time when you look at young people in Africa, people are not dropping their hands. People are always trying to see what they can do for themselves, for their families. That’s an energy that never dies. This is why I say all the time that this energy will bring out something important, there’s something that will happen from these two groups: women and the youth when they stand up and say now enough with the bad things,���we have to move forward. This will be good for Africa, it will build solidarity between generations, between communities, between groups of people to make these changes. We don���t have to be afraid of change. People have to protest. People have to come to the demonstrations. People have to say loud what they want. People have to come to the streets. This will bring about change and ideas that will help Africa move forward.

Living at the margins of urban life in Angola

In Angola, the poor are not entitled to full citizenship rights. They also are the base of resistance to the regime.





Image credit Paolo Pescio via Flickr (CC).

For a while now, photos��have been circulating��on social media���still a viable option for circumventing the official media gatekeepers���denouncing the violent treatment of informal street vendors by police in��the country���s��capital, Luanda. One of them showed a young girl brutally beaten��by an officer and left unconscious in the street. But it was the death of Juliane��Cafrique���a 28-year old street-vendor and mother of three, on March 12th���that sparked confrontations between the local population and police in Luanda���s Rocha Pinto neighborhood. There had allegedly been an argument with the police, who then shot��Cafrique��in front of one of her young children. The police did not call for medical assistance, instead they left the young woman in the road.

Within the hour after Juliana��Cafriques��� death, videos began to circulate online of riots. Authorities expressed alarm. The historical legacy of the “shantytowns” and their perceived “volatility” have led state forces to treat residents with brutality.

Last year, the��inauguration of��Jo��o��Louren��o��as the new Angolan president brought��hopes of change.��Angolans applauded the sacking of government officials��with close links to former President Jose Eduardo dos Santos as crucial step in��Louren��o���s��anti-corruption agenda. The ruling MPLA has governed Angola since independence in 1975. When Angola held its first multiparty elections in 2002, following the civil war, the MPLA continued in power.

Yet,��Jo��o��Louren��o���s��newly envisioned program�����Opera����o��Resgate��� (Operation Rescue)��faces growing criticism. In the cities, particularly the capital Luanda, the program���s aim to ���restore state order��� targets the informal economy, eliminating what urban officials denote as the “chaos” that comes with the circulation of “illegal products” and women street vendors. Critics also argue that��Opera����o��Resgate��aligns itself closely with the MPLA���s state-building agenda to make Angola a ���modern, cosmopolitan state.��� The program prioritizes an elitist vision of the city to attract foreign investment, often at the expense of the urban poor.

For years there has been relative stability around the Angolan shantytowns, or “musseques,” where an estimated 90% of Luanda���s population live. This is mostly the consequence of a self-censorship that ensued after decades of conflict, and the��uncertainty that surrounds the events��May 27th of 1977���when thousands were killed after an alleged coup d�����tat. The event remains taboo in Angolan socio-political life���and its traumatic memory still lingers in the Angolan psyche.

Today, fears of social unrest have meant the��party-state keeps an eye trained on these urban spaces. The state attempts to infiltrate the shantytowns through civil society organizations, or through the financing of sporting and musical (namely��kuduro) events.��Kuduro, one of the most popular Angolan music genres amongst the youth���has been predominantly co-opted by the MPLA since its inception in the 1990s.��Corean��Du, the former president���s son is in charge of the bulk of its production line in Angola���endorsing some of the genre���s most popular musicians in the shantytowns. In return, these artists become staunch supporters of the party, at times using nationalist motifs in their music and image���with their popularity being broadcast on state TV channels. Today, a belief persists that affiliation to the party is an important guarantor to self-sufficiency in the music sphere.

Since 2011, an��increasing number of protests��have marked a new point in Angolan political life. Today, in the face of promises of oil-driven growth by the government, there is a growing resentment to the indifference with which the lives of the poor are treated.

Zungueiras, female street vendors, are symbols of the marginalized urban poor. The name derives from the��Kimbundu��word zunga, which means to “wander, circulate.” In very many cases, they are the primary breadwinners in their families. This was the case for Juliana, whose husbands��� unemployment had made her the primary caregiver and earner in her family.

This has become a familiar narrative in a country��where economic fragility and plunging oil prices��have considerably reduced employment opportunities���especially for the majority who have not had access to education.

Juliana: woman, mother and wife���stands for hundreds of others in Angola���s urban margins who continue to face discrimination and��harsh living conditions���and yet continue to assert themselves in their fight for survival. Like many other��zungueiras, Juliana had migrated from one of Angola���s interior provinces in search of better living standards in the capital.

Today, Operation Rescue��should be understood in light of the government���s desire to build a “world-class city”���often branded in media channels and policy documents as the construction of a new Dubai. The daily use of space by women street vendors in Angola���s streets, is not in harmony with the states��� yearning for “progress.”

Several academics have noted the way in which this practice of post-war reconstruction has been predominantly a mode of solidifying MPLA political and economic control. The government���s aesthetics of modernization, in the form of shopping malls, high rises and luxury condominiums predominantly bypass the poor who are perceived as irregular occupants of the city.

Ultimately, Juliana��Cafrique���s��death should be understood within a wider governmental plan that perceives as an obstacle those who do not “assimilate” within��the MPLA���s conception of a modern state. The war is now an increasingly distant memory for Angola���s predominantly young generation. Continuously confronted with evident urban and economic segregation, resistance is bound to thrive in unexpected ways as people contest the incongruences of a government rhetoric that continues to perpetuate dynamics of exclusion.

The death of Juliana��Cafrique��raises an uncomfortable truth in Angola: not everyone is entitled to full citizenship rights. Yet, today, it seems that Angolans will continue to reclaim their rights to citizenship and to the city���moving from the margins of urban political life.

Renovating the AfricaMuseum

An overview of some of the problems and opportunities that the reopening of Belgium's infamous AfricaMuseum brings.





Image via Wikimedia Commons.

After��five years of��renovation��that��cost over 65 million euros, the infamous��AfricaMuseum��in Belgium has reopened its doors. Even before it opened, it caused much turmoil in the Belgian press.��Bamko cran, a Belgian intercultural organization, criticized the presence of human remains in an��open letter��supported by several international signatories.��Artists��such as��Laura��Nsengiyumva and Thoma��Luntumbue��denounced the museum���s��lack��of��radical approaches to decolonization; and Billy Kalonji, of COMRAF, the��diaspora��organization advising on the museum���s renovation,��castigated the lack of participation of the African diaspora in the renovations, a claim��fiercely disputed��by Operational Director Bruno��Verbergt.

A few months after the opening, we take stock of the Museum���s challenges, through the��perspectives��of��both��scholars and activists on specific aspects of the reopened museum:��Margot��Luyckfasseel��provides a bird���s-eye view of the new exhibition;��Sarah Van��Beurden��explores the��politics��behind the collection;��Gillian Mathys��critically rethinks the historical framing of colonialism��in the museum; and��Tracy��Tansia��questions the��museum���s��collaboration with Afro-descendants��in the renovation process.

The museum as an impartial forum?

In his foreword to the visitor���s guide of the museum, Operational Director Bruno��Verbergt��states the following:

The relations between Belgium and its former colony and between contemporary Europe and 21st��century Africa can be perceived and discussed from many perspectives. As a scientific institution, committed to research and the spread of knowledge, the Royal Museum of Central Africa wants to be a forum, where diverging visions and ideas can prosper and find each other, in order to contribute to a more profound and more multifaceted image of Africa in the world.

The statement presents the museum as a forum, as an impartial and inviting environment in which different voices and opinions can interact and compete with each other on equal terms. It emanates a sense of neutrality. Such a framing of the��AfricaMuseum��is problematic for two reasons: First, the supposed desirability of the museum as an impartial forum is highly debatable: in structures of social and cultural inequality, neutrality always favors the strong. Secondly, assuming that it is desirable, the question remains whether its execution is an achievable goal, given the museum���s specific history.

A famous quote by Angela Davis says: ���In a racist society it is not enough to be non-racist. We must be anti-racist.��� The same might hold true for the renewed��AfricaMuseum. Is it enough to construct a ���forum��� where diverging visions and ideas meet in a place built to propagate a colonial project whose money it was built with? Can the suffering of the victims of colonization and the��contemporary��struggles��of��people��of African descent��be adequately voiced in a building where Leopold���s initials occur 45 times? Can the��coevalness��of contemporary African lives be shown in a site that was designed to do the contrary?

If it can, it can only do so if priorities are made. A tour through the��still unfinished museum��provides an idea of the urgencies that have been addressed. Some rooms are completed, while others are still under construction. Director Guido��Gryseels��claimed in his inaugural speech that the reopening of the museum is merely the start of a never-ending decolonization process. However, the priorities made are an indication to look beyond what��Verbergt��calls�����the narrative strategies�����used to decolonize the museum.

The visitor enters through a new welcome pavilion, complete with a shiny shop and restaurant, is led through a long hall with an auditorium and expo hall, to finally arrive in the introduction gallery. Here, statues that used to occupy a prominent place in the former museum are assembled behind a fence. A sign indicates that they ���no longer belong��� in the permanent exhibition. Only the notorious statue of the��Anyoto��leopard man��is afforded background information��on a touch screen. A visitor comments: ���These statues are problematic, so it seems, but why?��� A mother asks her child: ���Do you see the claws of the leopard man?���

The tour continues, if one follows the museum map, with the room about language and music. Interestingly, visitors can analyze verbal constructions in Bantu languages or scroll through the Kiswahili Wikipedia page on Kiholanzi��(Dutch), Kifaransa��(French), Kiingereza��(English) and Kijerumani��(German). It is one of the few elements in the museum that inverts the gaze, Africa talking about Europe. The visitor then arrives in the smaller��Afropea��room, which is dedicated to the diaspora and leaves a cluttered impression. Next to it one can see the temporary exhibition Unrivalled Art, which presents masks, without much historical contextualization as to how and under what conditions of inequality they were obtained, apart from a laconic sign saying: ���Due to��the specific history of the museum, most of the pieces come from Congo���. It is hard to think of a sentence that describes the colonial nature of the collection in a more detached, uninformative, cautious, in fact neutral, way. Small,��yet voluminous,��guide��books are available but the average visitor does not pay attention to them. As a consequence, the exhibit is reminiscent of the former museum���s methods of displaying.

After crossing a specimen of the robot designed by a young female Congolese entrepreneur to guide traffic in several Congolese cities, the visitor walks through the rooms dedicated to landscape, biodiversity, resources, minerals and the so-called crocodile room, which occupy the largest area. Connected to the resources room is a room about colonial imagery, including a projection area which is not yet operational two months after the opening. Then follows the chronologically installed exhibition dedicated to colonial history and independence, which the visitor oddly enters at the side about independence. Finally, the last rooms in the tour are about a more remote ���pre-colonial��� history, and rituals and ceremonies. In the cellar, one finds the project��AfricaTube, designed by young volunteers, many of them from the diaspora, which deals with African internet experiences. The room, still in scaffolds two months after the new museum���s opening, is so well hidden that visitors are often unaware of its existence.

The effort to decolonize, repeatedly acclaimed in the Directors��� discourses, is not only hard to reconcile with the idea of the museum as an impartial forum, it is also too invisible in practice.��The integration of work by contemporary Congolese artists��is an illustration of that same principle. If their work is not capable of negating the effects of colonial propaganda engrained in the building it is not because their work is not strong enough, but because there are not enough efforts to physically “decolonize” the building. The museum building is indeed protected heritage, which complicates such attempts, and which is why some voices argue that the building should serve as a museum of Western��and��Belgian colonization of Africa, including its propaganda apparatus, its daily practices, and its ways of representation, instead of as a museum of Africa.

Key rooms, like the one about diaspora, colonial history and independence, colonial imagery and��AfricaTube��do not receive the attention they deserve. This becomes clear from the sheer space proportions (see map) and the seeming lack of priority of their completion. In many instances throughout the museum, “decolonization,” if at all present, is a mere afterthought, an aside for those who might be interested.

Museum renovation and the politics of collection and possession

In the months leading up to the reopening of the ���AfricaMuseum��� in Tervuren, Belgium, the debate about restitution took off in full force. French President Macron���s speech on the subject in Ouagadougou and the��subsequent French report, as well as stirrings around the building of a��new museum in Berlin, and the impeding reopening of the Tervuren museum all fanned the fire of a debate that has��been going since the era of African independence. The African diaspora community in Belgium successfully called��attention to the subject in the media, and a range of voices���from��supportive��to��highly critical���soon chimed in. This renewed debate raised the expectations about the reinstallation of the museum. Would it address the thorny issue of collection histories?

The debates have had a mixed impact on the reopening of the museum. On the one hand, the pressure exerted by the public debate in Belgium (and particularly by the diaspora) has led to tentative but evolving public declarations by both the��museum director��and��government officials��in favor of a dialogue about restitution. On the other hand, however, the message on colonial collecting and the transparency with regard to the origins of the collection in the reopened museum is ambiguous. In one respect, the museum has made great strides in dealing with its own past and that of its collections in the form of a new room devoted to the history of the museum, with the inclusion of a cluster of displays on the origins of the collections. While an excellent idea, the execution has been less effective. In this new room, the museum is contextualized as a “museum in motion”; one that evolved “From a colonial institution into a scientific reference center” that is a protector of the ���heritage of humankind.��� The implied neutrality of the latter is deceiving, of course, and it is a reflection of the broader lack of consciousness around the processes and biases of the creation of knowledge that characterizes the museum���s displays at large. It is the historical process that determines HOW we come to think of things in certain ways that needs to be exposed.

The text accompanying the displays in the��room��on collection history��recognizes that the museum collection���s history is intertwined with its colonial history: “from the beginning military, colonial officers, missionaries, traders and scientists were encouraged to collect objects in Congo,” the visitor is told. While that is certainly true, the term “collecting” covers a wide base of actions here, including those of a violent nature, and a context of deep inequality, none of which is really addressed here. Display cases only document a couple of examples: the collecting activities of missionary Gustaaf Hulstaert and Congo Free State officer Charles Lemaire, the example of the expedition of Armand��Hutereau��(1911-13), donations in the form of the Stanley collection (consisting of personal effects and objects gathered in Congo, his archives, etc.) and the more recent acquisition of Bogumil��Jewsiewicki���s��collection of popular paintings. A display case on Joseph��Seha, a collector of African art in the 1930s, serves as an example of the role private collectors and art dealers played for the museum. What is missing here, is a reflection on the conditions in which Congolese objects were removed���an acknowledgement of the inequalities���and at times, violence���that characterized colonial collecting. Military expeditions and “scientific” collecting���particularly in the era of Lemaire���often went hand in hand.

There are three other locations in the museum that are of immediate relevance to the issues of collection and possession. The first is the exhibition in the room “Rituals and Ceremonies” (that essentially replaces the older ethnographic displays), which provides some historical depth to the history of the colonial collection, with background information about the “social life” and provenance of a number of the objects. Two of the��Tabwa��statues used are explicitly defined as the spoils of war of ��mile Storms, in both the contextual presentation as in the label. The same approach is repeated in the displays in the history room, where��Lusinga’s��statue���taken, along with the chief���s skull, by Storms���is used to illustrate the history of the colonial conquest.

The third location in the new museum of relevance to this discussion is the room ���Unrivalled Art,��� which contains a more old-fashioned display of objects as masterpieces. It contains a controversial piece, the��nkisi��nkondi��associated with Alex��Delcommune.��Research by one of the museum’s own employees, Maarten��Couttenier, has documented the controversial way in which the object was obtained. Unlike Storms��� objects, however, there is no mention of this in the displays, where the object is described as ���collected by Alex��Delcommune��� without any contextualization. The��guidebook that accompanies the exhibition in the room hints at the rich history of the statue, but employs a deceptively neutral language and omits current-day Congolese claims on the statue.

This lack of a unified institutional approach to the issue of collection history, and the way this is reflected in varied label-writing and presentation practices, stands in contrast with the public declarations of the museum and Belgian government representatives with regard to provenance research and restitution. There is no acknowledgement whatsoever throughout the museum, that the possession of some of these objects is under debate (and has been for a long time), which represents a missed opportunity to bring the contemporary role of the colonial past to the fore for the visitors.

Colonial continuities: Tensions and opportunities

The museum has one room where it addresses Belgium���s colonial past, the ���Colonial history and independence room.��� That it is one of the smaller rooms in the museum is a questionable choice, especially because��the��colonial present is ever-present in the museum, and because Belgian Afro-descendants have been reviving fierce debates about Belgium���s (colonial)��past��in Central Africa. They have criticized the��limited knowledge about this colonial past,��and have asked recognition for the ways this colonial past shapes and influences the present. The��Collectif M��moire Colonial,��for example,��is continually active in this regard. As elsewhere in the museum, the ���colonial history��� room fails to convincingly explain relationships between��the��colonial past and present; and only superficially addresses the role of the museum in shaping ideas about (central) Africa.

The room is dominated by a gigantic wall-painting depicting the��D��couvertes��G��ographiques��Fondamentales��(Fundamental Geographical Discoveries���see picture). Such images contributed to ideas about Congo���or Africa in general���having been “discovered” by Europeans, denying Africa a past before European presence. Unfortunately, there is no context provided to explain��to��visitors the importance of such imaginaries of Africa, even though a video screen facing the map guides the visitor through different historical maps about Africa. Ironically, in the adjacent room on ���Representation,��� the museum tries to tackle the influence of colonial representation on images of Africa, but does not emphasize the role of the building itself in the perpetuation of certain stereotypes about Congo/Africa.

The current setup of the museum in general implicitly conveys another “colonial” idea about African history: that it only starts from the moment Europeans became involved. Or in other words: the African past before the slave trade is the terrain of archeology (and some anthropology), but not of history. Exception to this rule in the museum is the Kongo Kingdom, but deeper histories of other (central) African societies, are largely absent in the museum.

The display at the entrance of the ���colonial room��� gives the impression that it will address Congo as well as Rwanda and Burundi. However, the latter two���formerly mandated areas of Belgium���are relatively absent in the exhibition, which focuses mainly on Congo. This is the replication of a more generalized problem with the museum: while the name��AfricaMuseum��implies otherwise, the museum only really engages with Central Africa, and predominantly with Congo. Given the historical and ecological specificities of this region, and the great overall diversity of the African content, the name is problematic.

The text on the display is ambiguous as well. It states that the colonial period was�����relatively short,�����but�����decisive for the evolution of postcolonial society in the three countries, and in shaping their image in Belgium.�����However, in the room itself, such links are not explicitly made. For example, the displays in the room mention the economic exploitation of Congo by enterprises in complicity with the state, and the heavy human toll of the (forced) labor system. However, no companies are named, even if Umicore, a global company��owes��part of its success to this kind of exploitation by its predecessor��Union Mini��re de Haut Katanga��(UMHK). That many leading global companies have made part of their fortune and success on the backs of colonial subjects is a “post-colonial” continuity that could have easily been pointed out here���Umicore certainly is not the only global company having colonial roots. Cynics could think it has something to do with the fact that��Umicore is listed as a��partner of the museum.��The absence of attention for such continuities is all the more puzzling, because the next room addresses the ���Resource paradox��� without reference to the colonial period.

The same signboard at the entrance of the ���colonial room��� reads that�����[t]oday��historians fundamentally agree about the reconstruction and interpretation about the colonial past, but in terms of the public debate it remains a very controversial period.�����The visitor remains in the dark about what exactly historians agree on, and what are the fault lines in public debates. Does the museum want to imply that what they present is a sanctioned version of this past?

At other times the ���colonial history and independence room��� is complicit in conveying stereotypical ideas about post-colonial Congo. The very minimal display on the period after decolonization for example (and here examples from Rwanda and Burundi are present), mainly consists of pictures of clippings from newspaper articles. Sub-sections are titled “1960-1964: False start,” “1965-1979: Coups and dictators” and “1990-1999: Civil Wars.”��This comes awfully close to certain nostalgic public discourses about Congo in Belgium,��which sharply contrast a chaotic war-torn Congo with a peaceful��and calm colonial past. About the involvement of Belgians in the difficult decolonization process���apart from a reference to the murder of Patrice Lumumba, which is acknowledged���and about the role of Belgium in the crises following independence, little is mentioned.

In order to hear some reflection on the role of Belgium in the decolonization debacle, the visitor needs to walk a bit further, and watch and listen to a testimony from writer Koli��Jean��Bofane��(much less apparent than the other display) in order to understand��such a depiction of the decolonization process is problematic. While the integration of Congolese voices throughout the museum is laudable��and necessary���although more successful in some rooms than in other���it should not be left only to such testimonies��alone��to provide a “counter narrative” to the discourse of the main displays.

Lastly, neither the ���Colonial history and independence�����room nor the ���Representation�����room��go beyond superficial statements about the museum���s role in the collection of data or in the way it has shaped ideas about Central Africa. Knowledge was crucial to the success of the colonial enterprise, and the museum collected and produced information that was not only consumed by the general public but was also eagerly used by the colonial administration. A general statement in the ���Representation��� room tells the visitor that�����the [museum] has an extensive collection of colonial photographs and films [���] almost exclusively made by white people and mainly��show[ing] their perspective��� and that these ���[���] determined [���] the image the general public had about��Central Africa and Africans.�����One of the displays speaks about the ���racial��� and cultural criteria by which colonial subjects were classified. Yet, the role of the museum as producer of such racial “classifications” and their relationship to the colonial project through colonial anthropology is never really explained. Neither is attention��paid��to��how such classifications continue to influence and shape the present, in Central Africa as well as in Belgium.

In contrast with the museum before the renovation, the museum now explicitly denounces colonialism as a system: colonial violence, exploitation, and racism are acknowledged in the exhibitions���an important and admirable move forward. Yet, it sometimes falls short in explaining how exactly colonialism worked. What were and are the long-lasting effects? How are forms of colonial racism perpetuated today? And finally, what was the role of science and the museum in the colonial project? Part of the solution to this problem might lie in bringing down the boundaries between disciplines in the exposition. ���Colonialism��� is not just a part of history, it runs as a clear thread throughout the institution, the building, and its collection. Emphasizing these continuities and connections, instead of isolating ���the colonial past��� to a small room without making these broader connections, is an opportunity the museum needs to exploit in the future.

Changing the narratives

The museum needs to change the narrative. The narrative that the museum uses inside the walls of the museum are the same they need to use outside for the public and in practice. Decolonising also means seeing black people (people of African descent) as your equal and value their opinions regarding the direction the museum is going. The museum that was built on the blood, sweat and tears of their ancestors.

The director claims that during the renovation of the museum efforts were made to include voices of the African diaspora/Congolese diaspora. Including voices is not enough. Listening to diaspora voices, and dismissing them when it does not suit sponsors, former colonial elites, or possible investors is not “decolonizing.” This tension is still at the heart of problems within the new museum. Although the museum has changed its narrative, and now publicly denounces the ���racist system that was colonization��� the museum still does not give the impression it is interested in informing people of African descent of their history, but is rather centered on informing��white people about Africa, and on “the work” white colonizers did. The museum gives the impression��that it has��included the history and culture of the African diaspora without upsetting those involved in the colonial endeavor: the white colonizer.

The director of the museum reacts similarly when critics, mainly young black people, point out the lack of people of African descent working in the museum or when they talk about restitutions of stolen art. Criticism is not always valued, and the director frames this critical segment of the diaspora as ���ungrateful.��� The diaspora has to be happy with the small changes and thankful that their voices where somehow included. Such discourse is not only insulting, it is also paternalistic. Although people within the museum claim that the museum values criticism���both the general director and the operational director have emphasized several times that the museum is only the start of a larger dialogue���at the same time��artists such as Luntumbue and Nsengiyumva are still��depicted as ���activists,��� too�����radical��� to truly cooperate. This is a rhetoric device to discredit their criticism in the eyes of a (white) public opinion.

In 2003, COMRAF, an advisory committee of African associations responsible for advising the museum on its renovation, was erected. They proposed the creation of a group of critics of African descent, ���the group of six,��� uniting members with relevant professional expertise. Anne��Wetsi��Mpoma��for example is an art historian, and��Ayoko��Mensah is an expert in African arts and cultures. Yet, in several instances, their expertise was not acknowledged���they are members of the diaspora first and foremost,��rather than experts in their own right. The fact that the group of six was only erected at a late stage of the renovation process adds to the impression that its members had to validate the decisions already made rather than proposing their own ideas.

In the history of racial injustice trying to dismiss the critics from the oppressed group has been a constant trick to avoid working on a revolution; but to focus instead on step by step evolution that will not upset the oppressor that has been in a position of power and privilege. The museum cannot truly decolonize if the opinion from the diaspora is not considered. The oppressor deciding on the timing of the museum���s decolonization is another example of the fact that the museum is still a colonial institution. The diaspora will only be happy with a revolution.

Why I’ll keep talking to Southern Africans about race …

... And why Nigeria's 2019 elections were about race, class and ideology.





Image from Burna Boy's "Dangote" video.

A��short while back, the Zimbabwean-South African writer��Panashe��Chigumadzi��wrote��on this site that she was no longer talking to Nigerians about race,���because while she��believed�����that my Nigerian sisters have the ability to engage racial politics meaningfully, �����a significant number choose not to. And when they choose not to engage��meaningfully��they usually choose to do it loudly.��� She ended with the challenge: ���Since you will not be quiet my Nigerian brothers and sisters, Giants of Africa,���bolekaja! Come down from your glass house and let���s fight! Come down and let���s fight about this thing we call race.���

It just so happened that��in��mid-March 2019, right after Nigeria���s presidential elections, Wole Soyinka, the Nigerian writer and Nobel laureate,��was asked��by��American��literary theorist Henry Louis Gates��to compare Nigeria to South Africa, where there was a clear�����class divide�����between rich and poor blacks.��Soyinka��responded: ���They are probably on the same level. The difference in Nigeria, of course, is that it���s not marked by race, so it���s not really as apparently agonizing as in the case of South Africa. We created���as in South Africa���a new class of millionaires from the military ranks and their collaborators in civil society.���

Nigeria���s recent presidential elections confirmed Soyinka���s observation. Muhammadu��Buhari who retained the presidency on the All Progressives Congress (APC) ticket is a former military general. His main opponent,��Atiku Abubakar of the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), is a rich businessman who served as the country���s first vice president after the return of democracy in 1999.��Buhari, on one side,��claims��that��most of his wealth��is��in cattle; this is highly disputed.��On the other side,��Atiku���s wealth is rumored to surpass that of��Aliko��Dangote, the supposed richest black��African man��if you count what is on the books.��(It was also rumored that��Atiku was��barred from entering the US over his business dealings.)��When elephant���s battled, what became of the grass?��Nigeria��also��now has more poor people in it than does any other country in the world.

I realize that these facts, on their own, explain nothing. This is because when we think of Nigerian politics, we tend to do so��bearing��an exoticist�����Heart of Darkness�����lens; in a way, Nigeria has long shared only a slightly��lessened��level of scorn than��did��Joseph Conrad���s version of the Congo.

When you read��that��Nigeria���s election��is about class, did you not ask yourself��what about rigging? What about tribalism? What about violence?��Drawing liberally from��Achille��Mbembe, I think��one could define the exoticization of Africa as a process by which��Europe came to associate the continent with everything��that Europe, through the eyes of Hegel,��imagined��to be��bad. It is this��Hegelian��alchemy, let���s call it, that��has��shaped the West���s��poisoned��encounter with Africa since scientific racism was born amidst the enlightenment. But as the saying goes,��the��real alchemy��consists in being able to turn the��supposed gold you���ve created back��again��into what it was initially.

We��could��keep fighting about��this thing we call��race���but isn���t it time we��also��started��fighting��about��this thing we call��class?��This is, firstly,��an essay about what Nigerians are thinking about.��Secondly, it is an essay��about what the world is thinking about when it thinks about Nigeria. Thirdly, it is an essay��about why both Nigerians and other Africans should be thinking about race and class��more often.��It is also, fourthly,��an essay about rigging, about tribalism, and��about��violence. And,��finally,��it is an essay that offers an ideological explanation��for��Nigeria���s 2019 election.

The rigging explanation

The opposition alleges that the elections were outrightly rigged. Shortly after the results were announced��Atiku Abubakar and the PDP filed a petition challenging the news of their loss. The opposition party��has gone to court asking that��Atiku��be declared president or, failing that, for the election to be re-run.��But Atiku���s chances of victory are slim.��A��legal challenge from Atiku was always expected,��and the judiciary��both��tilts in favor of��this��ruling party, and��typically weighs the burden of proof more heavily on the opposition.

Observer missions from the African Union (AU) and the European Union (EU) noted serious procedural issues with the presidential election (late opening and lack of essential materials, for instance) and decried the violence that occurred in some areas. However, neither has raised doubts about the validity of the results.

Losers have challenged the results at other points in Nigerian history. Buhari, before he defeated Goodluck Jonathan in 2015, thrice challenged his defeats in the courts���and lost. This is one of the interesting paradoxes at the heart of liberal democracy, the courts tend to defend the status quo (except at the Nigerian state elections, the courts are getting much bolder, it appears).

The��tribalism��explanation

A second wave of explanations��have��focused on the��ethno-nationalist��appeals��of the��main��candidates to explain Buhari���s victory.

The fact that both presidential candidates are northern Muslims limited the regional and religious tensions which have affected previous elections. Yet, tribe was only hidden in this election, not absent. The promise that a Yoruba candidate would succeed the ailing septuagenarian president elect was mobilized by the APC to tease Yoruba voters.

The PDP likewise appealed to Igbo voters by nominating an Igbo businessman and wealthy former south-eastern governor, Peter Obi, as vice presidential candidate next to��Atiku. In the north, questions of Islamic piety also shaped how voters chose between seemingly devout Buhari��on the one hand, and Atiku who is perceived to be corrupt and about whom many unfavorable rumors abound. Implicitly, and as usual in Nigerian politics, the election results���reflected an ethno-communal orientation, pitting one group with overlapping identities, against another such group. Nigeria is no stranger to identity politics.

The ideological explanation

But the candidates also advanced rival economic policies. The APC campaigned to increase state intervention in the economy through increased taxation, investing in infrastructure, agriculture and���social protection. The PDP candidate,��a self-avowed fan of Margaret Thatcher, promised to free float the national currency and privatize state industries. On the surface it appeared that a left/right divide had formed between the parties, with the APC on the left and the PDP on the right. But in reality, both parties are in agreement on the basic centrist credo that there is no alternative to��neoliberalal��globalization. Both parties are economically centrist. They view the ultimate aim of government to be that of encouraging foreign investment and steering a capitalist economy towards growth amid permanent conditions of fiscal austerity.��They also tend to deny the importance of the left/right divide altogether, preferring World-Bank style buzzwords like ���good-governance.��� This is an economically centrist position and��aside from neoliberal capitalism��there exists��many alternative��ways of imagining how we allocate resources in a community.

The two parties also mobilized populist organizational strategies to energize a nation-wide network of party supporters that extends down to the neighborhood level���this is the main reason why both parties far surpassed the strength of leftist candidates such as Omoyele��Sowore. Though definitions of populism often focus on the charisma of individual leaders, populism also involves the construction of organizational structures that can bridge class divides and build a mass following. Both the APC and the PDP��have done so, but few other Nigerian parties have successfully��followed suit.��The PDP and the APC are in this way populist parties.��Thus, while ideology played a role in the election, it would be incorrect to say that the two major parties were ideologically��opposed; they��both share��centrist-rightwing��populist ideology, that mobilizes based on tribe and ���good governance.���

Class

Interestingly, the��APC won a substantial majority amongst the poorest voters in northern Nigeria, the demographic referred to in Hausa as the��talakawa. The average annual income per capita in the APC-controlled states is $1,353, excluding Lagos, an economic outlier in Nigeria. Among this demographic, Buhari���s agricultural subsidies which halved the price of fertilizers, and his anti-graft war which promised to check the corruption of the wealthy political establishment,��remain extremely popular.

Buhari won the largest margins in Nigeria���s most unequal states according to Oxford���s Multi-dimensional Poverty Index. Borno state, the state most ravaged by Boko Haram, also has the highest level of inequality in Nigeria.

On the���other hand, PDP states accounted for an average income per capita of $2,585. Southern PDP states with a higher proportion of ���middle class��� voters, also boasted the lowest turnouts.��In fact,��the low national voter turnout average of 35% hides a huge North (41%) and South (27%) divide.��In Akwa Ibom��state for instance, only 50 percent of 2015 voters showed up at the polls this time, while turnout was fairly high though also less than 2015 in���pro APC northern states.

Considering both turnout and the final outcome, the election can be viewed as the triumph of the northern��talakawa��over Nigeria���s southern middle class,��a point which has also been made about the 2015 election.

Class denoting terms like��talakawa, will be lost on many middle class and southern Nigerians, as well as many Africanist political��scientists.

This notwithstanding the irony of the outcome is that Nigeria���s electorate, at least the minority which bothered to turnout to vote, has��chosen between two sides of the same economic and political coin. This is what London��School of��Economics��economist Thankdika Mkandawire has termed “voting without choosing” in a “choiceless” neoliberal democracy.

Race and Violence

But Chigumadzi is right��and Soyinka is wrong. There is also a race component to Nigeria���s elections. Race is woven into the fabric of Nigerian political anxieties: the north has long feared that the stronger British��colonial influence on the south is a reason for distrust;��the south has always feared that��Islam and the��northern aristocratic tradition, which��were��respected and cultivated by the British, have��turned the north into a ticking timebomb. The ticking timebomb is��a��frequent trope deployed by southern media to describe the northern states. Just as it is a trope often used by the development community, to describe Nigeria.

Race is woven into the fabric��of the Nigerian economy. Nigeria, like South Africa, has a white dominated economy. The highest profiting companies in Nigeria, what do��the boards and��shareholders��of the highest profiting companies in Nigeria��look like? Not��like��Dangote.

Nigeria runs a system of racialized crony capitalism, as does South Africa. Teni���s��lyrics in�����Case��� tell the story of Nigeria���s hopeful��working poor in 2018. She��says,�����my papa no be Dangote, or Adeleke, but we go dey ok.��� So Panashe adds a dimension to Teni. Because��while class sentiments are woven into our politics,��I agree with Panashe; we also need to pay attention to race.

A joke I once heard: A white researcher and a Nigerian researcher walk into a bar��in Nigeria�����

Race is��also��woven into��how we report about violence in Nigerian elections.��Violence does occur, I hasten to add. This is a consequence of the fact that rightwing populism is one of the pillars of Nigerian political mobilization. If you cultivate us/them divisions until they are deep enough, people will tend to turn violent. This is particularly true when those people feel like they are economically vulnerable and have very little to lose. Close to 300 people were killed after��Nigeria���s election��this year. And race is written into the fact that you probably never heard that. As is class, since these people were working class and rural, rather than middle-class and urban.

This is why we need��both��a��race��and��a��class-conscious conception��of African��society and politics. But this requires us to take a de-exoticized and��populist��perspective on our own societies in Southern Africa��and��in Nigeria.

Why I’ll keep talking to Southern Africans about race

... And why Nigeria's 2019 elections were also about class.





Image from Burna Boy's "Dangote" video.

A��short while back, the Zimbabwean-South African writer��Panashe��Chigumadzi��wrote��on this site that she was no longer talking to Nigerians about race,���because while she��believed�����that my Nigerian sisters have the ability to engage racial politics meaningfully, �����a significant number choose not to. And when they choose not to engage��meaningfully��they usually choose to do it loudly.��� She ended with the challenge: ���Since you will not be quiet my Nigerian brothers and sisters, Giants of Africa,���bolekaja! Come down from your glass house and let���s fight! Come down and let���s fight about this thing we call race.���

It just so happened that��in��mid-March 2019, right after Nigeria���s presidential elections, Wole Soyinka, the Nigerian writer and Nobel laureate,��was asked��by��American��literary theorist Henry Louis Gates��to compare Nigeria to South Africa, where there was a clear�����class divide�����between rich and poor blacks.��Soyinka��responded: ���They are probably on the same level. The difference in Nigeria, of course, is that it���s not marked by race, so it���s not really as apparently agonizing as in the case of South Africa. We created���as in South Africa���a new class of millionaires from the military ranks and their collaborators in civil society.���

Nigeria���s recent presidential elections confirmed Soyinka���s observation. Muhammadu��Buhari who retained the presidency on the All Progressives Congress (APC) ticket is a former military general. His main opponent,��Atiku Abubakar of the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), is a rich businessman who served as the country���s first vice president after the return of democracy in 1999.��Buhari, on one side,��claims��that��most of his wealth��is��in cattle; this is highly disputed.��On the other side,��Atiku���s wealth is rumored to surpass that of��Aliko��Dangote, the supposed richest black��African man��if you count what is on the books.��(It was also rumored that��Atiku was��barred from entering the US over his business dealings.)��When elephant���s battled, what became of the grass?��Nigeria��also��now has more poor people in it than does any other country in the world.

I realize that these facts, on their own, explain nothing. This is because when we think of Nigerian politics, we tend to do so��bearing��an exoticist�����Heart of Darkness�����lens; in a way, Nigeria has long shared only a slightly��lessened��level of scorn than��did��Joseph Conrad���s version of the Congo.

When you read��that��Nigeria���s election��is about class, did you not ask yourself��what about rigging? What about tribalism? What about violence?��Drawing liberally from��Achille��Mbembe, I think��one could define the exoticization of Africa as a process by which��Europe came to associate the continent with everything��that Europe, through the eyes of Hegel,��imagined��to be��bad. It is this��Hegelian��alchemy, let���s call it, that��has��shaped the West���s��poisoned��encounter with Africa since scientific racism was born amidst the enlightenment. But as the saying goes,��the��real alchemy��consists in being able to turn the��supposed gold you���ve created back��again��into what it was initially.

We��could��keep fighting about��this thing we call��race���but isn���t it time we��also��started��fighting��about��this thing we call��class?��This is, firstly,��an essay about what Nigerians are thinking about.��Secondly, it is an essay��about what the world is thinking about when it thinks about Nigeria. Thirdly, it is an essay��about why both Nigerians and other Africans should be thinking about race and class��more often.��It is also, fourthly,��an essay about rigging, about tribalism, and��about��violence. And,��finally,��it is an essay that offers an ideological explanation��for��Nigeria���s 2019 election.

The rigging explanation

The opposition alleges that the elections were outrightly rigged. Shortly after the results were announced��Atiku Abubakar and the PDP filed a petition challenging the news of their loss. The opposition party��has gone to court asking that��Atiku��be declared president or, failing that, for the election to be re-run.��But Atiku���s chances of victory are slim.��A��legal challenge from Atiku was always expected,��and the judiciary��both��tilts in favor of��this��ruling party, and��typically weighs the burden of proof more heavily on the opposition.

Observer missions from the African Union (AU) and the European Union (EU) noted serious procedural issues with the presidential election (late opening and lack of essential materials, for instance) and decried the violence that occurred in some areas. However, neither has raised doubts about the validity of the results.

Losers have challenged the results at other points in Nigerian history. Buhari, before he defeated Goodluck Jonathan in 2015, thrice challenged his defeats in the courts���and lost. This is one of the interesting paradoxes at the heart of liberal democracy, the courts tend to defend the status quo (except at the Nigerian state elections, the courts are getting much bolder, it appears).

The��tribalism��explanation

A second wave of explanations��have��focused on the��ethno-nationalist��appeals��of the��main��candidates to explain Buhari���s victory.

The fact that both presidential candidates are northern Muslims limited the regional and religious tensions which have affected previous elections. Yet, tribe was only hidden in this election, not absent. The promise that a Yoruba candidate would succeed the ailing septuagenarian president elect was mobilized by the APC to tease Yoruba voters.

The PDP likewise appealed to Igbo voters by nominating an Igbo businessman and wealthy former south-eastern governor, Peter Obi, as vice presidential candidate next to��Atiku. In the north, questions of Islamic piety also shaped how voters chose between seemingly devout Buhari��on the one hand, and Atiku who is perceived to be corrupt and about whom many unfavorable rumors abound. Implicitly, and as usual in Nigerian politics, the election results���reflected an ethno-communal orientation, pitting one group with overlapping identities, against another such group. Nigeria is no stranger to identity politics.

The ideological explanation

But the candidates also advanced rival economic policies. The APC campaigned to increase state intervention in the economy through increased taxation, investing in infrastructure, agriculture and���social protection. The PDP candidate,��a self-avowed fan of Margaret Thatcher, promised to free float the national currency and privatize state industries. On the surface it appeared that a left/right divide had formed between the parties, with the APC on the left and the PDP on the right. But in reality, both parties are in agreement on the basic centrist credo that there is no alternative to��neoliberalal��globalization. Both parties are economically centrist. They view the ultimate aim of government to be that of encouraging foreign investment and steering a capitalist economy towards growth amid permanent conditions of fiscal austerity.��They also tend to deny the importance of the left/right divide altogether, preferring World-Bank style buzzwords like ���good-governance.��� This is an economically centrist position and��aside from neoliberal capitalism��there exists��many alternative��ways of imagining how we allocate resources in a community.

The two parties also mobilized populist organizational strategies to energize a nation-wide network of party supporters that extends down to the neighborhood level���this is the main reason why both parties far surpassed the strength of leftist candidates such as Omoyele��Sowore. Though definitions of populism often focus on the charisma of individual leaders, populism also involves the construction of organizational structures that can bridge class divides and build a mass following. Both the APC and the PDP��have done so, but few other Nigerian parties have successfully��followed suit.��The PDP and the APC are in this way populist parties.��Thus, while ideology played a role in the election, it would be incorrect to say that the two major parties were ideologically��opposed; they��both share��centrist-rightwing��populist ideology, that mobilizes based on tribe and ���good governance.���

Class

Interestingly, the��APC won a substantial majority amongst the poorest voters in northern Nigeria, the demographic referred to in Hausa as the��talakawa. The average annual income per capita in the APC-controlled states is $1,353, excluding Lagos, an economic outlier in Nigeria. Among this demographic, Buhari���s agricultural subsidies which halved the price of fertilizers, and his anti-graft war which promised to check the corruption of the wealthy political establishment,��remain extremely popular.

Buhari won the largest margins in Nigeria���s most unequal states according to Oxford���s Multi-dimensional Poverty Index. Borno state, the state most ravaged by Boko Haram, also has the highest level of inequality in Nigeria.

On the���other hand, PDP states accounted for an average income per capita of $2,585. Southern PDP states with a higher proportion of ���middle class��� voters, also boasted the lowest turnouts.��In fact,��the low national voter turnout average of 35% hides a huge North (41%) and South (27%) divide.��In Akwa Ibom��state for instance, only 50 percent of 2015 voters showed up at the polls this time, while turnout was fairly high though also less than 2015 in���pro APC northern states.

Considering both turnout and the final outcome, the election can be viewed as the triumph of the northern��talakawa��over Nigeria���s southern middle class,��a point which has also been made about the 2015 election.

Class denoting terms like��talakawa, will be lost on many middle class and southern Nigerians, as well as many Africanist political��scientists.

This notwithstanding the irony of the outcome is that Nigeria���s electorate, at least the minority which bothered to turnout to vote, has��chosen between two sides of the same economic and political coin. This is what London��School of��Economics��economist Thankdika Mkandawire has termed “voting without choosing” in a “choiceless” neoliberal democracy.

Race and Violence

But Panashe is right��and Soyinka is wrong. There is also a race component to Nigeria���s elections. Race is woven into the fabric of Nigerian political anxieties: the north has long feared that the stronger British��colonial influence on the south is a reason for distrust;��the south has always feared that��Islam and the��northern aristocratic tradition, which��were��respected and cultivated by the British, have��turned the north into a ticking timebomb. The ticking timebomb is��a��frequent trope deployed by southern media to describe the northern states. Just as it is a trope often used by the development community, to describe Nigeria.

Race is woven into the fabric��of the Nigerian economy. Nigeria, like South Africa, has a white dominated economy. The highest profiting companies in Nigeria, what do��the boards and��shareholders��of the highest profiting companies in Nigeria��look like? Not��like��Dangote.

Nigeria runs a system of racialized crony capitalism, as does South Africa. Teni���s��lyrics in�����Case��� tell the story of Nigeria���s hopeful��working poor in 2018. She��says,�����my papa no be Dangote, or Adeleke, but we go dey ok.��� So Panashe adds a dimension to Teni. Because��while class sentiments are woven into our politics,��I agree with Panashe; we also need to pay attention to race.

A joke I once heard: A white researcher and a Nigerian researcher walk into a bar��in Nigeria�����

Race is��also��woven into��how we report about violence in Nigerian elections.��Violence does occur, I hasten to add. This is a consequence of the fact that rightwing populism is one of the pillars of Nigerian political mobilization. If you cultivate us/them divisions until they are deep enough, people will tend to turn violent. This is particularly true when those people feel like they are economically vulnerable and have very little to lose. Close to 300 people were killed after��Nigeria���s election��this year. And race is written into the fact that you probably never heard that. As is class, since these people were working class and rural, rather than middle-class and urban.

This is why we need��both��a��race��and��a��class-conscious conception��of African��society and politics. But this requires us to take a de-exoticized and��populist��perspective on our own societies in Southern Africa��and��in Nigeria.

The revolution in four-part harmony

Today, Freedom Day in South Africa, is a good time bring back this post--first written in 2002--on the power of song to fuel political struggle.





A still from 'Amandla!."

In the 1970s the legendary American trumpet player Dizzy Gillespie remarked to Hugh Masekela, the South African horn player: ���I would like to be part of your revolution because the people always seem to be singing and dancing.��� One could be forgiven for thinking that the struggle against apartheid from the 1940s to the 1990s had its own distinctive soundtrack. As the country���s violent history was unfolding, its musicians were producing the album, finishing it in time for Nelson Mandela���s release from prison, and remixing it for the celebration of the 1994 elections.

The American director of “Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony”��is Lee Hirsch, known around the South African television industry for directing��kwaito��music videos.

Hirsch spent nine years from 1990 along with his partner Sherry Simpson researching, filming and interviewing musicians, politicians and activists at rallies around South Africa, and the film succeeds with its main aim, which is to testify to the power of song and its ability to fuel struggle. Most of the songs featured in the film became so popular that these songs���along with the artists who sang them���were banned by the government.

Here, Hirsch deploys the same skills he showed off in kwaito videos to good effect. The pop singer Chicco���s ���Papa Stop the War��� was recorded during the desperate and violent late-1980s when the apartheid state increased the levels and intensity of repression and the ���comrades��� turned violently on their opponents (the latter armed by or egged on by the state). In one particularly effective sequence, ���Papa Stop the War��� is played over scenes of popular protest, the thumping beat of the music synchronized to the movement of the dancing protesters. The sense you got is of people running headlong into the future.

The film, shot in the bright colors so familiar to South Africa, opens with the exhumation of the body of ANC political activist Vuyisile Mini from his pauper���s grave outside Johannesburg in 1998. Mini was executed in 1964. He was a composer of songs of struggle, including ���Nantsi Indoda emnyama Verwoerd!��� (Here comes the black man, Verwoerd!) which name-checked the apartheid prime minister.��At his exhumation and re-burial, Mini���s friends and family recall a man of such courage and dedication that he defiantly sang one of his own songs of freedom on his lonely march to the gallows.

The film then places Mini���s musical contribution within the context of the broader struggle, by showing how music fueled resistance by black people to apartheid���s tyranny. It takes up the story with the forced removals of 1940s, when black people were moved from Johannesburg���s inner city (especially Sophiatown) to the matchbox houses of Soweto. People sang a song, ���Meadowlands��� (the name of the Soweto neighborhood into which they were being moved), at that time to express their anger and despair. ���Meadowlands��� has a swing melody, and is sung in African languages, which masked its indictment of the callousness of white racism. so that white government officials and politicians (and white patrons), unable to understand, thought the song was cheerful.

Two jazz singers of that era, Dolly Radebe and Sophie Mgcina, speak about the effects of forced removals. They alternate with the more famous Miriam Makeba, who went into exile in the late 1950s. Mgcina, a small woman with a powerful voice, probably makes for the most powerful scene of the film when she performs the song ���Madam Please,��� which relays the struggles of domestic workers and gardeners who worked in white households, but lived in the new segregated dormitory townships. The influence of the civil rights movement in the United States at the time is very clear on the biting ironic style of the song, which reminded me a lot of the style of Nina Simone, Abbey Lincoln or Billie Holliday.

The film then proceeds to tell the story of South African capitalism and its exploitation of cheap black migrant labour, through Hugh Masekela���s song ���Stimela��� (The Train)���which I have always felt brings the horror of that system (still in operation) more clearly across than reams of economic and sociological analyses. ���Sixteen hours of work a day for almost no pay,��� sang Masekela on ���Stimela���:

Deep, deep, deep down in the belly of the earth

When they are digging and drilling that shiny mighty evasive stone

Or when they dish that mish mesh food

Into their iron plates with the iron shank

Or when they sit in their stinking, funky, filthy

Flea-ridden barracks and hostels

They think about the loved ones they may never see again

Because they might have already been forcibly removed

From where they last left them

The state dealt the resistance movement a body blow with the imprisonment of the key ANC leaders for life sentences in 1964, and the organization���s forced exile had a major effect on morale. The prayerful tone of ���Nkosi Sikelel ���iAfrika��� (God Bless Africa), which became very popular, captured the widespread anguish, as did the mournful mood of ���Thula Sizwe��� (Be Quiet People). The latter morphed into the even more depressing ���Senzenina?��� (What have we done?).�����Senzenina��� consists of the endless refrain of the title phrase. As jazz / opera vocalist Sibongile Khumalo says in the film, ���It was like beating yourself against the head, goof, goof, goof.��� But this was also the time that Abdullah Ibrahim made the song ���Mannenberg,��� the beat of which almost forecast the new resistance of the post-1976 generation. (Ibrahim was then back in South Africa after a lengthy period of exile���but he would leave again soon.)

The style of the songs then changed, becoming more combative and ever more urgent, and young people were in the vanguard of this new mood. In the townships people sang of Oliver Tambo, the exiled ANC President, bringing weapons as many went off for training in neighboring states in Southern Africa. The fatalism of the period is perhaps best captured in ���Shona Malanga,��� a playful song dedicated to black housemaids meeting on their off-days in central Johannesburg, changed to suggest a meeting place ���where we would rather not meet���: in the bush, with guns, as guerrillas facing down the South African government at great disadvantage.

In the late 1980s as the pressure on the apartheid regime to negotiate with the ANC grew, and the resistance movement appeared to run out of options, the songs also began to reflect the times. Guerrillas in camps in Angola and Tanzania exhorted Tambo to ���Go and talk to Botha; tell him to free Mandela, so he can rule the country,��� while inside South Africa recording artist Chicco (who produced Brenda Fassie���s ���Black President,��� which was banned by public radio���the only radio allowed at the time), made ���Papa Stop the War��� as black people turned violently on each other.

The film comes to its end with the triumphalism of Mandela���s release and the subsequent election of the ANC, with beautiful scenes of a choir at an election rally belting out the song ���Nelson Mandela.��� Much can be said about the ���ending��� to the story which also makes the film appear dated, but, then again, Hirsch did not intend to make a film about the period after 1994, even though he does include Sibongile Khumalo���s ���Senzegakhona,��� a song about the ancestors to the new leaders, reminding them of their renewed responsibilities to the people.

Many of the freedom songs featured in the documentary were previously unrecorded and were in danger of being lost. During production, Hirsch and executive producer Simpson compiled hundreds of hours of these songs that they will donate to the South African national archives at the Robben Island Museum to preserve this part of the country���s cultural history.

The film also gives respect to musicians who were exiled and have never received their due inside South Africa���like Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela and Abdullah Ibrahim, other than the nostalgia (of a sad kind) with which their music is being approached today. It will also do wonders for the careers of the folk singer Vusi Mahlasela and Sibongile Khumalo. With a film of this kind, some musicians will be passed over, and significant omissions are the contributions of James Philips (although the film is dedicated to him), Kippie Moeketsi (a sax player of huge talent destroyed by apartheid), Jonas Gwangwa, Mzwakhe Mbuli or hip hop group Prophets of da City, who wrote a playful tribute to Mandela���s dance moves.

Also significant is the fact that black people are at the centre of the film, with whites as bit-part players. The only significant white opposition figure is Jeremy Cronin���who spent seven years on death row and talks about the rhythmic wails of prisoners bidding their final goodbyes to their doomed fellow convicts when they were taken to the gallows at the Pretoria Central Prison���and Ronnie Kasrils, who reads a poem for Mini. The others are the prison guard at death row and riot police who used to combat protesters in the 1980s. The police recalled how it felt to be overwhelmed by the loosely choreographed cacophony of chants, stomping and dance���known as the��toyi-toyi��employed by hundreds of marchers at rallies. This prominence of the black musicians is a good thing, for it helps to overcome one of the main problems of films about South African history, which is that blacks are always placed at the margins���”Cry Freedom” or “A World Apart” or the numerous documentaries made about the apartheid struggle are egregious in this respect.��And it is younger black people that are the central characters along with the older musicians. Their participation also gives a glimpse of the vibrancy of post-apartheid South Africa and implies that the same creativity envelopes the new, different and sometimes carried-over struggles for basic human rights under changed conditions.

The film has its shortcomings. The history of the struggle is presented as the history of the ANC, considerable liberty is taken with the questionable effectiveness of the ���armed struggle,��� and the film is a little too focused on Johannesburg. But these criticisms do not take away from the effectiveness of the film and it is strongly recommended. Since it has already won the Audience Award and the Freedom of Expression Award at the 2002 Sundance Film Festival, now all we need is the album.

Rescuing Nelson Mandela from sainthood

There is a lively, angry, often chaotic debate about the role and place of the father of the South African nation.





Mandela statue at Southbank Centre in London. Image credit Paul Simpson via Flickr.

Like millions of South Africans, my own story is deeply tied to��that of��Nelson Mandela. It begins with my father. Inspired by Nelson Mandela, he joins��the African National Congress. In 1961,��my father��slips out of the��country and begins��his life in exile. He��travels to��Russia��and does military training. He travels around Africa doing revolutionary things. He thinks he will be gone for only a year. He never says goodbye to anyone because those are the instructions. He is��21��when he leaves���and he is gone��30��years. He is��51��when he finally touches South African soil again.

During those��30��years,��he was busy. He met a woman in Lusaka in the 1970s and they had three girls. I am the eldest of those children. I grew up in many different countries, part of the ANC community in exile. We sang freedom songs about Mandela, Walter��Sisulu and��Govan��Mbeki and all those who were fighting bravely for our freedom. I owe my sense of self-belief to that community, to the adults I grew up with who taught me that I was as good as anyone in the world.

I was��17��when Mandela was released. It was like a dream come true. My family���like many others���was able to return because of the changes that began to happen in the early 1990s.�� Other than my parents no one did more to determine my destiny and shape my life, than Nelson Mandela.

This is why��I am especially pleased to have a chance to reflect on the father of the nation. And in this capacity���as what Audre Lorde referred to as a sister outsider���I am paying��him��tribute of course,��but also��giving��voice to some of��what troubles me about��how he is viewed today.

Today, many younger South Africans suggest that��Mandela��made too many compromises.����Twenty-six years into the new era, there is a lively, angry, often chaotic debate about the role and place of the father of our nation.

When the��student��protests began a few years ago��on South Africa���s university campuses some��of the young activists accused��Nelson Mandela��of betraying the��revolution.��They called him a sell-out.��The elders were alarmed and hurt,��but the young ones were convinced. I am of the generation that lies between the two:��I was not old enough to fight for freedom but I am old enough to remember Mandela. I know that he was no sell-out.

I agree with one point��the youth made however:����the��revolution was betrayed.��I��do not��place the blame at Madiba���s feet��though.��The blame for that lies squarely with the generation of leaders who followed him���my parent���s generation. The freedom fighters whom I respected and loved��in Lusaka and Nairobi,��returned home. They��put down their guns��and��they��picked��up their spoons and��they��began to eat.��Many of them��have not stopped��eating��since. I can��think of only a handful of��them who I would trust with my��future.

Although he was a loyal and lifelong member of the ANC,��Nelson Mandela��was also a pragmatist.��He once said,�����you must support the African National Congress only so far as it delivers the goods, if the ANC does not deliver the goods, you must do to it what you have done to the��Apartheid regime.���

He��was a man whose life was totally dedicated to removing oppression and restoring dignity.����Yet today, when we talk about Mandela, we focus almost exclusively on��his message of��healing and forgiveness.

If Mandela were to be named a saint, I have no doubt that��he would be named as the Patron Saint of��Forgiveness.��Today,��forgiveness��is seen as��the central component of��Mandela���s legacy. I must confess that this irritates me greatly. Worse, I think this excessive focus on forgiveness diminishes his political legacy and blunts his power.��Embracing��the Rainbow Nation forgiveness narrative puts��white people at the center��of the frame��so,��that over time, as the story of our transition has been told and retold in the popular imagination it has become a tale of forgiveness rather than one of justice. It has been told as though Madiba loved white people so much that he was prepared to forgive them, regardless of their collective sins.

This is a perversion of the truth, and a distortion of his political legacy. The truth of course is that in��his��75-year career as a leader and an activist, Mandela��never wavered in his commitment to those who had been the greatest victims of��Apartheid���black people.

I think it is time that we put forgiveness back into its proper place in South Africa. Because when you look at Mandela���s life, and his approach to problem-solving, you see a man who was��both principled and��pragmatic.��Madiba��was always prepared to throw away an idea or a theory that did not support his main cause,��which was the liberation of black people.�� So while he became a committed and wonderful champion of forgiveness, it is very clear that if forgiveness had been standing in the way of justice, if Mandela believed that it was an obstacle��or a blockage, if he saw that it was being used as��an excuse for maintaining oppression, he would have very easily��stopped advocating it.

I am not saying forgiveness is not good or important, but I am saying that it cannot be reduced to the��only��strategy, and indeed the��only��story about South Africa.��Furthermore, it concerns me that��forgiveness��takes��up all the oxygen in conversations about South Africa��because it��appeals��to white people.��This is because talking about forgiveness��eases��white��fears and��anxieties about black rage. These��white��anxieties��supersede black people���s pain, and black people���s need for justice. In the long history of unfair race relations this is an old theme. White people��are always far more sympathetic to one another���s pain than they��are to��the suffering of black people.��When it comes to this issue,��they are��tribalists���perhaps unconsciously so. It is as though��the empathy muscle can only be activated deeply��in service of white feelings.

So,��I want to suggest to you that the idea of��Mandela as the Forgiver-In-Chief is not benign. I want to argue tonight that to the contrary,��it��is very��dangerous.��In the years since��Apartheid ended, the��story of Mandela���s forgiveness has taken on a life of its own.��You might say��a��cult of forgiveness has emerged, with Mandela as its��unwitting��high priest.��The Prophet��Mandela����has��been��reduced to a caricature of himself.��This hijacked Mandela��is a commodity.��Today you can find��him on��tea��cups and t-shirts. The other day I even saw Madiba leggings!

I don���t blame Mandela for this. This mythology was certainly not of his making. But it has spread like wildfire because it ties into already existing ideas about who we are as raced subjects; about the potential of black people for volatility and the desire white people have to be considered innocent of racial crimes.

Mandela is especially loved by my fellow white South Africans.��Indeed, in��South Africa, there are many white people who have never hosted a black person in their homes, and who have not had any social cause to really engage much with black people, who have pictures of him on their walls. They love Mandela���s smile. They love photos of him with children. Indeed, Mandela may be the only black person many of my fellow��white��citizens ���know.��� Whenever you do something they don���t like, they are quick to tell you that Mandela would never have behaved like this.

The Mandela��these white people love��is�����reasonable,�����and never angry.��In an interesting parallel,��White South Africans love Madiba the way many white Americans love Obama.����They have turned him into a��saint, a teddy bear, a totem for peace and good vibes.��This love,��however, doesn���t seem to translate into real life actions. Mandela and Che Guevara and Gandhi. Incense and ohms.

Mandela��has become��the chai latte of revolutionaries.��I want to take a minute to outline this because it gets to the saccharine nature of why this Mandela is appealing.��Chai has a long history. It is a��beautiful, scented��spiced tea. A latte��on the other hand,��is a type of coffee.����It is a��totally different��plant, with a completely��different history��and��different taste.��A chai latte is an entirely new concoction. This is a millennial��marketing invention directly from the mind of an��executive in Seattle who has��probably��never been outside America. Sweet, drinkable in small doses but empty of useful calories.

Watching the chai lattification��of Mandela��makes me sad��because we see Mandela stripped of the complexity of his legacy. Instead, as time passes,��those who profess to love him often do so because they are engaged in an act of��profound misremembering.��They��forget about the��freedom fighter and intellectual giant��and in so doing, they diminish his relevance for young people today.

So,��I want to talk about how we can rescue Mandela from this Cult of Forgiveness,��to reflect on��how we might restore him to the dignity of��strong��black coffee rather than��a��chai��(soy)��latte.��There are��two��ways I think we can accomplish this. The first is to remember his love for Winnie Mandela.��I want to��close the gap that has been created between them for reasons I understand, but that ultimately do more damage than good. Winnie forces us to complicate the frame, to remember Mandela the radical��and��to insist that they were more alike for many years than they were different.

The second way we rescue Mandela (and South Africa) from the cult of forgiveness is by��reminding ourselves of his genius; by remembering correctly that��Mandela��was skilled at maintaining his��political principles��while being able to make important��political compromises.

Those who want to cast Mandela as a saint��find it difficult to reconcile the fact that Mandela loved��Winnie��because she��was��implicated in violence and corruption and all the issues that are the opposite of what Mandela stands for.��So, over the years as Mandela���s image has become��more identified��with forgiveness,��there has been a gradual erasure of Winnie Mandela.��The association is seen as toxic.

Yet,��of course,��it is��impossible to write Winnie out of our history, and it is even more difficult to write her out of Madiba���s heart.��There is nothing more poignant that reading his description of the first time they embraced��21��years after he was sent to prison. Until that point,��he had not even been allowed to touch her hand. Then,��suddenly,��they were allowed in the same room together with no glass wall between them. He says he held onto her so tightly and all he could hear��was the sound of��both of��their hearts beating. I want us to remember how much these two sophisticated, brave souls loved one another.

I want us to remember how, after��she��was found guilty��of participating in the��abduction and assault��of a young boy in 1992,��Mandela wrote, ���As far as I was concerned,��verdict or no verdict,��her innocence was not in doubt.�����I don���t say this to make Mandela look bad. I say it for the opposite reason���to remind us that��Winnie��wasn���t some tragic mistake in his life. He loved and defended her.

I also��invoke her spirit and her memory because so many women loved her. She inspired us with the anger and her defiance.��Women��could relate to her because their own husbands were far away too���in the mines or in the cities. Like her, they struggled to manage against forces that were far bigger than them. And yet she was always there, a constant, ungovernable presence. When you push her to the side, then you push all those women away. You silence their stories. These women and these families that loved Winnie and still do today, they are not stupid. They are not evil. You can���t simply dismiss them because��they admire someone who���like many other people in our damaged society���participated in violence.

At the same time, you cannot wish away her participation in violence. To do so would be to��dishonor��and disrespect the victims���the boys who were caught up in her recklessness.

Those who find her actions intolerable, do not like to hear this,��but we cannot change it. In fact,��it is better to accept it, to accept him as he was, not as we wish him to be. Winnie reminds us that many of South Africa���s heroes were both courageous and flawed. They deserve both respect for their courage and revulsion for their crimes. But,��if we are expected to understand and forgive the racists who engineered��Apartheid then,��surely,��we can extend some empathy to Winnie.

Ultimately,��I am saying you can hold the contradictions in your head and in your heart���that you must in fact hold them together��at the same time��because��they are��part of the South African story.

When we try to tell smooth, easy stories about South Africa;��lovely stories about Nelson, we keep bumping into Winnie and the countless others whose stories were told��and not told��at the Truth��and Reconciliation��Commission.

I have many critiques about the��formal process through which the forgiveness narrative was implemented���that is the TRC.��But,��there is no question that for a brief moment under the extraordinary leadership of Mandela��and under the auspices of the TRC,��nation��examined its past and the ugly truth about what had been done.��

Today, those who are obsessed with forgiveness��forget that many questions were��not��resolved when the��five-year��official��TRC process ended.��They forget that most��Apartheid leaders said they didn���t know what had happened��to the activists who had been killed, to the prisoners who had been detained. The��forgiveness-ers��forget that only one person ever served time for his��Apartheid��crimes:��Eugene De Kock.��Everyone else walked away because they said they didn���t��remember,��or they didn���t know.��

South Africa was��supposed to be��healed��after the five-year period��and it is hard for the world to accept��that this did not happen. The��TRC was an incomplete, uneven and often devastating process.��At the end of it all��white people collectively and individually did not show enough remorse.��For most people���regardless of race���remorse is a precondition for forgiveness.��

When��Bishop Desmond Tutu handed the final TRC��Report��to then President Mbeki in��2000,��some black people��had��managed to find it in their hearts to��forgive those who had hurt them.�� Others had not. This has to be okay���it has to be accepted��and the political framework for democracy in South Africa cannot pretend to be contingent on whether or not black people embrace whites.��

White South Africans will not die if they do not receive the love from black people that they think they deserve.��White people��in all contexts where historical wrongs have been carried out��must learn that black people���s lives do not��center��around their feelings.

Mandela knew that you must deal with painful matters openly,��but��it is true, he was��anxious to push us in a particular direction���towards forgiveness and reconciliation.��I understand��why. The��situation��was��volatile.��The threat of violence was real.��But,��once again,��this is where the narrative betrays us.��The threat was of��white��violence more than black violence.

It was whites who had the military power, it was whites who were angry about losing��political��power and had a history of cruel and violent behavior towards black people. So,��Mandela���s approach of appeasing white anxiety was strategic. He wasn���t just in love with white people���he was��managing��them. He wasn���t��terribly��afraid that��black people would drive whites into the sea or rise up and slit their throats.��Those fears lie in the white imagination and Mandela was a black man��who knew very well that black people were��unlikely��to do that.

So,��yes, the young people who��criticize��Madiba today are right���he��was��appeasing whites. And I can���t fault him. He was right to��try to��appease them because he��understood their capacity for violence.��Across space and time, the��instances where��black��people��have killed��white people in retribution��are��vanishingly rare.��On the other hand, the��instances where whites have killed black people��simply for existing, are��abundant.��Madiba���s��drive for��forgiveness��was about his hope for the future.��He preached forgiveness so that nothing would stand in the way for black people���s freedom.

When Madiba was a young boy in Qunu, he and his friends were trying to ride a donkey. The donkey did not like this because donkeys are not horses.��They don���t like to be ridden.����And so when it was Madiba���s turn to jump on, the harassed animal bucked and threw him off.�� Mandela��fell into a thorny��bush, with scratches all over his face.��When he stood up he was very embarrassed. The donkey had��got its way and unseated him,��but Madiba never forgot the��feeling of humiliation. He took it to heart. They��had learned that��you can beat your opponent without humiliating him. He integrated this into his thinking and time and again.��When the country needed cool heads and a generous heart Mandela was able to��go back to this��simple lesson.

In 1993 De Klerk and Mandela were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.�� Many people in South Africa���myself included���continue to be angry about this. It is true that De Klerk took many important actions that led to the dismantling of��Apartheid. He��took a risk and held the��referendum in which whites in the country��were asked to vote on whether to��end��Apartheid or continue.��Sixty-nine percent��of them voted yes to negotiating the end of the evil system.

Yet,��as Madiba pointed out later, ���De Klerk did not make any of his reforms with the intention of putting himself out of power. He made them for precisely the opposite reason: to ensure power for the Afrikaner in the new dispensation.�����Although��De Klerk was prepared to end��Apartheid, in Madiba���s estimation, ���He was not prepared to negotiate the end of white rule.���

Those of you who are old enough, will remember that��there were a series of horrific massacres that took place under De Klerk���s watch��just as the��constitutional negotiations began to unfold. De Klerk never explained or��apologized��for them��although Mandela confronted him about them. De Klerk���s attitude, and the fact that he was ratcheting up violence,��enraged Mandela.

Mandela��knew��very well��De Klerk was not his intellectual or moral equal. Yet Mandela said, ���I never sought to undermine Mr.��De Klerk for the practical reason that the weaker he was, the weaker the negotiations process. To make peace with an enemy, one must work with that enemy, and that enemy becomes your partner.”

He took the high road and used the Nobel speech to make sure that De Klerk would not��turn back���that he would finish the last mile.��Mandela was not going to let his ego or the facts get in the way.��If he had rebuked the Nobel Committee and told them he��was offended��that a man whose security forces were killing black people��should share��the��award with him,��it would have damaged De Klerk���s credibility.��For the country���s process to have legitimacy,��Mandela��needed De Klerk to shine.

It is very clear that��Mandela��was never��motivated by sentimentality. He��did not��particularly like De Klerk.��He wasn���t playing into respectability politics and being polite. No. Instead Mandela���s��actions��were��propelled by two things. Firstly, he had��a clear vision of the end��goal. He needed to ensure that black people won the franchise. Secondly, he had a very��pragmatic approach about how to get there.��This included a��willingness to compromise on issues that did��not matter��like who got a prize and who did not.

I want to circle back to��the mid-1990s��though, to how we even got to the stage where Mandela was in a position to negotiate with De Klerk. It began in��1985,��when��Mandela��was��moved away from his comrades��at Pollsmoor Prison. They remained on the third floor while Mandela was placed in a more spacious cell on the first floor.��It was damp and not good for his chest, and it was darker than his old cell, although it was much bigger. Under the new arrangement however, Mandela��was not allowed to see��his comrades��without applying for an official visit.��The men who had been sentenced to life in prison together all those years back,��might as well have been in Johannesburg���that is how hard it was for them to see one another.

He was lonely and missed his��friends. He had been able��to talk to them whenever he wanted and now for the first time in years that contact was gone.��Yet,��as he began to accept his��situation, he��realized��that it presented an��opportunity.

���My solitude gave me a certain liberty and I decided to do something I had been pondering for a long while: begin discussions with the government���. My solitude would give me an opportunity to take the first steps in that direction without the kind of scrutiny that might destroy such efforts.

The move was risky.��The��Apartheid��regime had repeatedly said that they would never negotiate with terrorists and communists.��Similarly, the��ANC had long asserted that there was nothing to talk about��with the government��until��it had��unbanned the ANC, unconditionally released all political prisoners and removed the troops from the townships.

So,��there was an impasse. He could see that if no one moved forward, millions of black south Africans would be trapped in poverty, violence and indignity forever.��Neither��side would back down and neither side would ever win.

Technically, the��decision to open talks��with the regime��could only be made in consultation with Lusaka���with his best friend and the acting president of the ANC Oliver Tambo.��Yet,��Madiba decided to act on his own.

I chose to tell no one what I was about to do. I knew that my colleagues�����would condemn my proposal and that would kill my initiative before it was even born. There are times when a leader must move ahead of the flock���

Ever the pragmatist he also knew that��this would probably be only time when the��ANC would have plausible deniability.��He wrote,�����My isolation furnished my��organization��with an excuse in case matters went awry: the old man was alone and completely cut off and his actions were taken by him as an individual�����they could say.

Thus,��protected by��what he referred to as a ���period of��splendid��isolation,�����and able to use that isolation to protect his movement,��Mandela the pragmatist removed the cloak of dogma that was blinding his comrades. With a clear vision in mind of��building a��South African society in which the core principles for which he had always fought��were firmly embedded,��he��approached the enemy. He proposed a path of�����talks about talks.���

This, as we now��know, was the beginning of the end of the��Apartheid regime.��I am here today���we are all here today���because of that splendid isolation.

Mandela never took his eyes off black people���even��though white��South Africans,��with their fragility and their tea��cozies��and Madiba leggings��and their desire to be��constantly��reassured���thought that Mandela was their champion.��In those delicate years when a lasting peace was imminent,��but by no means guaranteed, Mandela was always calculating, balancing and re-assessing.��And he was always focused on us.

He made concessions and changed plans when necessary,��but he never conceded on any issue that would compromise the end-goal:��that South Africa should become a country where each person would vote, regardless of skin��color��and where the will of the majority would��determine the leadership and direction of the country.��A country in which human rights were respected.��This, in Mandela���s mind was the key to dignity.

He was steadfast and systematic once the negotiations started. He stayed principled,��but he also made compromises. Today, we��live in a world where politicians refuse to make political compromises and��where too few have��political principles. Mandela had both.

Mandela��was an expert at��both��small kindnesses��and grand��gestures.��The fact that South Africa is not equal today is not��Nelson Mandela���s��fault. The fault lies with those who took his political legacy and squandered it. It lies with those who took his belief in political compromise as a sign of weakness rather than strength. Mandela did not worship forgiveness, he treasured dignity and freedom.

It is not just societies that are��considered to be in��conflict that need Mandela.��There has never been more��polarization��across Europe and America. Rising white nationalism and xenophobia are rampant. In Brazil and India,��hatred is on the rise, and a cruelty and mean-spiritedness is on display��everywhere from social media to the halls of power.

We need Mandela��today in all these places���not to preach about forgiveness,��but to lead the way towards crafting political solutions in places where people are��paralyzed��by��dogma and��self-righteousness.

Mandela���s greatness must be taught in schools, not as a story about forgiveness but as a story about power,��principles,��pragmatism, determination and,��yes,��that word which��the world seems to reject these days���compromise.��Political compromise does not mean allowing discrimination��to thrive in a weaker form. It means outlawing discrimination��even as we accept��human fallibility.

There can be justice, no lasting peace without��people who,��like Mandela,��are willing to��move beyond restating their positions toward reaching agreements.��If one man, in a damp prison cell��at the tip of the African continent,��isolated from his friends and separated from his people for decades,��if that man��can change the history of his nation��and inspire us all,��then just imagine what all of us who are free can do?

Those of us who hope for a better world��have an obligation to��move��beyond us and them,��beyond dogma, and towards one another. We��must��do this not because we love��each other��but because we need one another.��When we��walk��towards the other��who��we fear or��the other we��hate or��the other we��do not understand,��we do so because we know that��there has never been��any other way to��end oppression.��In the world in which I want to live,��peace and justice are king and queen,��and forgiveness is��but��their humble servant.

Reclaiming the narrative of the Algerian revolt

The outcome of the Algerian revolution should not be pre-determined by a (neo)liberal Euro-American global order. Listen to the people.





Protest against Bouteflika in Algeria. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

The popular revolt in Algeria is nothing short of a forceful (re)statement of what it means to be human. An active alteration of a people’s state of being. Algerians who, for decades, were reduced to traumatized bystanders, have once again, shaken the dust off and grabbed the reins of history.�� The people (in the singular) no longer acquiesce to being an object of history, but a conscious and active subject of its own destiny. A fresh cadence permeates this popular indignation, novel forms of solidarity and new selves are being fashioned.

Reminiscent of colonial and orientalist tropes, for so long and in a self-projecting manner, a morally bankrupt, intellectually colonized and technically incompetent ���elite��� has painted and indeed treated Algerians as rough, uncivil, violent and politically adolescent. That elite, having slurped every lesson from its colonial master, had internalized its colonial subjection to such an extent that it can only make sense of itself and its existence through the gaze of its former colonial master. An “elite” that suffers from such an acute sense of alienation is also only able to view its compatriots through the same colonial lenses. Al��Hogra��(contempt and disdain) with which this “elite” treats Algerians can only be understood once one realizes the positionality of the former. This contempt and disdain become intelligible the moment one sobers up to the fact that those who have ruled Algeria are only able to see Algerians from the standpoint of Paris, London, and Washington. This attitude also permeates sections of the Algerian “cultural” and “intellectual” elite who have played a key role in reproducing these��colonial��and��orientalist tropes.

In other words, for decades Algeria’s national bourgeoisie has essentially performed the role of an offshore political class, that even though it may at times be physically present on Algerian soil, has maintained its (ill-gotten) property, investments, bank accounts, and spiritual homes elsewhere. It adopts the same��extractivist��attitude towards “the homeland” that the colonial administration had assumed. The morbid symptoms of this psychosis are automatically transferred to Algerian political life and are manifested in the manner in which “le��pouvoir” (a term used by Algerians to denote the ruling elite in the country) has treated its citizens.��It is��precisely this condition that the popular revolt is intent on subjecting to a therapeutic and rehabilitating revolutionary course of action.

Schooled in the anti-colonial,��third-worldist, pan-Arab, pan-Africanist, and��liberatory��ethos of their ancestors, Algerians are determined to overcome the cognitive dissonance produced by an official discourse of sovereignty and independence, on the one hand, and an actual continuation of colonial practices and conditions of subjugation on the other. In short, Algerians are revolting against the coloniality of their present.

History teaches us that popular struggles are waged not only on the streets and for the control of public space, important as these might be, but most crucially at the level of framing, narrative, interpretation and representation of these struggles and their goals. It is critical in these moments to grapple with important questions such as: who gets to interpret the demands and goals of a people in revolt? Who gets to name it? How is the popular struggle narrated? Within what and whose frame of reference?

In the racial capitalist��world��we inhabit, (neo)liberalism provides the moral justification of the status quo, the language with which one ought to talk about one’s reality, the categories used to make sense of their existence. (Neo)liberalism sets the parameters of what is imagined as desirable and achievable and, by extension, what is and is not thinkable. In other words, the hegemonic hold of liberalism as a discourse of power and the ideology of the status quo gives it the authority to delineate the boundaries of “the possible” in the 21st century. As a modern form of power, liberalism mystifies its nature and function and presents itself, not as an ideology that serves particular interests, but rather as common sense anchored in claims on what “human nature” consists of.

If there is only one lesson to learn from the recent experiences of Algeria’s neighbors, then it ought to be this: The global South’s adoption of and adherence to the precepts of liberalism���its conception of “History” and historical time and understanding of what constitutes “Progress” along with the inevitable��teleologies��such a notion engenders���is what underpins the coloniality of the Global South���s present and what ultimately enables,��in the words of Malek Bennabi, their “colonizability,” i.e. the condition(s) that render their continued subjugation possible.

Within weeks, media coverage and scholarly depictions of the Dignity Revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt as an “Arab Spring” placed them within�����a discursive universe with a written past and a known future direction.�����Putting aside the violence that such an act of naming entails by geographically limiting potential circuits of solidarity; for these supposedly “objective” observers, the phenomenon becomes legible only when located within a recognizable frame of reference. Whether the intended reference was the�����Spring Time of Nations�����in 1848, the Prague Spring of 1968, or Eastern Europe in 1989; the referential constellation remains European and liberal. The narrative subjects these revolutionary movements to historical inevitabilities. Instead of recognizing the singularity and potential novelty of these revolutionary movements���or locating��them within specifically global South historical frames���the naming of the phenomenon as an�����Arab Spring�����shoehorns the phenomenon into an alienating��spatio-temporality and assigns to it the role of object in a predetermined “March of History.”

Such analyses interpret these revolutionary movements not as moments of defiance and openings for novelty and possibility, but rather as an expression of a desire for conformity to and inclusion in “History.” These objectifying narratives are not only projected by Western analysts, but also internalized by some Algerians themselves. For instance, some Algerian liberals uncritically envisage the revolutionary movement in the country in terms of a desire to found a “Second Republic.” The implicit mental blueprint these actors have is a French Jacobin model, and their conception of a second republic draws on a frame of reference that is particular to France and its specific history, thus placing today’s Algeria temporally where France was in 1848. These conceptualizations are key in reproducing the orientalist discourses designating these countries as “backward” and thus in need of “catching up.”

Awareness of this is not meant to express a xenophobic allergy to inspiration from “foreign” experiences, but rather a critical attitude towards the models being floated and their benefits and limitations. The alienation produced by placing the colonized in a civilizational temporality that is not their own and in which they do not recognize themselves is a key target of these revolutions’ rehabilitating impulses as will be elucidated below.

The manner in which media outlets and scholarly interventions, especially in the global North, have covered the popular movement in Algeria, and the unfortunate replication of such analyses locally, indicates that��history is set to repeat itself. Consciously or otherwise, the movement is interpreted through a (neo)liberal prism and narrated within (neo)liberal categories and frames of reference. It is presented as a struggle to abolish authoritarianism and corruption and calling for democracy (reductively understood as a bundle of civil and political rights, coupled with periodic elections) and a “market economy.” The Orientalism underwriting these analyses is evident in the telos they assign to the popular struggle. The unspoken assumption or rather question undergirding these perspectives is as follows: what could these people possibly want other than what the West is believed to already possess? From this perspective, the “advanced” West is the only telos for the “backward” non-West.��In the words of��French philosopher, Alain��Badou,��commenting on the so called ���Arab Spring���: ���Our rulers and our dominant media have suggested a simple interpretation of the riots in the Arab world: what is expressed in them is what might be called a desire for the West.���

The images chosen to highlight the peacefulness, orderliness and civility of the movement disproportionately present the young, fashionable and French-speaking protesters;��read:��western-oriented, secular, liberal, urban and middle class; while systematically��rendering invisible��those protesting in rural and working-class communities, as well as protesters with beards and headscarves. This selection bias, not to say conscious mis-representations, tacitly and subconsciously links all that is peaceful, orderly and civic with the French language, secularism,��liberalism and wealth. Beards, headscarves and the Arabic language are associated in dominant representations with dust, blood, tears, anger and burning flags.

The liberal narrative also shapes the ways in which the popular demands are interpreted and represented. Take for example one of the most widespread slogans chanted by the protesters over the last eight weeks “klitou��lebled��ya��seraqqin” (You have devoured the country, oh you thieves!). In the mainstream global mediascape, this slogan is almost uniformly interpreted as an��indignation against corrupt officials��and��their��practices. It is almost impossible to come across an interpretation that translates this slogan as an indignation against the unjust and inequitable distribution of wealth in the country. This is because doing so would render structural change and redistribution the only logical course of action to remedy this imbalance. Focusing on corruption, however, elides structural questions and developmental models that inherently produce socio-economic unevenness and��engender��corrupt practices, and instead focus on individuals (the bad apples, so to speak) and their punishment.��In short, the liberal framing transforms a political issue into a legal one and reduces a systemic problem into an individual issue, as Corinna Mullin, Nada��Trigui��and��Azedeh��Shahshahani��argue in a forthcoming article in��Monthly Review��(���Decolonizing Justice in Tunisia: From Transitional��Justice to a People’s Tribunal���).

Furthermore, the “thieves” referred to in the slogan are uniformly understood in domestic terms, leaving out any possibility for the complicity of global actors. While the plunder of the country���s recourses has certainly been carried out through this comprador��elite, and to a certain extent to its benefit, the biggest beneficiaries have been large��multinational corporations and foreign governments��in exchange for providing international support for this unrepresentative ruling class.

Rather than imposing ready-made analytical frames and political/civilizational temporalities on the movement; scholars, journalists, experts and opinion makers ought to listen attentively and heed the messaging of the movement through an analysis of the slogans, chants, signs, songs, and art installations featured over the past two months to form a correct understanding of the movement.

Although we cannot possibly treat every single slogan, let us look at some of the most prominent themes:

Social justice and the equitable distribution of wealth

In addition to the slogan treated above, numerous other slogans, signs and placards were raised that contest the current uneven distribution of wealth. The “winou��haqqi��fel��petrole?” (where is my share in the oil?) slogan evoked often over the past several decades��was��humorously updated to “winou��haqqi��fel��cocaine?” (Where is my share in the cocaine?) in reference to the scandal that��broke in the summer of 2018 involving 700kg of cocaine and a network of government and security officials, which led to the down fall of General Hamel (head of the police) among others. Once again, such slogans are interpreted as a rejection of ruling elite corruption, a negative posture, rather than as a call for the equitable distribution of wealth and a desire for social justice, a positive claim.

Radical democracy, dignity, popular sovereignty

Some of the most widespread slogans deal with the theme of the people as the sole source of all power and legitimacy. In addition to the well-known ���Asha���b��Yurid������ (The people want���), which was raised in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Syria and most recently Sudan; ���Lebled��bledna��w’ ‘endirou��Rayna��� (this is our country, and our will shall reign supreme) has been more specific to the movement in Algeria. This slogan was raised after tens of millions took to the streets beginning in mid-March to call for suspending the current constitution, which is seen as an illegitimate document drafted and adopted with no popular involvement, by the very people the movement seeks to dislodge and underpinning the institutional arrangements it seeks to alter. Even when the military leadership opted for a “constitutional solution,” the movement insisted on the primacy of Articles 7 and 8, which stipulate that the people are the source of all authority and to them belongs all constituent power. Another variation of the slogan was��lebled��bledna��w��� el Gaz��Dyelna��(the country is ours and so is its gas [natural resources]). This version makes direct reference to the need for popular sovereignty over the country’s natural resources, which are seen to have been used by the ruling elite to buy external legitimacy. The attempts to denationalize the hydrocarbons sector (nationalized in 1971) in the early 2000s and the major concessions given to large oil multinationals over the last twenty odd years have been the subject of continuous public criticism and are seen as an affront to the country’s sovereignty.

Egalitarian republicanism and decolonization

One of the most prominent slogans chanted up until Bouteflika’s removal was:��Jumhuriyya��machi��memlaka��(this is a republic, not a kingdom). Not only is this a rejection of Bouteflika���s��patrimonialization��of power, but also of a general trend of the imperialist powers to favor monarchies as a system of power more amendable to realizing their interests in the region (e.g. Gulf countries, Morocco and Jordan). In the post-colonial republics, there have been an effort to repress the republican spirit and instead promote monarchical tendencies. The movement sees itself as fulfilling the dreams of their ancestors who liberated the land from direct colonial domination to establish an egalitarian society that ensures the enjoyment of one’s humanity in the fullest. The republic envisioned in the founding document of the Algerian revolution against colonial rule, Declaration of the 1st��of November 1954, was conceived as a stepping stone to wider regional integration. The nation-state was conceived not as an end in itself, but rather as a means to human emancipation.

Principled politics, not a politics of interests

In general, political satire has been a “weapon of the weak” in many revolutionary mobilizations around the world, but has a long tradition in Algeria in particular. Mockery and ridicule of the powers that be has the potential to puncture the mythology that tends to accompany power and render visible its occult workings. The omnipresence of “cachir” (Algerian��Baloni/salami) in the protests over the last two months in Algeria is a case in point. The political significance of��cachir��goes back to the 2014 presidential campaign, in which parties of the ruling coalition offered a��cachir��sandwich and a small sum of money to people who would join their political rallies and fill the rooms to give the false impression of the popularity of the parties in question. The use of��cachir��in the current revolutionary mobilization expresses three political messages. First, it is a condemnation of the political parties engaged in what Algerians call “boulitique” as opposed to “politique,” a term coined by the Algerian philosopher Malek��Bennabi��to denote a political elite’s state of confusion, lack of vision and a concern for individual as opposed to collective interests. The second message is aimed at that part of the Algerian population as a condemnation for selling their souls to these parties and turning a blind eye to the country’s plunder for such a low price as a��cachir��sandwich. Third, and most importantly, the art installations involving��cachir��express a desire for a principled politics based on political vision and conviction, a concern for the collective good rather than narrow self-interest, and a struggle to emancipate and fully restore the humanity of Algerians as a complementary stage of their liberation in 1962.

Anti-imperialism and internationalism

The prevalence of posters rejecting foreign intervention and linking the current mobilization to the anti-colonial struggle of the 20th century provide observers with a valuable insight of the political temporality inhabited by the Algerian revolutionary movement.

Unlike the alienating framings discussed above, which try to shoehorn the current moment in a European temporality that is associated with yesterday’s colonial oppressors, protesters in Algeria understand their struggle as a continuation of the anti-colonial struggle. Rather than seeing this mobilization as yet another link in the chain extending from 1848 to 1968 to 1989 to the present; Algerians place their struggle firmly in a subaltern temporality that extends from the early days of resistance to French colonial encroachment to the anti-colonial epic of 1954-62.�� The raising of slogans calling for the establishment of “Jumhuriyya��Novambariyya” (A November-ist��Republic), in reference to the declaration of November 1st, 1954, is just one example among many.

The constant appearance of the Palestinian flag alongside the Algerian one in the current revolutionary mobilization is another example. Not only does it express solidarity with the Palestinians in their struggle for liberation from settler colonialism, but it is also a restatement and a refashioning of Algerian subjectivity in terms of anti-colonialism, anti-imperialism, pan-Arabism, Muslim internationalism, Afro-Asianism��and Third-Worldism making these an “applied sociology” rather than mere “mythologies” and empty slogans. It is a recalibration of (neo)colonial spatiality adopted by the Algerian political elite and imposed on the Algerian��people in the context of decolonization, to a subaltern spatiality, placing Algerian subjectivity on the Lima-Tangiers-Jakarta rather than the Washington-London-Paris axis.

The Algerian revolt is thus engaged in the reworking of the temporal and spatial order that underpins the coloniality of its present and sustains the conditions of its��colonizability. It is a struggle against the hegemonic liberal subjectivity promoted by the status quo, which reduces one’s humanity to citizenship within an externally shaped and driven nation-state and the ability to consume goods on the world market. It is a struggle for an alternative subjectivity that shatters the artificial colonial scars (often referred to as borders), both physical and mental, which have fettered humanity for so long, and the construction of the conditions for genuine human emancipation. Algerians, to paraphrase Fanon, have (re)discovered their mission and have chosen not to betray��it but rather to fulfill it.